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The night Party dies, they wonder about the old transceiver radio.
Not quite certain they’re going to die yet, just uncomfortable in the knowledge that their chances of getting out are very, very slim, Party wonders what will happen to the radio that sits on the booth in the farthest corner of the Diner, facing the sunrise. And when the sun rises the next day, because it always will, and the golden, warm light spills in through the Diner, prompting the little speakers to crackle to life, will there be a different transmission? A transmission announcing their death and glory in a hail of laser-fire to a near-empty living space that used to be home? They’ve tried their hardest to keep the faith, to look at this rescue-mission with a thinly-veiled pretense of surefire optimism and hope, mostly because while Party isn’t afraid of dying, isn’t afraid of feeling the barrel of a gun pointed at their face, of being martyred for what they believe in, they know everyone else is. They’ve seen it.
They can see it in the way their little brother’s steady hands began to shake this morning, and the constant glassy, far-out look in their best friend’s eyes, and, while their love is hiding it better than everyone else, they’ve seen him go deathly still before, heard him admit to his fear in the dark, when it was just the two of them.
They’ve got a million other things to think about, as they cling to the worn-out durapore tape on the steering wheel, stepping hard on the gas, but their mind keeps drifting back to the radio. Their radio. Back to the sleepless nights and part-whispered, part-screamed transmissions that came across. Back to the thousands of urgent calls and gossip and I love you‘s and when are you comin‘ home? and catching up with people they loved. The countless arguments and pleading, the horrifying pop of a transmission only half-received and disconnections. Everything. Everything.
Everything that Party was could be counted back through the words that were spoken and heard through the transceiver. Through insults and barely concealed rage and laughter and kisses and advice and the sound of a smile through the speakers, through the words they had chosen and the slang they’d used and all their hate and love and fear and anger. Lost to the wind, to the waves that still carried words they had spoken years ago, words they had meant and words they hadn’t and words they had regretted and words they didn’t. The silent witness to everything that had happened, that meant more than just appearances.
Party can picture their family huddled around it. Sometimes all together, and sometimes alone. Jet, with a permanent furrow in her brow, huddled in the corner, catching up with faces long forgotten and voices that would never be heard again. Kobra, playing around with the volume and antenna absentmindedly, leaning towards transmissions like the radio was a person. Ghoul, sprawled across the seats, always drumming his fingers against the table. All of them, leaning against each other, straining to hear the waves on particularly windy or hot days, motorbaby in Party’s lap, speaking over each other, or laughing, or going deathly still.
They wonder what will happen with it. Will it sit there and fall apart in the heat and exposure, left behind by the people that loved it? Will a zero come and grab it with sudden, jerky hands and marvel at their sudden, rare luck? Will one of them drag their bloody, beaten limbs to the radio, sobbing through an emergency transmission? Or will Party’s long, cold fingers wrap around the knob again, turning the frequency and volume up to listen until the wasteland cicadas are replaced by the warm, familiar voice of Death-Defying? There was no reason to bring it with them, especially not when it was becoming more certain that this was a suicide mission, but maybe they’re more attached than they’re willing to admit.
It was a lifeline, after all.
The day they and Jet stumbled across it, the sun was burning. Still adjusting to life in the desert, they had left their withdrawing brother behind at the station and gone out, and Party had come down with a particularly bad case of sunstroke, red from the sun and dizzy. They’d stopped in front of an abandoned, analogue station, desperate to find something, anything, and that’s when Party had discovered the transceiver, left on the front-desk, collecting dust. Like the one from Juvie, that Party had spent months listening to, letting the anticipation and excitement dance across their skin. They found it before they really became a killjoy, and it’s one of the only things Party’s fond to remember from back then. If the ‘am’s their prized position, the radio comes pretty close.
They’re never going to see it again, but maybe their motorbaby will.
And that’s really all that matters.
The car radio is silent. Party, after what had felt like unanimous, unspoken agreement, had turned the volume knob to zero, unable to cope with the voices of their friends for the last time. They considered letting the wasteland cicadas play a single-note symphony, but even that was too painful to hear. A last time. They don’t wanna think about it that way. Instead, the wind whips through the windows, howling like it expects them to just turn around and disappear, to abandon everything that’s ever been important, and their darling, for the safety of playing dead. To trade her life for the rest of the crew, and the fact that they’re entertaining that thought alone is what scares them. More than dying on a sterile floor.
