Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

It’s just a mind-aching

I used to dream about this town

March 16th, 2025, 6:58 am

Two minutes to adjust to the low light. With seconds to spare, Pete pulls off his issued duvet and kicks his legs over the right side of his mattress. At six on the dot, the monotone alarm blares, and the mechanised curtains scratch on their steel rails. His back shields him from the dusty stream of light as he gropes his nightstand for his prescribed anti-radian factor: Parafrexonyl. He swallows his 2-pill dosage dry and drags his hand over his tired eyes, dutifully starting his day.

He finds himself falling into the familiar muscle memory of his standard morning routine. 2 minutes to brush his teeth. 5 minutes of allotted hot water. 3 minutes to slip on his freshly ironed dress shirt and slacks. 20 minutes to prepare and eat breakfast. 30 seconds to lace up his polished oxfords. Then he’s out the door the same every day, seven days a week.

His heels click down the echoey staircase as he heads towards the fortified subway station. He passes through the thick layers of reinforced concrete, walking under arches that had once served as the last line of defense to utter nuclear destruction. When Battery City had emerged victorious in the face of a sixth mass extinction event, the bunkers had been swiftly repurposed to accommodate reemerging urban society.

As he steps onto train cart B, he takes a moment to appreciate the patented magnetic railway system, a gift to the denizens on the third anniversary of the city's reinstatement. He can’t remember much from before everything went nuclear, but if he takes a moment to sift through the recesses of his memory, a feeling of gratitude toward technological advancement pierces through the brain fog. As the last standing capital of the world, Battery City had become the forefront of the innovative sphere. 

Taking his usual seat on the leftmost bench, he courteously stares down at the floor, patiently examining his shoes for scuff marks. After glancing at the subway screens switching to flash the name of his stop, he lines up and files out of the cart. Taking two lefts and a right, he makes his way up the exit stairs, Better Living Industries HQ coming into light ahead of him. The building, white and stoic, stands tall with a characteristic slant at its top, keeping a watchful eye on the streets below.

Pete flashes his ID at the mounted scanner, and the glass doors slide easily open into the main lobby. Shooting a polite smile at Brendon, the desk worker, he heads down a narrow offshoot reserved for employees. Pete’s level 6 authorization allows him to take the elevator up to the company’s exclusive floors. Reaching the ballistics-testing department, he steps out of the elevator and down the hallway to the shooting range. Today, he’s been tasked with recording standard performance on the LG-25 and filing a report to send to the weapons specialists a couple floors down.

Pete’s work is structured. It’s familiar. He fires the charges from the accelerator, documenting the target results on his report and detailing any concerns he has with ray velocity. When he encounters an issue with the design, he files a separate grievance to send to the weapons drafting department. The repetition is essential; at the end of the trial, he must calculate the likelihood of a jam or any other mechanical failure. Better Living holds themselves to a golden standard that ensures only the most reliable products are mass-produced. It’s monotonous, but it’s the hinge that keeps the well-oiled machine of Better Living Industries running smoothly.  

Here, the subjects are readily supplied; Pete simply optimizes them one by one and lets the hours fly by. Today, the range is completely barren. The regulars had been slowly trickling out during the week, probably because of what he had overheard about the director calling for mobilization deeper into the zones. He doesn’t mind; the range is in optimal condition when it isn't littered with arrogant scarecrows blowing through plasma cartridges and breathing down his neck. 

The head joint of his blaster has started to steam, sputtering as more rounds fired out. He scribbles down a notice, clips in a new fuel converter, and takes aim again. They can laugh and sneer at him all they like, but it doesn’t change the fact that they’re constantly locked in shootouts with irradiated delinquents while he enjoys clean water and air conditioning. He graduated from the academy and earned his rank just like the rest of the Scarecrows; he just happened to have the right connections to get the cushy job. Serving Better Living Industries is an honor no matter the circumstances.

He can't, however, stop thinking about what it would be like to get the chance to fight Battery City's last standing enemy, a real radioactive killjoy. They are nothing more than cockroaches that managed to duck underneath the filth of the old society to survive the initial blast, but in recent years, they’ve proven to be more dangerous than expected.

