"Not only cripples have a need for crutches, and if they ever take you away from me, I'd fall down and lie still." ~The Boomtown Rats, "Fall Down"

The bus loomed before him, its gargantuan windows like the rainbow-reflecting eyes of a spider about to spring on its prey. The music blasting from every corner of consciousness blocked out thought and made shockwaves in his stomach, and it was all he could do not to tap his foot to the hypnotic pulses. The others were there with blurred faces, watching apparitions, the shadows of the dancers jerking and flickering in the thousands of lights. Outside the behemoth, they were in the darkening world which was ash-grey at its lightest and deeper black than the inside of a nightmare at its darkest.

His companion, the one who wore the yellow of guitar solos in the sand and carried their war wherever he went, held ruin in his palm. It was passed to another, the one whose hair was like sunshine through bulletholes and had angry bloodstains coating his upper body. He slithered into the maw of the bus and came out empty-handed. Death was waiting to strike.

The third companion, who wore the evening sky and could save lives with his honeyed voice, shut his mouth.

The one perceiving turned away, to hide from the coming doom, but found only bleak land, concrete-cold and unforgiving, stretching out before him. He looked to his comrades, only to see that they now wore identical white garments like blank pages, like burial shrouds. Their hair was gone, as were their teeth, and they stared at him with eyes of infinite darkness.

The music was quieter now, pulsing the gentle, slowing heartbeat of someone with poisoned veins, the calm breeze just before the hurricane.

Suddenly, the bus exploded into a bloom of fire, drowning his face in unbearable heat. The force of the blast slammed into him while shrapnel flew in all directions. He saw his companions catch fire, and witnessed tiny shards of metal and glass tear their flesh. He knew, though did not feel, the same to be happening to him, and cried for it to end with the ghost of a voice.

But his hollow screams were swept up in the tide of a hundred others, shrieking and clamoring more loudly than his ears could comprehend. And then grains of glass pierced his eyes, slicing into the burning photograph his vision had become and-

Ray Toro, who called himself Jet Star, did not know himself by either name when he awoke.

He was lying on a cold wooden floor, curled up in a ball with his hands clasped between his knees and his ears echoing with phantom screams. He opened his eyes and was met by a muted, navy-blue and black world of dust and sleep flakes, and it was empty.

He sat up in fear, worried that he was having another nightmare, but then noticed his fellow Killjoys sprawled out along the booths of the diner. That wasn't much comfort, as he knew that the few footsteps and words that separated him from his friends would be like miles of void. Far shorter was the distance between him and the window, with a view of the sky that let in the icy moonlight.

The man stood, and walked cautiously to the panes of glass. He looked up into space and found himself blinded by the beams from the stars. It seemed to him that they were rejecting him, and he glanced down at the smooth surface of the table. His laser blaster sat there as if waiting for him, and he picked it up, clutched it tightly like it was the only anchor in the raging tumult of his mind. His breathing hadn't seemed shallow or quick until it slowed and deepened.

Feeling serenity drip into his blood, he tried to form thoughts. The first one he strung together, like bad-luck beads on a bracelet, was I'm okay. And the second, which made his mind shiver with uncomfortable realization, was No, I'm not. He sent a question into the depths of his brain: Why is this haunting me?

The response was a series of horrible flashes from both the dream and the memory of the real explosion, and he recoiled from them, shifting his attention to the chessboard pattern on the table to occupy his mind. He started to protest that this was the sort of thing that happened every day in a Killjoy's life; why should this one raid be such a heavy burden?

But the overpowering sadness and guilt still weighed him down, in spite of his dissent. It was not just this one attack, he knew, but the mere fact that he spent every day killing or in fear of being killed that hurt the most; this had simply impressed that idea upon him like a brand into his flesh.

He thought of a different way to approach the problem, and asked, Why is what we did wrong? And, before the shrieks came back, he clarified, They would've done the same to us.

With half-asleep logic, figuring out the answer was like trying to see the bottom of a deep pool when the mud had been swirled around it. Of course, he knew, killing was wrong, and taking an eye for an eye would solve no one's problems. He wished he had seen another way to incapacitate the enemy, anything but massacre. And the air turned colder in his lungs as he was stung with regret. Following that blow came an even harsher one, the awareness that there was no other way.

Killing his adversaries was the only surefire way to stay safe.

The shock of this idea rushed over him like a tidal wave, sweeping away his feeble protests. In its wake came another thought, the worst yet: Not even the most awful crime of taking a life would protect him. They were fighting vast multitudes, throngs of enemies, that would overwhelm them despite all their efforts. It was hopeless. They would die, and die with bloodstained hands.

He wanted out. He did not want to live and die like this, but what choice did he have?

His fingers twitched, and he looked down at the gun in his hands. Maybe there was a way out, a third door between murder and death.

Suicide. The word like was the glint of sunlight off a knife, morbidly beautiful and hypnotic and oh so lethal…He shivered. What was he thinking? Killing himself would solve nothing and would only bring more pain to his friends. It would be still more bloodguilt on them all.

Well, then, what was he to do? He sighed shakily, and thought again about the lives he had taken. He knew that he was just as responsible for those deaths as Kobra, for while his friend had caused the explosion, he himself had done nothing to prevent it from happening. He could have spoken up, could have suggested that they do…what? There was nothing else to be done! Nothing but obliterate fifty innocent, albeit misguided, but innocent, human beings in a ball of fire.