No, they will not falter. The Girl will come home and Party’s homecoming gift to her will be their own radio, filled with the ghosts of them and their family and everything that their life was. The same radio with the yellow tape and the scratched, war-worn metal that they used to call for help, to get help, to fight and declare and understand and question. Their radio. It’s all that’ll be left.
They pull the mask over their eyes.
Maybe this is death, but Party and their crew are bullet-proof and unkillable in that radio.
⭑☆⭑
“Can you hear me, Star?” Party calls into the radio, pressing down onto the PPT. They’ve been at it all morning now, trying to pair the transceiver with the radio in the ‘am and the walkie-talkies Jet had managed to scrounge from the market. While Jet may be real good at fixing up people and pretty O.K. at fixing up the ‘am, and Party might be good at making things with their hands, neither of them are very good at working with air-waves.
“—krrz—yes, I c’n,” Jet replies, “both through th’ walkie talkie ‘nd down the hall,”
Party scowls, glaring at the wall that stands between them and Star. Maybe they have been speaking a little loudly. But their frown breaks into a grin soon, too excited to pretend to be angry, because that’s their radio and those are their walkie-talkies and they work!
“Frequency?” They ask.
“27.715 MHz— fzzt.”
“Roger that. ‘s disco. Over.”
They can hear Jet’s laughter through the walls.
Party sets the radio down. “What’s so funny?” They call, crossing their arms.
“Nothin’!” Jet’s still laughing, though. “Why’d you suddenly start usin’ code?”
“I thought we were supposed to! ‘s practice!”
They can practically hear the eye-roll in the other room. It is good to be prepared! Although Party’s not exactly sure why Roger has to be involved in sending radio transmissions across, it’s got to be important. It’s in the movies, isn’t it? Now, Party hasn’t seen a lot of them, per se, but the Juvie Halls were really into watching all the pre-war media they could find. And it’s almost always used. Sure, they’re not exactly sure what the point is, but it has to be important. They’re planning to explain that to Jet when there’s movement in their peripheral.
The Kobra Kid stands across from them, holding close to the window like a ghost. Then again, he pretty much has been a ghost for the past couple of weeks. Withdrawal’s hit him extra hard out here, and when Party and Jet aren’t trying to set up those stupid radios, they’ve been watching over Party’s little brother. The DJs had reasoned that he was probably good enough to go home now, that he had made it through the worst of his fever and break, but every time they look at him, Party wishes he was still at the station. His eyes are haunted and hollow-looking, hazel offset by the dark purple rings that really make him look dead, and his face is flushed and pale, dampened with a sheen of sweat that’s tangled in his hair and plastered it to his forehead. But the worst of it isn’t even his face.
It’s how far away he’s been.
Standing over there, on the other side of the room, like he doesn’t even recognise Party anymore. Granted, they can’t exactly blame him, and the guilt begins to pool on the floor beneath their feet, black and thick like pitch oil, swallowing them up every time they think about it. After all, Party did leave him behind the first time they came out here. It’s only recently that they went back over the walls to rescue him. Besides, they know what withdrawal feels like, and it’s double as hard with the sudden added noise in your head that spills over into physical pain and nausea and an overwhelming need for it all to stop.
So they can’t exactly blame him for standing there, looking at them like they’re the ghost.
“Hey,” they whisper, and their voice is soft.
“Hi,” he says, and he seems lost.
Party smiles, gesturing over at the radio. “Wanna try?”
They watch as a smile twitches on Kobra’s face, and it’s the first real smile they’ve seen since they came back to get him, small and shaky, half-unsure and a little bit out of place, but it’s there and he’s smiling at them with a toothy grin, and it’s impossibly bright, and that’s their brother right there. Everything’s going to be okay.
⭑☆⭑
“Jet, do you copy?”
Jet rolls her eyes on the other side of the radio. “Yes, Party. Jus’ like I did an hour ago,”
She’s out in Zone 5 today, visiting her family. Or, well, she was until about fifteen minutes ago, when the ‘crows came and it was time to hit the red and get out of there. Now, Jet’s pounding on the gas, speeding down Route Guano with the windows open, wind tearing through her hair, radio on full-volume. Well, not anymore, because Party’s radioed in just now. They’ve been radioing all day.
“Right—frzzt —O.K. And you’re O.K.? Over.”