It’s a miracle anyone who wasn’t hunkered down in the subway stations survived at all, but their bodies didn’t last long under the thick cloud of fallout that clung to the atmosphere and blocked out the sun. It left them mutated, disfigured, and worst of all, contagious. If it weren’t for PFX, their disease would run rampant and settle deep into every nook and cranny of remaining life.

Those miscreants waged war on civilized society, their over-exposed minds curdling with anger and violence, desperate to tear apart the city. He may have lost the opportunity to fight himself, but Pete takes pride in perfecting the weapons that will rid humanity of its filth.

Drawn so deep into his thoughts, Pete was startled by the sound of a tolling bell. He slides his MP25 back into his holster, unclipping it from his belt and packing away his work materials. After grabbing his reports, he heads to the office located to the right of the elevator to file his paperwork for review. 

He moves down the elevator and out the front doors, a small smile gracing his face. Pete loves the work he does, but the best part of his day comes after walking the two blocks to the Better Living hospital branch. Unlike the Better Living HQ, which is strict in their employee-only policy, the hospital is open to any Battery City resident, equipped to aid them in recovery and reentry into society. This open system leaves the facility vulnerable to possible contamination, so it’s imperative to undergo radiation screenings. 

You must provide two forms of identification and pass through a scaled-up dosimeter to even be considered for entry. In the event of failure, Pete’s seen individuals being dragged into the backs of ambulances, kicking and screaming, before being carted away to correctional treatment facilities. Pete shakes his head at the thought. It’s their own fault for getting off their scheduled dosage; there’s no such thing as hand-to-hand contamination while on Parafrexonyl.

 Radiation certainly scrambles the mind, but those people need to put their greater faith in the expertise of Better Living Industries. He passes through easily, going quietly to the specialized radiation ward tucked in the back corner of the building. Patrick used to work there before he became the sole permanent resident. 

Pete’s memories have been shrouded under a thin veil of confusion and trauma for years at this point, but he doesn’t need to remember specific details with Patrick. A warm familiarity fills his stomach, and his mouth involuntarily twitches into a smile when he sees him. They had survived together, and both agreed to make the most of their lives in the aftermath of mutually assured destruction. He was closer to Patrick than anyone he's ever known.

However, it was that fiery ambition that Pete admired more than anything that landed Patrick a long-term stay in the radiation ward. Pete didn’t doubt the effectiveness of the correctional facilities, but he was glad that Patrick’s contributions to the study of post-nuclear biology and the development of PFX had landed him a comfortable room so close by.

Patrick’s story was well documented; he had been one of the first victims ever induced for radioactive decay. A technical error had left Patrick directly exposed to an irradiated organism, sweeping his life away in seconds. The clinical study was to collect data for an antiradiation factor; PFX was only a concept back then. Pete had been his emergency contact; the shock left him in a daze, and his mind was distant as he signed the agreement to offer Patrick for study. It was the best option; it gave him the best chance at resurfacing.

Better Living’s biomedical engineers had swiftly designed a specific life support system that matched Patrick’s unique constitution. They told him it would be a waste to keep someone so esteemed in the scientific community from receiving the best possible treatment. He was truly so thankful for their help and consideration; he lived every single day for the chance to talk to Patrick face-to-face again.

Coming up to his bedside now, Pete stared down at his unconscious friend. His shaggy hair was neatly cut and his face freshly shaved, a testament to the diligence of the nurses who cared for Patrick. He seemed just a little too skinny and just a little too pale to be normal, but the shallow rise and fall of his chest was all it took to reassure Pete.

 “Hey, Patrick,” Pete mumbled quietly. He rested his hand flat on Patrick's shoulder and scratched him reassuringly through his itchy hospital gown. There was no fear of contagion; he was meticulous when it came to taking his pills. The signs and advertisements that plastered the walls and screens of Battery City held him accountable for his prescription. 

