"Today I walked down our old street, past the diner where we'd meet. Now I dine alone in our old seats." ~Billy Talent, "White Sparrows"

They had gathered Sweet Revenge's body and loaded him into the car with a solemnity that masked the growing relief they felt. Party had survived; so had Korse, but it sounded like their old friend would be taking care of that shortly. It was with hope for the future, then, that they returned to the old diner off Route Guano.

No one moved to unpack their things; it was an unspoken agreement that they were leaving as soon as possible since they were now on the S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W's radar. In fact they had practically nothing at the diner, having moved all the important things they could find over to Hot Chimp's hideout, where it was packed into the van. They'd be going there in a couple days to leave with all their stuff. There were just a few things they needed to do first.

Sweet Revenge needed a funeral, and thanks to Fun Ghoul, they were the ones that had to do it. That was really just a joking complaint, though; deep down all the Killjoys agreed that the man who had sacrificed his life for them should be honored. They gave him that honor in the only way they could: by setting his body on fire while playing music. It was unceremonious by any standards, but Party Poison, who had come up with the idea, was sure he would've liked it.

Out of sentimentality, what was left of My Chemical Romance retrieved their instruments from Hot Chimp's hideout and by way of ingenuity and a lot of spare extension cords, managed to bring a guitar and mic outside in back of the gas station to play "Helena" for the funeral. Sweet Revenge had once said that it was his favorite, and somebody remembered that he looked a little like that kid from the "Helena" video.

Fun Ghoul played and Party Poison sung, and the result was a stripped-down version of the song that sounded good not because of any technical skills on either of their parts but the emotion they conveyed. By the time it was done, and the body had burnt to little more than a pile of glowing ashes, everyone present could feel the peculiar combination of sadness at the loss of a friend and satisfaction that they had said goodbye.

The Killjoys' next priority was to make graves for their fallen friends.

It was not as hard as it seemed to find abandoned mailboxes in the middle of the desert; they were pretty close to what had once been a suburban area- "pretty close" meaning within an hour's drive- and as such there were maybe five or six mailboxes within a radius of ten miles. As they only needed four, this proved to be one of the easiest foraging missions they'd been on in a while.

This was made even easier by the conspicuous lack of Dracs anywhere. It was almost creepy how they'd stopped showing up, but Dr. Death later informed the group that most of the Drac patrols had been reassigned to points much closer to Battery City while a high-profile murder trial was taking place.

They found enough boxes within three days, and then set about the lengthy process of decorating them. This was simple enough for Sweet Revenge and Adrenaline Angel, both of whom no one alive could say they'd really known. But for Jet and Kobra- or to be more exact, Ray and Mikey- deciding what to put on their tombstones was a nearly impossible task.

Fun Ghoul found himself envying people with normal headstones: all they had to do was to pick something that sounded nice and was short enough to fit, an often stereotypical saying like "loving husband" or "caring woman who will be missed." As he and Party Poison, determined not to resort to such conventional bullshit, worked hours on end, going through inside jokes, witty sayings, and endless, endless old memories, Fun began to realize just how hard it was to sum up a life in four walls and a mail slot.

Then there was the problem of what to do with Ray's guitar: should they burn it, keep it, or leave it at the grave? Fun Ghoul finally decided he'd take care of it and play on it occasionally so as to make sure he never forgot his best friend.

That alone was still an odd thought for him. The idea that Ray was gone didn't make any sense. How could he be dead?

Their time was spent in a haze of heat and paint fumes, with the occasional outbreak of crying, or a fit of bittersweet laughter at all those "one times." The day they put the last touches on Jet's mailbox (a detailing of his favorite guitar, down to the fret markers), they reached an unspoken consensus that they were done. It was just in time, too, as the sun was beginning to set. The Killjoys went inside for a snack, or to curl up on the sofa, and Fun Ghoul was left alone next to the mailbox.

They had placed it on Jet Star's favorite sand dune, the one out back that had the best view of the stars. Struck with a memory, Fun Ghoul jumped up and raced inside to get his friend's guitar.

He arrived back in the same spot a few minutes later, and got to work setting up the amp and tuning. The sun had set by then, and the first few stars were flicking into view. They were always easy to see because the Killjoys were so far from the electric lights of the city.

With one leg bent at the knee to support his guitar and the other folded underneath him, his back gradually sliding down the slick surface of the mailbox, Frank played "Bulletproof Heart." Or he tried to.