Their voice is tinged with worry. So the DJs reported the situation already. Not a big deal, really, just a little clap, but if Pony’s on air…
“Yeah, I’m all shiny.” Jet can’t keep the smile from her voice. “Y’know, you could’ve come with,”
“What? No! I— tha’s y’r family, Star. I don’ wanna intrude,”
“They would’ve loved t’ meet ya. ‘nd Kobes,”
The line goes dead. Jet supposes that the Venom Siblings haven’t exactly had a great run in the City. Party and Jet don’t hold any secrets from each other, but their family hasn’t really ever come up in conversation yet. From what they’ve let slip, the siblings were pretty high up in the pseudo-rankings of the City. Party swears they don’t remember anything more than white walls and constantly being sent to re-ed, and it’s easy to assume that family isn’t really a thing in the same sense that it is in the Desert, but, still, Jet doesn’t know the whole story. And she won’t push for it, either.
“You alright?” Jet asks, when nothing else is said.
“Yeah —krrsh— how was the visit?”
Jet chuckles.
“Y’know how it is,” she says, and then curses internally because no, they do not, “was good to see everyone. We had a big bonfire ‘nd I gotta see all th’ new dust angels. Makin’ me feel old. Lot’s ‘f new news and bracelets ‘nd stuff. Actually, one ‘f my cousins made one f’r you, ‘cus I was telling her about m’ new crew last time,”
The radio crackles beneath Jet’s fingers, and she smiles.
“Your new crew?” Party asks.
“Yeah. Us.”
⭑☆⭑
“I don’ like the new guy,” Party mutters into the radio. They’ve been on it for hours with Show Pony, hogging the booth in the corner, talking about Zone gossip and whatever else comes to mind. The admission is a little bit out of the blue, but it’s been eating away at their mind since Pony first radioed (and though they’d loathe to admit to it, it’s the main reason they’ve even entertained the DJ for so long).
“Shiny. How so?”
“I dunno. He’s jus’ chilly, is all,”
“‘s the cute little raven, no?”
They scowl at the other end of the radio.
“Fun Ghoul.” They whisper, terrified someone’ll hear. Then again, he hasn’t exactly been subtle about their mutual dislike of each other, so really, there’s no reason for them to lower their voice like this. “He can’t stand me,”
“Aw, does he hurt y’r pride?”
“No! ‘s just infuriating is all. All he does is glare at me like I didn’ jus’ save his life ‘nd then makes fun ‘f me. ‘nd he gets along great w’ Jet ‘nd Kobra, but Jet says she knows him from somewhere else. ‘s jus’ me that he hates, ‘nd he’s always starin’ at me with his green eyes, Pony. They’re so green ‘s scary,”
There’s laughter on the other end of the radio. Which means Pony must’ve pressed down on the PPT to make sure Party could hear it. Their eyes narrow.
“He’s always starin’? Tha’ must mean y’re starin’ back, honey,”
Party’s cheeks heat up, and they look around the Diner, relieved when there’s no one around. “‘s not true. I jus’ happen to look over when he’s already lookin’. Oh! And th’ other day! You should’ve been there! I came ‘nd sat next to him, y’know, when he was hangin’ out in th’ booth, ‘nd he looked like I’d torn all th’ stars from the sky with that stupid pouty expression he likes, ‘nd then he tucked his stupid, stupid hair behind his ear ‘nd called me looney. Wouldn’ even explain why!”
“Oh, man. Sounds like a real infuriatin’ guy,”
“I don’ like y’r tone, sugar.”
Pony laughs again.
“I jus- I don’t get him. ‘nd I really don’ like him. I can feel it in my gut. Ev’ry time he comes ‘round. ‘nd he spends all day makin’ demolitions or whatever, leanin’ so close tha’ it looks like he’s drawing, ‘nd he’s so focused he sticks his tongue out when he thinks, ‘nd he made fun of my car th’ other day, my car, Pony. No one does that! ‘nd he’s so buddy-buddy with Star, ‘nd keeps giggling— actually giggling — at whatever she says, ‘nd he’s always way up in Kobes’ face, ‘nd I hate him.”
There’s silence on the other end.
“Party?” Pony’s voice comes through, suddenly very serious, “Are you sure you’re not jus’ tumbled?”
⭑☆⭑
Kobra’s hands are shaking so hard he can barely press down on the push-to-talk button. He’s going to vomit.
“Jet?” he says into the radio, trying to ignore how panicked his own voice sounds, consonants all sharp and fast, trying to nail into the speaker.