Pete recounted the results from today’s weapons selection just like any other day. He told Patrick about the characteristics of the LG-25, how he liked the grip of the trigger, and how the recoil shifted his trajectory 2 centimeters downward. Several doctors had assured Pete that talking was useless, but they all stopped their nagging and gave up eventually. Pete knew Patrick better than anyone. He’s the only one who stuck with him post-blast. Everyone else sort of faded into oblivion, but here Patrick was still by his side and clinging to life. He knew that he would appreciate the commentary, however mundane it was.

With the day recounted, Pete bid Patrick farewell and started his commute home. Down the stairs. Into the train cart. Study his shoes. Roll his eyes at the scuff marks. Up the stairs. Scan his keycard. Open the door. Eat dinner. Shower. Shine his shoes. Iron his clothes. Sleep. 

    ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆*⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

March 17th, 2025, 6:58 am 

Rinse and repeat. 

Take his pills, fill his quotas, visit Patrick.

Pete was reaching out to scratch Patrick’s shoulder like normal when he got distracted by gentle thumping from above him. This went against his repetition; this ward was hardly used, it would be deathly silent if not for the constant drip of IVs. Against his better judgment, Pete rose to his feet and slid back into the doorway of the room. Peeking next door, he notices a wide insulated vent passing along the roof. The faint tumbling continues forward, and Pete scurries through the hallway to keep up.

He quickly skids to a halt outside a miscellaneous office, listening to the clinking of iron nails on the tiled floor. Seconds pass in strained silence till he trains in on the screech of a metal grate being lifted gently off its hinges. Someone’s crawling out of the vent. There were no doctors making rounds on his way in; he’s on his own.

Three sets of footsteps touch down. How did they manage to find a vent opening that wasn’t under constant surveillance? He knows cameras litter the whole building; had they been disabled? Could he take three people? Would they be gone by the time he got back with reinforcements?

“Stop digging through random drawers, Ghoul. Shut up and stay focused,” an unknown voice hisses. “Sorry, sorry, you never know what they might have in here,” a second voice replies with glee. The third assailant stays quiet, but his footsteps methodically patrol around the room. Pete doesn’t dare peek inside, but he can hear the footfalls draw closer. This is why he was so eager to avoid active duty; he could never make up his damn mind. 

The choice gets made for him when a figure rounds the corner to scan the hallway. Nerves shot and frozen in place, he comes face to face with an abrasively painted bike helmet with “GOOD LUCK” printed across the visor. Time slows for a moment until both of them jerk into action.

His assailant makes a grab for him, gripping his shoulder and slapping a hand over his open mouth. Before he can push him to the wall, Pete wrenches back his shoulder and plunges his knee into the intruder's stomach. Momentarily freed, Pete scrambles back two steps as the man doubles over. He makes an attempt to turn and flee, but arms wrap around his legs, and he gets pulled to the ground with an ‘oomph’. 

From the open doorway, Pete hears a faint “Kobra?”. The man gripping his ankles with all his might whips his bulky head around, calling to his friends, “There’s someone out he-” Pete overpowers his grip and shoots his Oxford to the base of his helmet, producing a sickly crunch as it rocks upward on his face. His assailant, now perched on his knees, fruitlessly slaps his hand against the helmet as a stream of blood pours from his nose. 

Pete barely gets the chance to celebrate his small victory because of a short man with greasy hair skirting around the doorway. The man’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline as he observes the scene, His left hand moving to draw what looks to be a scrappy replica of the LG-20 resting on his belt. Pete scoffs as he turns to run down the hallway, that blaster can barely shoot strai- 

a deafening buzz cuts him off.

 For a split second, everything goes white. When his senses begin to ring to life, he’s first met with the disgusting stench of singed flesh. He then feels a horrific pain emanating in waves from his shoulder through his body. He slips in and out of consciousness. When his eyelids manage to crack open, he sees the sterile hospital floor moving beneath him. He registers that his body is being dragged, but he can’t do much; his subconscious already pulling him under again.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆*⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

For a couple minutes, Pete floats in and out of awareness. He’s sitting with his hands pulled tightly behind his body, leaving an awful crick in his shoulder blades. His vision swims for a few moments till his oxfords and a familiar wooded floor flood into view. His head feels like a ton of bricks, but he manages to lift it up enough to confirm that he’s somehow made it back to his apartment. A chill shoots up his spine.