The guitar part wasn't difficult, as he'd helped write it for the fourth album and most of the chordwork was unchanged. The problem was that as he strummed each chord, he couldn't help but feel like something was missing. He was sure the amp settings were correct, the tuning was a perfect half-step down on every string, and that he was playing the song the way it should be, but it still sounded wrong…

Halfway through the first verse it hit him: it sounded off because he was alone. Not just alone, as in playing only one guitar, but more alone than he could remember feeling in his life since his best friend Ray wasn't with him. It was corny and stupid, but Frank knew that if his guitar parts weren't right without his friend, none of him was right.

He thought he could just wing the lead part of the solo and call it good, but Ray always wrote the hardest solos, like a weird mix of Brian May, every combination of hammer-ons and pull-offs humanly possible, and slides and walkdowns that would leave you stuck fourteen frets and three strings higher than where you had to be next, all played six hundred times faster than made any damn sense…His fingers slipped and he completely fucked up the solo, but that was because of Ray's ridiculously complicated guitar parts and not because he was trembling.

Dammit, Frank thought as he felt tears well up in his eyes. He hadn't cried in years, not since he'd seen the wreckage of his old house and realize what must've happened to his wife…his kids.

Before he knew what was going on, Frank fell sideways into the sand, Ray's guitar strap slipped off his shoulder, and he sobbed uncontrollably while the amp made a few discordant buzzes and fell silent. He gagged and choked and wanted to scream until his throat ripped in two. He desperately needed to hit something, to jump off a cliff, to curl up in the sand and never move again, whatever he had to do to stop thinking the thing that he wished more than anything wasn't true.

Ray was dead.

Ray was never coming back.

Frank hugged his knees to his chest, his tears running into the sand next to Ray's favorite guitar, as the night spread over him.

As the last flickers of red and orange sunlight sank beneath the dunes, Party Poison stepped out onto the front porch for a smoke. He'd been working practically non-stop on Jet's tombstone all day and he was tired, his hands ached, and he reeked of paint.

Unfortunately, about six yards away from the porch was where they'd put Kobra Kid's grave, and that hindered Party's attempts to relax. Try as he might to not remember, he couldn't help but think of all the good times he'd had with his brother. There were too many to count, but a few stuck out here and there in his mind, sharp as knives and painfully sad: the way they always used to walk with their arms around each other's shoulders backstage after concerts; how Mikey had liked to wear his glasses far down on his nose and tilted his head back to look through them; the time Mikey had asked the audience at a concert, with the air of utmost importance, if his Black Parade jacket made him look like Darth Vader, which was stupid because he looked way more like Darth Maul (the thought of how his brother would've given him a grudging half-smile at their nerdy argument just made Gerard feel worse). There was the time Kobra Kid had tried to punch out Sweet Revenge- who Gerard also missed, now that he thought of it- and the day they'd broken out of jail and Mikey had fallen asleep on Gerard in the van, both of them smiling in relief and freedom. And further in the past and steeped in more nostalgia were the days they'd spent as teenagers, listening to Iron Maiden and reading comic books in their room…

Party Poison snapped out of his thoughts as he saw Fun Ghoul walking down the hill toward him, carrying a guitar. As Fun walked under the porch light, Party could see that his face was streaked with tears. Party raised an eyebrow, concerned, but Fun said nothing as he went into the diner and reemerged guitar-less a few minutes later, lit a cigarette, and stood next to him.

They were silent for awhile, gazing into the swirls of smoke and contentedly breathing in each other's poisons. More to distract himself from thinking than anything, Party announced, "I'm gonna quit smoking."

He'd expected Fun Ghoul to either laugh at him or give him a pat on the back and applaud his idea- any sort of strong reaction, really. But Fun just flicked a bit of ash off his own cigarette, made a contemplative noise in the back of his throat, and asked, "Why?" in a voice that held only token interest.

"Um," Party began. "Let's see…lung cancer, every other kind of cancer, emphysema, uh, cigarettes are expensive, we'll give other people cancer too…and yeah." He figured those reasons were enough to start with.

Fun Ghoul chuckled, as his friend reiterated all the things they'd had flung at them over the years and ignored together. "All right, fine. So will I," he said in surrender, and marched over to the trash can, where he ground out his cigarette and threw it, his lighter, and the other pack he was carrying in his vest pocket away. He turned back to Party and said, "But I'm only doing this so you don't have to make a mailbox for me, too."

Party resisted pointing out that they were far more likely to die from Dracs or radiation poisoning than cancer, because he was glad to have Frankie to rely on. Instead he pointed out, with a glance at the trash can, " I was kinda thinking we could quit slowly, like, wean ourselves, at least until we can get some patches or something…"

"Oh," Fun replied with a sheepish grin. "Right."

Party Poison rolled his eyes, and gave Fun what was left of his cigarette.

A few minutes later, as he lapsed back into his thoughts, Party wished he still had it because then he could pretend that the stifled, throat-cutting noise that came out of him was a cough and not a sob.