There’s silence. There’s a cry behind Kobra and he doesn’t turn around, gripping onto Python’s handle bars so hard with his left hand that it’s beginning to cramp, trying to ground himself against the hot metal. He’s dizzy. He’s dizzy and nauseous and trying not to pass out. “Jet?” He tries again, desperation bleeding into his voice and through the airwaves, foreign sounds getting caught in his throat. He pulls at his lip piercing and then his fingers turn violent and clamp down on his lip, trying to tear it apart.
Finally, finally the radio crackles to life.
“Copy.”
Kobra almost starts crying.
Suddenly, his throat closes up. He can’t say anything. Just stands there dumbly, holding onto the radio, leaning against his bike, ignoring the sounds from behind him.
“Kobra, what’s wrong?”
Jet’s voice is like a road. Steady and grounding, impossible to lose and warm like the asphalt.
Kobra presses down again, trying to force the words past his throat. “I—” he tries, swallowing.
There’s a moan of pain from behind him.
His breath hitches. “There’s so much blood, Jet,”
He’s really going to vomit now. He can’t turn around, he won’t turn around, because, behind him, Ghoul is bleeding out into the sand, whimpering, hands covered in red. They were ambushed. They were ambushed and Kobra felt Ghoul slip off the bike and into the sand, and turned around, and saw the actual hole that was burned into his side and all the blood spilling out of it, and immediately got off his bike and dry-heaved, overwhelmed by the sight and the horrible, awful coppery, wet smell. He can’t handle this. Nothing inside of him wants to turn around, and he knows that it’s gonna kill his best friend, but there’s nothing he can do to force his head to turn again without making him pass out.
Now Ghoul’s really crying, trying to keep it in for Kobra’s sake, but he’s not fooling anyone out here, with the tears that Kobra knows are falling from his eyes and mixing with all the dirt and blood.
The radio crackles to life, and he can hear Jet curse.
“Okay,” she says, and Kobra really wishes she would just speak faster, “‘s okay.—frzzt—We’ll come get you,”
He shakes his head. “No. No. He’s never gonna make it, Jet. There’s so, so much ‘f it,”
And now Kobra’s starting to cry. He can feel the way his voice shakes and the stinging pricking in his eyes, can feel the shock settling in around them and the pain that Ghoul must be in right now, clutching onto his side, looking up at someone who can’t help him.
“Kobra, listen to me. You need to stay w’ me. We’re comin’ to get you, but y’ need to do what you can,”
“I can’t.” He whispers, hoping that Ghoul won’t hear him. “I really can’t, Jet. He’s goin’ to die.”
The only response he gets are the wasteland cicadas pouring in through the speaker, sounding like an awful confirmation of the fact, resigning him to his fate.
“frzzzt—Kobra, listen to me. Party’s already getting th’ ‘am. Can you tell me where you are?”
Kobra’s voice falters. “Near th’ Route. Maybe 15 minutes out. Coordinates should be through,”
“Okay, good. You’ve got a medkit?”
“Yes,”
Ghoul cries out again, and this time Jet must hear it, because there’s more cursing on the other end, swallowed up by static.
Kobra’s going to pass out.
“C’n you grab th’ ribbons ‘nd somethin’ to staunch the blood? You don’ have to do it, okay? Just get Ghoul to hold onto it until we come, yeah? ‘s easy. ‘f it looks really dirty, you might have t’ try cleanin’ the dirt out, but tell me how it looks first. We’re about 45 minutes out,”
“Tha’s too far, Jet. He’s never gonna make it,”
“Do what you can,”
The radio line goes silent, and Kobra counts to ten, trying to steady himself. His hands shake so hard that he can barely reach into the bag they’ve brought alone with the medkit, and prying it open is a nightmare. His fingers get caught in the opening, frozen solid, and it takes everything he has just to open the box. There are the ribbons Jet said to grab, and he takes the antiseptic out before tearing an old t-shirt apart. He squeezes his eyes shut and wills his knees not to buckle as he turns around, lightheaded without having to look at whatever’s waiting for him.
Ghoul sniffs and Kobra opens his eyes, immediately wishing he hadn’t.
There’s so much of it.
It’s all he can see right now, painted over Ghoul’s hands and taught features, obscuring his tattoos, dried into his hair. Kobra’s heart races against his chest, constricting it suddenly as his lungs try to keep up, try to keep forcing air into his body, and everything becomes too real, too bright and vivid and red, searing behind his eyes. His hands begin to tingle and then he can’t feel his fingers anymore, can’t feel the bandages he’s holding onto.
And then it crashes.