My shoulder… 

He hauls his heavy head to the left to examine his arm. From what he remembers of the blinding light, a laser of some sort, he had been expecting a mangled stump in the place of his arm. Much to his surprise and embarrassment, a clean strip of gauze seemed to cover a shallow cut just below the shoulder.

“Hey, Jet Star, the jits awake,” said the scruffy short one. Pete flails and takes in the intruder leaning suspiciously against his wall. There’s a clomp of heavy boots, and then the unfamiliar assailant finally comes into view. He’s tall with a healthy head of thick brown curls, and Pete’s happy to report that he’s wearing significantly less offensive colors than his teammates. Pete smiles lazily at the thought.

“What were you doing in that wing of the hospital?” The tall one asks sternly. It takes him a moment to get his heavy tongue moving. “I was visiting a friend," he said sluggishly. Better to give them what they want; he’s totally compromised.

“Right, right,” the short one says haughtily. What a douche, Pete rolls his eyes. “Look at this idiot smiling. Why bother talking to him? Let’s just kill him and be done.” He continues as a third face strolls in.

The ‘Jet Star’ curly guy starts to argue with the greasy one, something about keeping the operation lowkey, but their spat gets tuned out as Pete locks onto the new guy. He’s clutching the bridge of his nose, and Pete can’t help but feel a little smug. When he’s not wearing that thick helmet, he’s got slicked-back blond hair and a strong facial structure. Pete tracks his eyes as they warily watch the intense exchange between his friends.

“The report said they were a standard prescription. Let’s just take his as our sample and cut our losses.” prescription? “I’ve got 'em right here,” the blond sniffs and says in his nasally voice, pulling out Pete’s precious PFX. Pete snaps to attention at the sight of his prescription.

“Hey, take what you want, but leave those.” Pete faltered. Instantly, three pairs of eyes lock onto him. “What's up with these anyway? It’s been a pain in the ass to get a sample even though everyone here’s hooked.”, questions the short one. “Look, man, I won’t tell a soul about anything I saw, but just— just leave those with me.” Pete pleaded. These guys certainly weren’t from the city; they had been festering in their infection for who knows how long. If he misses his dosage, it’s all over for him.

The short one raises his eyebrows and shoots ‘Curly’ a look, “Why’s this jit getting all defensive?” He said with a cruel smirk, refocusing his attention. “Just what’ll happen if you don’t take ‘em?” Pete knows that honesty is his only chance for survival, but as much as he tries to get the words out, it’s as if his jaw had been filled with lead.

“Well, I think that tells us all we need to know.”, the greasy one says with a clap of his hands. Pete gapes, but he cannot will himself to speak; to defend himself. Why can't he speak? 

Curly nods and steps forward, pulling a syringe and vial out of his belt. Pete doesn’t have the energy to struggle or even to register the fear of being injected with a mystery substance. When curly turns and heads into the night, all he leaves behind is a thin rivulet of blood cascading down Pete’s forearm. Short n’ greasy shoots him one last toothy grin before following after. 

Finally, his gaze settles on the blond. He can’t seem to make eye contact with Pete, but his hand flexes around the pill bottle. His white knuckled grip betrays his uncertainty. It almost makes Pete happy to be blessed with a little compassion, but like the rest, the man files out behind his companions without a backward glance. Pete doesn’t manage to hold his head up for much longer.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆*⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

March 18th, 2025, 4:32 pm 

The dusty sunlight had been cooking Pete’s eyelids for ages before he peeled them open. The raucous blare of his alarm had turned to a disturbing monotone some time ago. Whatever they injected into Pete had left him worse for wear; either that, or the radiation had started to chip away at his bones. 

He knows he’s gotta move. He has to tell someone that killjoys had been in the city, that they had taken his PFX for study. In a flurry of panic, he jerks his hands violently upward, trying to free himself from the belt that binds him. The motion sends the chair careening to the side, his injured shoulder smashing painfully into the wooden floor. He lets out a groan as his body seizes, ripping his raw wrists from the belt.   

