Far out in the desert, Mad Gear and Missile Kid threw a big damn party. The music was so loud and the lights so bright that everyone in attendance forgot to be afraid. It was so loud and so bright that it didn’t feel like an end, but a beginning.
In the hideout, Dr. D let his broadcast run while Show Pony climbed onto his lap and they talked about lipstick, about sandy rollerskates, about nothing at all. Their last conversation went out into the night, mumbling softly before utter silence.
At the mailbox, Kobra Kid and the Girl sat together wordlessly. Even the air was standing still. They hugged each other tight enough to hurt and looked up at the stars, counting constellations before they disappeared.
At the edge of the city, Fun Ghoul and Jet Star gunned the engine, raised hell and a dust cloud like the old days. The red line was hit and surpassed, and they went so fast it felt like they could outrun anything. Then they braked, because they didn’t want to outrun this. No one could.
In the middle of the city, looking around at the lights and cold chrome from above, Party Poison stood with Destroya. The city went on as it always did, unknowing that an avenger in a Hawaiian shirt had finally come to collect. It was time. Destroya sighed once more, an engine’s dying cough. They handed Party a can of LaBatt Blue and held it out to tap together. Party obliged.
“You won’t remember this,” Destroya said, breaking the silence. “Or maybe you will, but you won’t be you. It’ll be like a dream. Or a really good idea.”
Party didn’t respond, but kept his eyes on the droid as the blinding light overtook them.
In another time, in a basement in New Jersey, Gerard Way woke up.
a clap, Kobra is either a brutal, ruthless killing machine or a totally useless
klutz, there’s no in between. No one’s sure what makes him snap into karate
mode, it pretty much just depends on his mood that day/how much sleep he got/
if the others (especially Party) is in any serious danger.
NOTE: THIS IS 100%
CANON, THERE’S A SHOT OF HIM FREAKING OUT ABOUT THAT GUY THE OTHERS SHOOT AND THEN IN ANOTHER ONE YOU SEE HIM JUST COOLLY SNAPPING A DRAC’S
NECK AND HE’S NOT FAZED AT ALL
Killjoys are like pack animals. They always have been. There have been nights where the Fab Four stay up together, talking and having fun. None of them want to go to their seperate rooms. It makes them feel isolated. Alone. Instead they’ll stay up with each other as long as they can and if they get tired they’ll sleep where they drop, limbs tangled.