He can’t tear his eyes away, but his heart-rate drops suddenly, and he breaks out in cold sweat, overwhelmed by disgust and a dizzying blur. His vision becomes narrow, and dark, and he bites down on the inside of his lip in a desperate attempt to keep conscious. There’s nothing he can do. He’s not in control. His best friend is about to die. He’s not in control. He’s not—
Ghoul presses his eyes shut and reaches a hand out, ready to grab the t-shirt from Kobra’s hand.
Kobra lets go of it, and lowers to a crouch, trying to calm himself down. There’s a gasp of pain and a string of sounds that vaguely resemble curses as Ghoul presses down on his side, trying desperately to staunch the blood. His hands are weak, though, and it keeps spilling.
“They’re on their way,” he says, trying to crush the quivering in his voice.
Ghoul shakes his head.
“Jet says y’ have to stay awake,”
He shakes his head again. Gestures at how useless the fabric is in his hands, wet and almost unrecognisable.
“Yeah, okay.” Kobra breathes, grabbing onto it.
Ghoul cries out, and Kobra nearly falters, but suddenly the ‘joy’s hand is on his wrist, keeping him there, all slick with it, and now he’s really going to pass out.
He doesn’t die that day.
⭑☆⭑
Cherri Cola’s on the radio again. Poison knows this, because it’s 2 a.m. and the radio is up and running in the living room, and they can hear the poetry through the walls.
In the silence of the interlude,
Will you wait for me,
Like I’ve been waiting for you?
You say you’re just changing your pace,
and that I’ve already lost my place,
right next to you.
The stars are shocking and blinding tonight,
splattered across the darkest, most infinite sky,
and I just wish you would come back to me,
my brightest tomorrow.
And then maybe I would never have to ask you why,
why you never come forward into the light.
Will you wait for me?
And Party thinks that maybe, just maybe, Cola may not be the worst poet out there.
⭑☆⭑
Jet’s got the radio in hand right now. While Party might be the more officially-designated broadcaster (mainly because they’ve declared themself as much), they’re currently a little bit preoccupied. Very much preoccupied. So it’s up to Jet now to find the radio and switch over to the right frequency, praying that they haven’t strayed too far out into a dead-zone, where the waves kind of just stop.
She shakes her head, wincing internally. “This is Jet Star. Do you copy? Over.”
“—krrr—Standing by.”
Cherri Cola’s voice comes through the radio and Jet could almost cry in relief. While Party might have some weird, endless feud going on with the DJ, Jet’s always been quite fond of the poet. Besides, it’s almost impossible to catch Death-Defying away from his own station and on the smaller radio, making Cola the most sane option.
“Uh, okay, right—” Jet’s not exactly sure what to say, and Party sends a glare her way, begging her to just hurry up— “Don’t freak out, but, uh, we found a baby,”
Said baby is currently asleep. It’s adorable, too, the little one, with big brown eyes and curly hair, and even more precious when it isn’t wailing like a siren. It wasn’t until they put it in Party’s arms that it stopped going off, and Jet had watched their expression soften from mild confusion into something more fond, making a little oh sound as they held it. It was Kobra who found it, digging through scraps in an old, abandoned warehouse, just to come face to face with a baby.
It was also Kobra who had adamantly told the rest of the crew that there was no way they were keeping it, but that had turned into a whispered shouting match, trying not to spook the infant, while Kobra had insisted that no, we can’t take it on, be rational for once, and Party had whirled around and whisper-yelled, so you just want to leave it here?! and Kobra had cussed them out, and then, against her better judgement, Jet had gotten involved and scolded them for waking the kid and that of course we’re takin’ it, and Kobra had glared at her and said, we’re not keeping it, and Ghoul had, in the meantime, crouched down and started talking to it, weirdly uninvolved in the argument, and so on, and so forth.
This is so, so strange.
Cherri agrees.
“Sorry, come again? Over.”
“We found a baby. In Zone 5. Not sure what to do with it.”
There’s a lull in the transmission and then Cola’s voice comes through again. “No parents?”
“Not that we saw. Besides, who’d jus’ leave their kid out here?”
Kobra’s still scouting the perimeter, looking for anyone who might still be alive. Earlier, Ghoul had crossed his arms, looked Jet straight in the eye and said, they’re dead. Or not comin’ back. Happens all the time out here. His tone had been a little too hard to be one of his more typical, casual remarks, and had hit Jet with a pang of sadness. He’d refused to follow Kobra. Now, he was sitting on some of the rubble, eyeing Party warily, unusually still and bothered about the kid.