Now free, he scrambles to his feet, slipping around the corner and sprinting to his front door. He bursts through the stairwell, taking the steps two at a time. He storms out onto the sidewalk, nearly bowling down a passing pedestrian. He mutters a weak apology before taking off down the street.

Sitting in his normal seat on the train, he can’t help his incessant jittering. He attempts to stare down at the ground like he normally would, but his hyperactive brain makes his vision dart around with uncontrolled suspicion. All the other occupants seemed content to stare down dutifully, a common courtesy that disturbs Pete more by the passing second.

The sun's already on its way down- I slept straight through my shift. How long has it been? I fought hand-to-hand and got dragged around a bit; how much exposure does that garner? Pete starts to get consumed by his thoughts. If I make it to the hospital before keeling over, things will sort themselves out. I won’t make it an inch through the Gamma scanner in my state; being taken away just means I can rat out those killjoys. He laughs to himself. It’s not really funny.

He drops his head into his hands and cringes at the migraine piercing his skull. He’s been knocked in and out of consciousness more times in the past twenty-four hours than he has in his entire life. Just two stops left, it’s never felt so drawn out before. 

His stop rings out, and he clings to the railing to pull himself up. His scuffed oxfords drag against the concrete as he slinks up to the front of the building. He takes a moment to collect himself. When I get dragged outta here, I’ll do it with my dignity intact. I just need to stay calm and keep my head down. I know what’s coming. 

His head’s pounding, he can’t help but dread the sound of a screeching ambulance coming to drag him far, far away. He won’t get to see Patrick for who knows how long. I hope someone keeps him company. I got mugged by terrorists, and my bones are disintegrating; he’ll understand why I have to go away for a little while.

The worker who had greeted him every day for years looks oddly miserable as he beckons Pete through the sensor. I almost feel kinda bad; at least he’ll have a fun story for the dinner table tonight. Pete squeezes his eyes shut and takes a step through.

One second… nothing.

Two seconds….?

Pete cracks open his eyes and stares at the agent, who's scrutinizing him. He must look ridiculous, spread-eagle with his cheeks puffed up in anticipation. His body stammers to life, and he crosses through. He gives the worker a blank stare, his mouth open. “ You’re good to go, sir.” He says blankly after an awkward pause, turning his attention back to the line.

Pete’s body maneuvers out of the way on autopilot. How’d I pass? He glances at the large overhead clock and does a double-take. 4:58? I’m almost ten hours late for my dosage. I feel half dead from radiation. How could I have possibly passed through the dosimeter with that much exposure?

This is Better Living Technology. It's top of the line. It doesn’t make mistakes like that. There wasn’t even a hint of an anomaly. The machines can’t be wrong. 

He doesn’t know what to do. He kinda expected he would be treated like a ticking time bomb and be strapped to a stretcher right about now. He’s never felt so lost, so he falls back into routine to ground himself.

The people dwindle, the hallways turn barren. It’s not familiar, it's sterile. All Pete can think about is Patrick; he’s always been his anchor. Things will clear up; he’ll feel better just standing next to him. But Patrick’s room isn’t empty, and ice slides through Pete’s veins.

 “Mr. Wentz, it’s nice to see you again.” The director is a cold, calculating woman. They had met once before, when Patrick had just fallen ill. She had even spoken words in his favor during the official statement. It was such an honor. It was like a real funeral. 

“My secretary informed me of your unscheduled absence today. It was worrying to say the least, it’s part of our employee policy to always strive for excellence.” She said with a stilted smile. The silence dragged.

“I’m sorry, ma'am, I had a difficult night.” He manages to stutter out. He can feel the sweat gliding down the back of his neck. “I can only imagine. Six years is quite the milestone. I’m worried about you, Mr. Wentz. It’s my responsibility to take good care of my employees, including our good friend Patrick. I’m taking the opportunity to reassure you that our state-of-the-art technology won’t fail him, and that we will continue to forge a path towards the absolute cure for irradiated individuals. He’s in good hands.” So it was the sixth anniversary, and Patrick was helping him out even now. There was no comfort; it was all so fake.

She had closed the distance and laid her hand on Pete’s shoulder. “You’ve already taken the day off, so enjoy it. But do come to work tomorrow. Patrick would want you to be successful.” She was more worried about his attendance than she had ever been about Patrick.

