Ashes To Ashes

"Did you hear the falling bombs? The flames are all long gone but the pain lingers on." ~Pink Floyd, "Goodbye Blue Sky"

Adrenaline Angel usually avoided nostalgia, but after Kobra Kid's eulogy on the radio, nostalgia took matters into its own hands and set itself up in her shop for a solid four hours.

She'd been wandering around by the only gas station in Zone 5 when a flash of red caught her eye. Since that wasn't the kind of thing a Killjoy saw every day, and she'd wanted to kill some time before heading back to her shop to wipe the sand off all her stringed instruments, Angel had hiked over a nearby dune to check it out.

She'd seen this guy, not much older than her, pouring a can of gasoline over a wicked-looking black Gibson bass guitar. He had on a bright red sport jacket, a holster with a red laser gun (apparently his favorite color), skinny jeans, and the kind of sunglasses that gave off a "don't mess with this dude" vibe.

Angel thought of another conversation she'd had with him once, about why he loved his shades so much. It had started out as a joke, but had quickly taken on an element of seriousness when Kobra had replied with, "They're the closest I can get to being invisible." Angel had laughed it off with a quip about super powers (having learned long ago that his affection for his shades was equaled only by his nostalgia for the comic books he'd read as a kid) and pointed out that flying was clearly a better power. This had turned into a spirited debate, and a necessary distraction, because Kobra had never been one to talk about things that made him uncomfortable.

She'd gone up behind this mysterious new guy who felt the need to torch his perfectly shiny bass and said, "Pity."

He'd jumped and whirled around with his hand on his gun. Her eye-hurtingly colorful tie-dye shirt—her personal favorite kind—had showed that she was clearly a Killjoy, but he hadn't relaxed much. "Who are you?"

She'd beamed at him. "Adrenaline Angel."

"Okay, and why do you care what I do?"

"I guess it's not really my business; I just hate to see a good bass go to waste." Angel had commented wistfully.

"You're right; it isn't your business," he'd replied brusquely. "It's a personal thing, and I'd appreciate it if"

She'd cut him off. "Oh. I'm sorry. Was he a friend of yours?" She'd had to burn a few instruments herself after musicians she'd known had gone off on raids and gotten themselves dusted.

Her new friend had blinked, staring off into the middle distance of his thoughts before answering, "You could say that."

Though she'd known then that he was hiding something, (and later found out just how right she was,) Angel had frowned sympathetically and said, "Well, I guess you kinda have to torch it, then. It's a shame. I was going to ask if I could have it for my storeI run a music store in Zone 6."

He'd nodded, not particularly interested.

"But I suppose you could always come check it out if you decide you want a bass of your own," she'd added hopefully.

"Uh, sure," he'd replied, and she had hoped that he wasn't just saying that to get her to leave.

"'Kay, cool." Angel had smiled once more, turned to walk away, and then stopped and looked back. "Wait, I didn't get your name."

"I'm Kobra Kid." At least that was how she knew him for the few months he spent idly wandering her shop, until she'd gotten his trust a little more and he'd finally told her enough of his Killjoy origin story that she understood why he couldn't keep his old bass.

"That's a shiny name," she'd said with a grin. "Good luck, Kobra Kid. Keep running."

"You too," he'd said, and she'd waved back at him before she left for real.

And Angel had walked off, wincing at the sounds of snapping strings as Mikey's guitar burned into nothing more than a little extra desert-dust.

She almost wished he'd kept it so she'd have something to get rid of other than the hours she'd already spent reminiscing about one of her only friends.

Then she remembered that he'd had friends, too, and went off to go find them.