“Bring it back t’ the radio station, alright? We’ll make an announcement, ‘nd I think we have some supplies for the kid here,”
The way he says kid makes Jet think that Cola already knows that they haven’t exactly found anything for themselves among the rubble. Despite being only a year her senior, Cherri sounds like he’s been around for way, way longer. Jet says her thank you’s and switches the radio off, turning around to face her crew.
“Cola says to bring the kid to the radio station,”
“‘f course he does.” Party rolls their eyes, but there’s no bite to it. It might be because there’s a baby in their arms or because they’re secretly relieved that it’s not their problem anymore. “Let’s get out ‘f here. ‘s givin’ me the creeps.”
⭑☆⭑
Party sprawls out across the booth, radio in hand. It’s been a long couple of boring days, sitting in the Diner, trying to recover from a particularly bad case of sun-stroke. Jet had been very stern about their house-arrest and ban from any physical activity, and after seeing how much water had been wasted on trying to get their body temperature back to normal, Party had felt inclined to do anything they’d been asked. Which, unfortunately, involved sitting around at home.
Jet had taken Ghoul on a longer supply run three days ago, and although she hadn’t said anything about it, Party knew it was to make up for all the water and ribbons. Makes them feel like a real deadweight. But that’s the thing with heatstroke — it’s not very preventable. Sure, you could do all you wanted to keep yourself hydrated and out of the sun, but when your car broke down in the middle of nowhere, and none of the radio signals worked, there wasn’t much to do. Just hope you don’t run out of luck.
And Party doesn’t exactly believe in luck very much.
Kobra left about an hour ago to go to the Crash Track, but not before dangling his freedom in the form of Python’s keys in front of their face. Fine. They didn’t want to go, anyways.
Party sighs, pushes down on the PPT, waits two seconds, and then asks: “Ghoulie?”
There’s the crackle of static. “Pronto.”
Party smiles. “Hey, sunshine,”
They can hear the fondness in his voice, can almost see the way he cups the radio close to his face, like he always does when he’s radioing them. “Hi, shooting star. Holdin’ the fort down?”
Party snorts. “Not much t’ hold down. How’s the run? Miss you,”
“—miss y’, too. Not a lot ‘f action. Jet ‘nd me got some coordinates from th’ DJs a couple’a ‘nd we’re over in Zone 2. ‘s all shiny, right now. We already found some food ‘nd bottled water, ‘nd some new batt’ries f’r your gun, and ‘n old rain barrel Jet wants’ta repurpose. No patrols, though, least, not yet. ‘s going really good,”
“That’s good,” Poison says, swallowing down the nagging worry, “When’ll y’ be home?”
“Soon. Jus’ clearin’ out the last ‘f the warehouses on our list. We’ll be done in a couple ‘f hours ‘nd head straight back. Feelin’ alright?”
They shrug, fiddling with the rosary around their wrist. “Burns’re better, now. Feelin’ a little less dead. Girlie’s over w’ Fanta, so ‘s basically jus’ been me. But I think ‘m goin’ a little insane. ‘s so, so borin’, Ghoulie. I‘ve had enough,”
“I bet. We’ll be home soon, I promise. ‘nd then you ‘nd I can go take down some Dracs, yeah? I’ll even take y’ to the party down at Hyperthrust, tomorrow night, ‘nd we can go dancin’. Jus’ you ‘nd me, yeah? It’ll be a date. I miss you like crazy.”
Party can’t help the butterflies that begin to dance in their stomach or the smile that spreads across their face, bright and excited. They love him so much it almost hurts.
“A date,” they repeat, face flushed.
His laugh comes through the transmission. “Yeah, like all th’ other ones we’ve been on.”
Their smiles widens. “I love you.”
“I love you, too. ‘ve gotta go. Jet’s waitin’,”
“Don’t do anythin’ stupid,” they warn, but it’s all fond and warm, “or we can’t go out,”
“Anythin’ for you. Catch y’ later, shootin’ star,”
⭑☆⭑
“Hello, cap’n. This is Party Poison, reporting for duty, over.”
A squeal of delight comes from the other end. “---arty!”
Party smiles. “Hey, Girlie. How’s y’r stay at Uncle Pepsi’s been?”
They make sure to emphasise their disdain for the title The Girl’s given Pepsi. It’ll fly over her head, but the DJ will undoubtedly catch it from wherever he is. Good. They dropped her off at the station a couple of days ago after she very solemnly indicated that she would very happily play with ‘Uncle Cherri’ if they all had to go out again. Which, Party supposes, they did.