Her heels clicked down the hallway, and Pete remembered to breathe. He stumbled to his knees, clutching desperately at Patrick’s hand. The only thing wrong with his dear friend was his too pale skin and the multitude of IVs sticking awkwardly out of his body.

For how many years had Pete been blind to the true nature of the situation? Had he ever questioned the story they force-fed him about Patrick’s accident even once? How could he possibly have been so complacent in the face of his own comatose friend? 

Between the two of them, there might not even be a single ounce of radiation. Had it ever existed in the first place? These thoughts swirled in an uncontrollable tornado, but one thing remained clear: Patrick needed to be carefully removed from this machine that had left him vegetative for more than half a decade. 

Pete needed outside help. 

Chapter Text

Every minute’s so mundane

Another Buick in a traffic lane

But now you make me feel this way, and I can’t explain

April 15th, 2025, 11:27 pm

28 days clean from PFX. He clears the sensor every time.

Since then, Pete had spent every waking moment tracking, researching, and preparing. Every inch of counter space in his apartment is plastered with official reports and sightings. One of the perks of being a virtual scarecrow is access to the military operating databases, but it’s too bad the majority of the content is redacted beyond comprehension.

What are they so afraid of people knowing- who but him is spending hours investigating these databases every day anyway? Every sorry soul on the street gets their daily endorphin rush when a new stack of paperwork hits their desk in the morning. That’s the only high they’ll ever need.

He can’t relate, not anymore anyway. Going back to work was daunting to say the least. After his encounter with the director, he tossed restlessly through the night. It was the worst he’s felt his entire life, and he didn’t even have the privilege of blaming it on radiation decay anymore. When seven AM hit, his alarm felt like ice picks being stabbed through his eardrums, and his open curtains felt like a flashbang.

He went over his five minutes in the shower and practically took an arctic plunge. His jittering fingers could barely tie his laces, and he was getting triggered just looking at the disgusting killjoy fingerprints smudging his oxfords. He had to physically restrain himself from splashing hot coffee on Brendon’s cheerful face, opting to shoot him a close-lipped smile instead. Just to make matters worse, his vision was swimming like crazy from vertigo on his short ride up the smoothest, most-premium elevator the world still had to offer.

He was starting to wish he had been atomized in the initial blast. If his chemical composition had exploded into oblivion back then, his scattered molecules could be gently floating towards utter entropy right about now.

Instead, he was resting his throbbing head against the sleek office-lined hallway and imagining the small dust bunny on the floor as a distant universe. The thought of ending up back at the hospital prematurely left a poor taste in his mouth, so he was trying rather hard not to spew bile across the length of the hallway. Luckily enough, while he was wallowing in his own misfortune, he cashed in his bad luck for some good karma.

 Maybe it was fate that guided him to rest against the wall two inches away from a half-open door, where he just so happened to catch a conversation floating around the corner. His department didn’t just deal with the optimization of weaponry, but also its distribution to a network of discrete warehouses that served to restock platoons making pit stops inside city limits. His coworkers, who had more white-collar-esque responsibilities, were having a civil but emotionless conversation about which departments needed to receive a copy of the authorization documents to ship a max-size load of ballistics to the southern border of the city.

When he made it home in record time that night, he assessed his meager pile of maps detailing the military-based perimeter of the city and narrowed down the locations that could handle that amount of flammable material. Lo and behold, after three days of lying in wait, there was a commotion headed southbound toward one of his predicted targets. At work the next day, he spent more time sleuthing around the office hallways and confirmed that 150,000 carbons worth of interchangeable weapons parts had been stolen in a killjoy raid.

Even now, after a solid month of studying the boroughs, trying to find some sort of killjoy transportation complex, he’s come up entirely empty-handed. His research hasn’t been all useless, though. Since his ‘awakening’,  there have been a total of three raids inside city perimeters.

 1.) The aforementioned southern weapons run,

 2.) A smaller hit on a vehicle manufacturing facility, 

  3.) A raid on a clinic, presumably for sanitary medical supplies.