Regret returned, along with sorrow, and both swelled up in his chest and began to push out through his eyes in glassy tears. Why must life be like this? He demanded miserably. Through his blurred vision, he saw the words printed up the barrel of his gun in bold letters, like an answer key on a test: BECAUSE I SAID SO. What a stupid, trivial answer to his stupid, answerless question.

With a quiet sob of disgusted helplessness, he set the gun on the table. He wanted to throw the instrument of death on the floor, or better yet, out the window and far away, but that would wake his friends, and they deserved to sleep. He sank onto the floor and cried, feeling utterly alone, trapped at the bottom of a well.

A tapping sound behind him made him jerk around to look over his shoulder, fear's spindly black hands strangling his mind. It was Dr. Death Defying coming over to him. The DJ knelt next to him slowly, like a fisherman settling in for a long wait. "Hey, Jet Star."

"Shit, you scared me," Jet Star (that was his chosen name, stars or not) whispered, inhaling a little relief and company in the form of his friend's sour, sleep-smelling breath.

"Sorry," Dr. Death replied. "I just wanted to make sure you were all right. You seemed kinda shaken up after the raid." He spoke with calm acceptance, giving Jet the chance to share his sorrow or not, as he wished.

"I'm not okay," Jet stated simply. He shook his head to clear out the painful thoughts before continuing, "I hate killing people, and that was…just awful. There were so many of them, and they didn't see it coming…" He shivered. "I mean, I know they would've attacked us too, but how does that justify murder?" He winced at the word.

Dr. Death sighed. "I don't know. I guess all you can really do after something like that is to tell yourself that you did the best you could, that it was the right thing to do. It hurts, sure, but eventually you come to realize that it was for the greater good, y'know?"

That made sense to Jet, but he couldn't help the slight resentment and anger that crept into a corner of his mind. "How would you know, exactly? Have you ever been through this kind of pain, where you know that your very existence will mean the deaths of hundreds? Have you seen real, living humans get blown apart, just because they think differently than we do, and there's nothing you can do about it?" He was whispering harshly.

The DJ rested his hand on the knee of his injured leg, one of many marks he bore from his own war. "Yes, I have," he replied, and though his voice was calm, he looked away from Jet Star at the floor, staring bitterly into his memories. But he snapped back to the present before Jet could feel too badly about asking such a stupid question. "I've learned from those things, and I know you will too. And one thing I learned is that, yeah, it's sad that we have to kill people, but it's that or let them kill us. Plus, if we don't fight back and they decide not to kill us, we'll be giving up our lives anyway."

Jet knew what he meant: they'd have to go along with the enemy's way of life, which meant that they wouldn't be allowed any sort of individuality. He'd never be able to play his guitar…His eyes flicked over to where his Gibson stood in a dusty shadow, its black polish melding with the darkness of the night. "I don't care." He closed his eyes to block out the image of his instrument, because it barely meant anything to him now. "I just don't want to go through this anymore. I can't stand it."

He looked back at his friend as a sudden realization struck him. "Maybe BLI has a point. Maybe it is better to not have to feel, to suffer like this. The Dracs don't have to regret it when they kill us; they just pop a pill and feel…"

"Happy?" Dr. Death raised an eyebrow. "That's not anything like real happiness. It's all a delusion, and so's their 'perfect life.' Being happy all the time isn't possible; it's total bullshit."

"I don't see what you have against them," Jet snapped, anger flaring again at the DJ's idiotic dismissal of what seemed, suddenly, like a pretty good idea. "They could fix you. But no, you'd rather stay a depressed cripple!" It was the sharpest, cruelest word he could think of to say, and he spat it at Dr. Death like a snake spitting venom. He regretted it instantly, of course, but he couldn't take it back.

Little did Jet Star know that to his target, that was an old word for an old wound. Like a scar or callus that didn't hurt anymore, he'd heard such things too many times to take offense. "There's more than one way to be crippled," Dr. Death replied. After a moment, he said, "I think you should go back to bed, Jet. You'll feel better in the morning."

The morning.

Suddenly, that was the greatest thing in existence. The thought of a new day, when Jet could apologize and take a second look at things.

Dr. Death rose, then said with a parting, crooked smile, "Goodnight, apocalypse buddy." And he returned to the back room, leaving Jet lost in bittersweet feelings of strengthened regret and stronger friendship.

Jet Star went back to the spot of floor that was his bed for the night, and fell asleep. Anytime that he awoke with his mind screaming from the pain of memories, he'd think the happiest thoughts he could manage, and find something to hold onto: Dr. Death's words of wisdom, remembering the sound of his guitar (it was kind of nice, after all), the welcoming starlight streaming through the window. And his friends helped him, though not consciously. He would look at them, sleeping peacefully, and notice things like the way the white light glistened on Fun Ghoul's raven-colored hair, or Party Poison's tiny smiles as he dreamed of something nice, or Kobra Kid's weirdly endearing snores. These distractions kept him sane, and because of them, he greeted the sun- had dawn ever been more beautiful?- with a feeling of hope.