They’re currently standing beside a busted motor, pushing the sunglasses up into their hair, one hand on their hip, the other on the radio, pretending nothing is wrong, despite the motor grease that’s currently covering both of their arms and the absolutely vile mood from the rest of their crew.
“Cherri c’n do magic tricks,” their motorbaby explains.
“Oh, can he now?”
Of course Pepsi can do magic tricks.
“Mhm! ‘nd we also played castle ‘nd my dragon ate him!”
Party stifles a laugh. Teaching The Girl what dragons were was the best choice they’ve ever made.
“Tha’s brilliant!” they exclaim. “Listen, motorbaby, could I talk to Cherri for a second?”
Party doesn’t bother smothering down the wince when his voice comes through. “Everythin’ O.K.?”
“No, Fanta. ‘m stranded. Look, I’ll keep it short, but c’n you keep her another night? I don’ think she should be home tonight,”
Party sends a quick look over at their crewmates. Kobra’s leaning against the ‘am, in the only spot of shade, sharpening his knife with a rock, and Jet’s watching the distance. She looks calm, but she’s tapping her foot and her shoulders are real tight. There’s a fight just waiting to break out. Ghoul and Party have already yelled at each other, and now he’s kicking up dust, arms crossed.
“Yeah, we’ll take her. Call us if you need anythin’ else,”
Party doesn’t say anything, but they’re certain he can detect the gratefulness and relief washing over them through the air-waves.
⭑☆⭑
The radio comes to life, and Kobra leans forward, transmitter in hand. “Hello?”
“Kobra, is that you?” Cherri’s voice comes through, and the small bit of relief Kobra feels is instantly drowned out by how strained the DJ’s voice sounds, all unfamiliar and uptight. His voice falters, too, Kobra notices, and his own hands tighten instinctively around the transmitter, afraid to be the recipient of bad news from the end of someone you love. He swallows, and begins to count to ten in his head, only reaching three by the time he switches the dial to transmission.
“Yeah. What’s wrong?” He asks, and for once he’s glad that his voice doesn’t betray emotion like his sibling’s does.
There’s the hiss of static, and then the Agent’s voice comes through again, more desperate than the last time. “I— oh, Destroya, Kobra, I don’t— I can’t— ‘m sorry. Forget it, I shouldn’t’ve called.”
“Talk to me,” he says, and he’s certain that that’s something only Party would say, but he’s completely lost on what to do here, unable to even see Cherri’s face or understand what’s going on until he says something.
The line goes silent for a couple of agonising seconds.
“I can’t do it anymore,” Cola whispers through the static, “I thought I could, y’know? But I just—”
“Could do what?” He asks, but he’s pretty sure he already knows the answer.
There’s a sob. “Get clean. ‘s hard. ‘ve been doin’ so well, too, y’know? I— Witch, some wavehead—” he says the word like it’s poison. It probably is— “came up to me, ‘nd I saw all ‘er horrific scars ‘nd blisters and suddenly I was thinkin’ that I missed it. Sittin’ out in the sun, waiting ‘till it took me, burnin’ alive to my own fun. ‘nd I didn’ even notice it ‘till I woke up ‘nd was layin’ in the sand, starin’ back up at it. Felt good,”
The admission is painful to hear, and must be even more painful to say.
Kobra really wishes someone else were holding onto the radio, someone who knew what to say or do or how to help him. “You’ve gotta do it. It‘s alright, y’know? To fall back. I’m here, okay?”
“You don’t understand. I can’t do it.”
He sighs, resuming his count back to ten before pressing on the PPT again and waiting another couple of seconds. “I did it.”
The other end is silent.
Kobra hasn’t exactly been very open about his own history, but maybe that’s what Cherri needs to hear, now. He really, really doesn’t want to say anything, but the truth’s already staring them both in the face and Kobra is so, so tired. He shouldn’t have let it slip, but he has, and now he’s gotta say something.
“Look,” Kobra starts, “when I first got here, I was havin’ a really hard time recovering from the pills. So I found a way to get them out here. Party caught me a couple of times before I finally decided it had to stop. It was just so much easier than facing everything else. But you’ve gotta keep moving. You’ll die, Cherri, if you don’t. ‘s the hardest thing you’ll ever do, but ‘m not letting you die, got it?”
It’s still silent.
And then there’s the crackling of radio static again, and Cherri’s voice comes through.
“Okay,” is all he says, but it’s enough for now.
“Okay.” Kobra agrees.