These smaller, more insignificant runs are impossible to predict; you’d have to know the killjoys' inner workings and current needs to even make an educated guess. However, this recent “medical run” has had Pete on his toes. Looking through the heavily redacted killjoy records, he’s noticed a recurring pattern in stealing medical supplies in preparation for a big raid. They seem to understand the inherent risk of storming a heavily fortified weapons facility and take precautions so they can lay low and lick their wounds in the following weeks.

Pete knows he has to get in contact with them. He also knows that New Fort MacArthur just sent off a ridiculous shipment of hundreds of tons of plasma-based blasters, cannons, missiles, and more. The military caravan hauling all that freight stretched for blocks and blocks across the city. The killjoys have no trouble passing through unnoticed, so someone must’ve seen that convoy, and that’s simply too good an opportunity to pass up.

The raids happening tonight, he’s sure of it. And when he inevitably corners the killjoys red-handed, they’ll have no choice but to strike a deal with him.

He pulls open the door to his storage closet and rummages around for a certain black shoebox. When he finds it tucked away in the corner, he blows off a layer of dust and pulls out his standard-issue combat boots from training. Coyote tan never gets any less hideous, but he can’t expect to pull off this idiotic operation flouncing around in designer shoes. He sits by his dining room table and pulls tightly on the strings before crossing through the loops and lacing them to the top.

Aside from the ugly mustard soles peaking out from underneath his pants, he’s dressed entirely in black. Facial coverings aren’t exactly a standard in the average battery city citizen's wardrobe, so he made some crude cuts in an old t-shirt and fastened it around his head. He feels a little put out looking into his mirror, but he knows he won’t care what he looks like when he’s avoiding getting shot later. This plan is so insanely stupid.

He may work with blasters all day in a fancy office, but it’s still super illegal to carry weaponry of any kind unless you’re active duty military personnel. Which he never was and never will be. To put it simply, he’s totally unarmed and super vulnerable. The only protection on his body is ankle support from his boots.

It would be nice if the killjoys tried another stealth mission so he didn’t have to mentally prepare to be shot at, but he knows firsthand that they suck balls at being sneaky. He imagines those three getting chewed out by whoever sent them on that mission, and a small smile graces his face on his way down to the lobby of his building. 

He’ll take anyone killjoy adjacent at this point, but he’s got the best chances if he manages to meet up with the same dudes again. He wonders if the curly-haired one got demoted from team leader, or if the greasy one finally had a wash day. He still feels bad about the third guy's nose, his whole face got screwed up, and even then, he was still almost nice to Pete.

He’s got a long way to walk to the warehouse, and with his plan already in motion, he finally allows himself to mull over his encounter with the killjoys. They’re nothing like how he was taught, at least not physically. Better living propaganda had stressed the danger of radiation exposure and staying medicated and used the killjoys as a poor example. They were supposed to be deformed and contagious, their high exposure adapting their bodies to survive, but just barely.

But they were normal. Better than normal. Their eyes weren’t sunken in from weeks on weeks of work, and their filled out bodies implied a reliable source of food and water. Most noticeable of all was their tan, healthy skin, something that could only be achieved through spending years under the post nuclear California sun rather than artificial office fluorescents.

It just makes him wonder: Was there any radiation to begin with? 

No one really talks about it, but no one really talks about anything. If it all really was a ploy by Better Living, then what the hell is PFX for? Seems like the killjoys were wondering the same thing. Maybe they can sit down for coffee together, all friendly, and exchange notes. Try to figure out what’s going on, but really, it’s wishful thinking. Pete’s still a little sour about almost getting lasered in half and then being tied to a chair for at least 12 hours.

He’ll make his distaste clear when he sees them again. For now, after about half an hour of walking, he’s reached the side of the target building. It’s advertised as a storage facility for construction overstock, lots of metal beams, and bolts that are rather inconspicuous. In reality, there’s enough firepower crammed inside these walls to obliterate all of Battery City in an all-encompassing fireball.

It’s past curfew, so there was no issue slipping through the dead streets away from the cameras he mapped last Tuesday. There aren’t even guards posted outside, so as to not draw attention to the building. He can only imagine how the inside is swarming with scarecrows and their draculoid minions. Busting in or even sneaking around is just asking for trouble, so he’ll wait for the killjoys to do it for him.

