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Paint red on the sleeves of the ones you love
Lay the sick ones down and the bells will ring
Put pennies on the eyes let the dead men sing"
-Blackbirds,
Linkin Park
"The following statement is being brought to you by Power Pup. Power Pup. All rights reserved. Any violation will result in alteration, dislocation, and relocation."
The screen crackles with Christmas fallout snow. Static buzzes in the air, hair stands on end. Goosebumps and pinpricks and spider legs. The stark black and white smile fades to grey. Fizzles and dies. Like the smiles of the children popping pills. The silence hangs heavy; they can feel the weight of it on their shoulders. They're holding their breath. They're sending prayers to the gods of wire and tube with the beating of their hearts.
"This station is no longer operational. Have a better day."
The screen goes dead. It leaves no one to mourn.
A curse rings out, sharp and crisp. Deafening. Like the first note of clarity from a clock tower bell, ringing in the dew of morning. Show Pony brings a hand up to his mouth, covering a gasp that never comes. His other hand is clutched in Dr. Death's vice grip. He doesn't even feel it as his knuckles pop, as they grind away to dust.
The radios blow up.
Cracking voices overlapping. Layering one over another over another over another. A symphony of rage and loss and confusion. Killjoys and Dustrunners. Scrap Punks and Trash Birds. Motorbaby dustangels. The whole world cries out, and no one voice can be heard.
It's an execution. It's a god damned crucifixion.
"My god... NewsAGoGo down. They're in the Zones. Party Poison, Dr. Death Defying, Hot Chimp. Don't let them find you alive."
The first voice that comes through clear enough to make out is Cherri Cola. His rage ringing louder than the rest, his voice breaking through the hymnals. The boy from Arimathea. Show Pony can hear the pain in his voice. Can see the tears staining a face he's never seen. Lines streaking clear and clean down his dust covered cheeks.
He grabs the hand radio from its nest on the wall and thrusts it at Dr. Death's face. His throat is congested, vocal cords twisted and snapped.
Dr. Death will know what to say. He'll know what to do. These are his boys, his children, his Killjoys. He knows Cherri Cola's face, knows the color of his eyes and the shape of his nose. He knew GoGo's favorite song, knew what marks he wore on his jacket.
He'll know what to say to mend Cherri Cola's heart. He'll know what to bury in GoGo's tomb.
The Doctor waves the hand held away. His jaw is set. There's a light in his eyes that Show Pony has never seen before, a fire that doesn't have a name. It's cold and crisp and blue. It's bone shaking terror and blood boiling outrage. It's the time bombs of the rebellion. It's the consuming flames of the funeral pyre.
"You're gonna need to say something to your boys, Big Daddy." Show Pony's voice feels wet and sticky in his throat. Words muffled through the ringing in his ears. His hands grip the radio so hard he hears leather creak. It's all he can do to keep them from shaking.
Dr. Death doesn't say much. Doesn't say anything at all. The blank chasm of the television screen is reflecting off the glassy wet of his eyes. Show Pony wants to grab him and shake him. Wants to crawl into his lap and cry. He wants to kiss away his frown. He wants to breathe life and love and joy back into his lungs.
Show Pony hovers there. A raven hovering over road kill. A blackbird flying into the light of the dark black night.
Dr. Death rolls his chair into the broadcasting room, and pretty soon Show Pony hears Creedence singing through the diner. Singing through the Zones. Maybe it's reaching Battery City. Maybe it's reaching lost little GoGo. Maybe it's reaching Cherri Cola's soul.
The sky is painted red, the sun burning up the skyline, reflecting off the dunes. Show Pony's breath turns to vapor past his lips, but the pavement still burns at his toes. Everything is hanging. Everything is still. When it rains these days it's filled with acid and smog and sickness. It's apocalypse tainted. It boils your skin and melts your hair. It turns your eyes to ash.
And Show Pony wonders if he'll ever see the rain shining down like water.
He can hear Dr. Death talking to someone on a private channel. Frantic whispered raspy words. He can just barely make out the voices inside the diner. He imagines it's Hot Chimp, the two personalities setting up a play list for the night. The earth moans and mourns beneath his feet, rattles gravel on the asphalt. Aluminum and dead batteries, the tumbleweeds of the end of the world.
The radio in his hand cracks.
"Had enough. On overdrive. Heading into the heart of Battery City. Fist first. Taking out anyone in my way. F-Y-W! Fuck Your World!"
There's a cloud of dust in the distance, reaching up to try and touch the moon. A sand wraith trailing behind a tin can breezer. He watches it as it slides across the dunes, as it paints a tail across the horizon. He watches it and he listens through the static. Listens to the pain that rings through fog.
"That's suicide man, it'll be the Battle of Utah all over again!"
Mourning strains turn to pulsing anger. Revolution blows on the winds. Bring back a souvenir tonight. Bring back toes and teeth.
Show Pony remembers hands in his hair, wide warm hands working carefully through the knots. He remembers that sweet strong voice telling him all their stories. If you didn't know their stories you couldn't know their names. He remembers reciting their names, putting names to voices. Buzzkill's eerie City cadence. Jet Star and his tenor tones, singing when he thought no one was listening.
Some voices had faces. Had colors to their hair and shapes to their smiles. Kobra Kid pouring lemon juice in his crafted mane. Fun Ghoul smirking as he shouts a perverted joke.
"I have your back, and your front, dear sir."
Party Poison's outrage, his hair painted to match. His smile cryptic, voice thickened with a long dead accent from a distant dirty shore.
Some voices had only songs and stories spoken from chapped lips and a smoke stained throat. Spoken around a campfire burning dry and low. Defectors, mutiny makers. Bullshit commies with their hippie drugs. Jacks with their knives and Tommys with their guns. Mothers and fathers whose sons and daughters were beyond their command. Super-egos that criticize what they don't understand.
"Entering Zone Four. Body count at seventeen."
And some voices had love so deep you could feel it through the airwaves. Hear it through the static. A love that survived the City rhetoric and the desert rain. That survived to fly on broken wings. A love that weathered the changing times. A love that would stain the dunes red, that would paint the dull grey walls of Battery City with gore.
Show Pony shuts the hand held off. The music still hums through the diner walls. Pounding beat and wailing chords. His toes grow cold and the sky fades out like the television screen. Red to grey to black.
Dr. Death comes to find him. A year and a day gone by. His chair humming like a curious bee. There's still dust in the distance, a different shade of black against the starless night. There's smoke there too, rising in an exotic plume. Big Daddy lost two of his boys tonight.
Their fingers meet, warm and wide around chilled to the bone.
"Come back inside, Dustangel."