⭑☆⭑
“Pois?” Ghoul asks into the transceiver, knees drawn up to his chest. “I know you c’n hear me, ‘cause y’ took your radio w’ you, so just— jus’ come back to me, shootin’ star,”
There’s no response. There hasn’t been any response all day, not since Ghoul woke up to the sound of a motor and an empty space on the mattress beside him and stumbled out of their bedroom, accompanied by the sight of their absence and missing keys and a low, sinking feeling in his stomach. Party was gone, again. This time, though, they had taken the radio with them, and Ghoul had spent all day chasing them across the airwaves, half terrified they were gone for good this time.
He hasn’t heard anything. No static, no sigh that was carried through his speakers, nothing. They’re gone and they haven’t left anything behind.
“Pois,” he whispers again, pressing down onto the PPT with fingers so gentle he’s not even sure if his voice carries anymore.
Nothing.
Nothing.
They’re out there somewhere, boots in the sand or on the asphalt, somewhere, maybe standing underneath powerlines or the walls they hate, but whether they’re coming home again or really disappearing this time is impossible to say. The sun’s finally gone down, and the worst of his fears are both extinguished and kindled again. The sun can’t burn them, but they’re not home, either. And it’s the lurching feeling of standing still while the rest of the world moves past you that hurts the most, because he doesn’t know anything.
Just come home, he thinks. Come back to me.
“Ghoul?”
He almost drops the handheld speaker, relief so strong and painful that it nearly stops his heart, right there in that moment. Their voice is far-away and distracted, but it still holds the same warmth when they say his name, fond and familiar, and he thinks, for a second, that he would rather die a thousand times than lose their words.
“Pois?”
Ghoul feels like he’s talking to a wounded animal, so he doesn’t say anything more. Just holds his breath.
“‘m sorry,” they whisper, like they do every time this happens, voice so soft that it barely picks up through the radio.
“Was worried,”
“I know. ‘m sorry,” they repeat, and he can see the way their expression changes, brows drawn together, twitch in their jaw. “‘ve been havin’ dreams again,”
Ghoul sighs. He should’ve known. They’d been tossing and turning in the dark, hours ago, looking up at him with those big, haunted eyes that were glinting in the moonlight, as sleep stole him away from them, away from the quiet dread that had started seeping into his bones. They got like that sometimes, when the shadows were getting longer and the ghosts that followed them got a little too close for comfort.
“‘s okay, love.”
There are the wasteland cicadas again, and then Party’s voice comes through. “No, ‘s not. ‘s killing me ‘nd it’s killin’ you. I can’t— I can’t escape it, Ghoulie. ‘m watchin’ my life slip past me, right out ‘f my own fingers. I can’t hold on.
“Ev’ry time I close my eyes, I see it. I see —krzzzt—those awful white walls ‘nd the pavement ‘nd I hear th’ clicking again, y’know, ‘f keyboards ‘nd heels ‘nd printers ‘nd everythin’ smells sterile and clean, ‘nd I’m really there. ‘m there, ‘nd the worst part is, ‘m calm. I never fight. It’s quiet ‘nd clean ‘nd calmin’ ‘nd every single time someone asks —frzzzt— ‘f I’m really happy out here, ‘nd asks me ‘f I’d wanna go back, ‘f I’d prefer it, ‘f it’s what I want.
“And it is. Ev’ry time, I say yes.”
He can hear them sobbing now. The words get caught in their throat and come out all wrong and rushed, turning into hiccuped gasps and clipped sounds, half-obscured by radio static. There’s nothing that he can say that’ll make this all better, that’ll take any of it away. So he just sits there, leaning over the radio, and waits.
“‘nd sometimes I watch you die, too.”
The admission is so quiet it’s almost completely swallowed up by radio static. Ghoul feels his muscles tense. A little nauseous.
“It hurts. Seein’ you when I open my eyes isn’t enough anymore. I can’t do it anymore. ‘m done.”
“I know,” he says, gaze landing on the expanse of desert through the window, of the dark sky and all the stars, “I know, Pois. But you’ll come home?”
He’s not sure if he just imagines the sigh that carries across the airwaves, exhausted and shaken and so, so sweet, but then their voice comes through again.
“Yeah. ‘m comin’ home now.”
⭑☆⭑
Party knows they’ll die tonight. They know that they aren’t grand or brilliant or out of reach in those conversations. They also know that the ghost of their words will haunt the airwaves way after.
But Party also knows that they’re unkillable. Indestructible.
And maybe that’s why they love the old transceiver so much.