"In life, you have two choices: get over it or die with it on your mind." ~Anonymous
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 to not tap his foot to the hypnotic pulses. The others were there with blurred faces, watching the shadows of the dancers jerk and flicker in the thousands of lights like apparitions. Outside the behemoth, they were in the near-dark world which was grey as ashes at its lightest and deeper black than the inside of a closed chest at its darkest.
His companion, the one who wore yellow the color of guitar solos in the sand and carried their war wherever he went, held death in his palm. It was passed to another, the one with hair like sunlight through bulletholes and angry bloodstains coating his upper body. He slipped into the maw of the bus like a serpent, 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, cold and unforgiving like concrete, stretching out before him. He looked to his comrades, only to see that they now wore identical white garments like blank pages. Their hair was gone, as were their teeth, and they stared at him with eyes of infinite darkness.
The music was quieter now, a humming like the gentle, slowing heartbeat of someone with poisoned veins, or the calm breeze just before the hurricane.
Suddenly, the bus exploded into a bloom of fire, heat slicing the air like a knife. 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, making holes appear in his vision like a burning photograph 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 vocalizations that separated him from his friends (is that what they were?) 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 breath 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 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?
His mind responded with horrible flashes from both the dream and the memory of the real explosion, and he recoiled from them, shifting his attention to the checkerboard pattern on the table. 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 has been swirled around it. Of course, he realized, 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 even 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 that, 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 this way, but what choice did he have?
His fingers twitched, and he looked down at the gun in his hands. If he couldn't live purely, then he ought to die with as little guilt as possible. Assurance of that intention came in the form of the laser, painted as blue as the sorrowful insight that accompanied it.
The man began to adjust the settings of the gun, emotions thankfully dulled by the methodical task. Highest power setting, to ensure a quick completion of his plan; silent mode, so as to not wake his friends…He stared at his last resort, chuckling darkly at the words written on its barrel, the answer to his unspoken question (Why is life like this?): Because I said so. A trivial answer to a stupid, answerless question was better than none.
He raised the gun to his temple (Just one finger movement and he'd have peace) when a voice spoke quietly from behind him. "You're not gonna kill yourself."
He turned, and saw Dr. Death Defying standing near him, leaning on his cane. "Yes, I am." He countered, and his mind was blissfully clear. It all made sense.
"No, Jet Star," The DJ replied, sounding calm and grounded. "You're gonna go back to bed, and it'll be better in the morning." He stated everything like he knew it for a fact. How wrong he was!
Jet Star-that was his chosen name, stars or not-said, "You don't know what you're talking about."
Dr. Death sighed. "I know it seems bad now, I've been there, but trust me, you'll feel much better if you just give it a day or two to think things through."
He'd done that already! "I know that this is the right choice. It's the only way out. Between murder and death, I found a third door."
"And how is killing yourself any better than killing other people?" Still calm and patient.
"I won't be hurting anyone else," Jet explained. "Rather than be walked on or fight back, I simply remove myself from the equation."
The DJ said, "But you will be hurting others." In response to Jet's confused look (just an outward expression of the tiny, tiny tingle of doubt-not doubt, momentary puzzlement; his mind was made up-he felt), he gestured to the sleeping Killjoys. "They'll all miss you, and so will I."
"You all will see eventually that I was right, and be glad that I'm gone to a more moral place."
"But think of the children!" Dr. Death countered. What? "All the kids in Battery City who need us, need you, even if they don't know it."
"It's not my place to decide that one life is more precious than another." Jet said. This was an easy discussion to win; he barely had to think beyond things he'd heard others say. His hands relaxed and he let his arms fall to his sides.
Dr. Death apparently thought that meant he was uncertain about his choice, and pressed on. "It would be worth it, like the sacrifice of one for the sake of many. And anyway the Draculoids barely have lives. They're all pumped full of drugs and slogans."
Many…The multitudes!
Jet Star had found his best argument, the one without a counter. "But we can't defeat them, can we? There are too many of them and too few of us." It was basic math, for crap's sake!
"So, what?" The DJ's words seemed like a stall, but his voice was as steady as ever. "We just give up, then? Don't even try to do anything? Lose all hope?"
"There is no hope!" Jet hissed in annoyance. Couldn't the fool see past his rose-colored glasses long enough to realize that? "They'll kill us, and we'll go down fighting them, with the weight of their deaths on our shoulders!"
"I'd tell you the story of the boy who stuck his thumb in a dam and held back the sea, but you've probably heard it. And it hardly matters, since you don't care to begin with. You'll just give up," Was that so wrong? "abandon your friends," He'd already dealt with that one; they'd see he was right someday and join him if they were smart, "and never play guitar again."
That last actually hit him, though not too hard. To not have his guitar, to never reach that feeling of bliss again…But, he reminded himself, he'd found a different, better sort of bliss, greater than the kind born out of material things.
Even as he thought it, though, he could feel a sense of loss. He would miss his instrument, the way its humming strings resonated through him, how it would sometimes tickle his hand when he moved a finger to an open string, the feel of the neck as his palm glided over it…
He shook his head slightly, to clear the spinning thoughts out, and stared up at the moon. It was full and white and more beautiful than any part of this stupid thing called life had the right to be. Those cursed stars seemed to be smiling at him, welcoming him. Damn, Jet Star thought as he took in the night sky. Why is it so hard to leave this crap? To his horror, he felt the pinpricks of tears forming in his eyes.
"It's okay," Dr. Death said gently. "Sadness is a natural thing to feel. Look, if you're going to kill yourself, think of how much you'll be leaving behind."
"I'll miss out on pain," Jet snapped, anger helping him find a new direction. "I won't be haunted by the screams of the dead."
"No," Dr. Death agreed. "You'll be one of them. Is that really any better?"
"Yes, because I won't have to feel sadness anymore, or confusion, or regret, or anything! Maybe BLI's onto something." He realized suddenly.
"What, that drugged happiness is the best way out? You won't get to be yourself then, Jet. You'll be a shell. What's joy worth if you can't feel it as yourself?"
"I don't see why you're against them," Jet snarled, with a glance at the DJ's injured leg. "They could fix you. But no, you'd rather stay a depressed cripple!" It was the harshest word he could think of to say, and he spat it at Dr. Death like a snake spitting venom.
Little did Jet 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," He replied. "Just like there's more than one way to commit suicide, and if I have anything to say about it, you won't be doing either."
He reached for the gun, and Jet Star, despite his anger, let him take it, out of regret. He was sorry, in some corner of his mind, for what he'd said, and for taking out his anger on his friend (for they were friends). He realized that he was exhausted.
"You can have it back in the morning," Dr. Death told him, "if you don't try to blow your head off." He left, the tapping of his cane fading into the back room.
The morning. Suddenly, that was the greatest thing in existence. The thought of a new day, when he could think of how to apologize, and to take a second look at things.
Jet Star went back to the spot of floor that was his bed for tonight, and fell asleep. Anytime that he awoke, his mind screaming from the pain of memories, he'd think the happiest thoughts he could manage, and take a look around to find something to hold onto: Dr. Death's words of wisdom, remembering the sound of his guitar, the 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.