He doesn’t know how they’ll do it, but he knows it won’t be pretty; there’s gonna be a massive shootout followed by a manhunt by the end of the night. They can use their mysterious transportation to get here unnoticed, but if they wanna steal anything substantial, it’s gonna cause a scene. For now, he just has to wait.

He’s leaned up against the dirty wall in the side alley, a couple feet from a back door. He’s relying on a commotion to be his ticket in. He's also counting on the killjoys shutting down surveillance like they did at the hospital, so military backup will be delayed. Sure, the communications officers will radio in to Better Living HQ, but the majority of the active force is roving around in the zones, and they’ll need a higher elevation to transmit a signal outside of the city. His whole plan relies on that little detail.

He takes a long, deep breath and lets his head rest against the wall. What he assumes to be PFX withdrawal has finally started to taper away, so he’s in better condition now than he has been in weeks, but his brain is still foggy from a lack of sleep. Pete’s been pushing himself to the limit for a while now, but it’ll finally pay off.

He hasn’t seen Patrick in a while, either. He's been too busy; too ashamed. He doesn’t want Patrick to hear about his boring life; he wants him to hear good news. Next time he sees him, he’s gonna tell him that the killjoys will help him get back on his feet. It’ll be purely transactional: he and Patrick will cut their losses and run away together when he’s conscious. Any life is better than this one.

Imagining talking to Patrick face-to-face again fights off any residual fear. He doesn’t mean to doze off in a deserted alleyway, but the thought of living a free life, just him and his best friend, lulls him to sleep.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆*⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

Pete wakes with a start when he hears the clanging and confused shouts. He jumps to his feet and slides into place next to the door. It's only a matter of time. 

There's too much chaos to hear the incoming footsteps, but Pete was poised and ready to trip the officer who tossed open the door. The poor guy goes flying headfirst into the concrete and promptly knocks himself out. Pete's a little stunned by the suspicious amount of blood pouring out of the dude's forehead, so he gives him a courtesy pat on the shoulder as he proceeds to rob him of all his worth. 

He's hitting a rather odd pose as he searches the guy's pockets with his right leg stretched back, holding the door open. This guy's just some lackey, so he doesn't have any weaponry on him, not even a shabby letter opener. He does have a small radio transmitter in his back pocket that confirms Pete's suspicion that he was sent to call for help from the zones. Taking a glance up, Pete spies a fire escape on the side of the opposite building and assumes this guy was gunning for a better signal higher up. 

When Pete comes to terms with the fact that searching the guy is a waste, he shoots up and turns around, only to get a face full of some sort of noxious gas. Instantly, he doubles over and backs away, tears filling his eyes. He has enough sense to rush forward and catch the door he waited so long to get opened for him. 

“Holy shit,” he manages between coughs before ripping off his face covering and dry heaving to the side. He was expecting them to do some dumb shit, but he did not imagine this.

Quickly, he pivots, tying his face covering more as a bandana over his mouth and nose in thicker layers. Then he reaches down and rotates the officer's body a whole 180 degrees, all while hobbling around to keep the door open. It takes a couple seconds of adjusting, but the guy's head is now propping open the doorway and providing some much-needed ventilation. He may have failed to call for help, but his buddies can at least thank him for helping them not asphyxiate. 

Without hesitation, Pete plunges into the smog with his arm shielding his sensitive eyes. He is quite literally running around blindly, but so is everyone else, so he doesn't stop to feel embarrassed. 

There is no coordination, no communication, and certainly no plan. If either side was dumb enough to fire a shot in this visibility, it would be a massacre in a second. He’s no longer worried about getting caught trespassing, but he is worried that this will be a total bust, considering he can barely make out the hand that's attached to his body. 

Despite the poor odds, it looks like luck is still firmly on his side. As in, he runs straight into good luck. As in he runs face-first into a biker helmet with ‘GOOD LUCK’ written in tacky letters. 

The collision knocks them both firmly on their backs, but Pete's excitement has him straight back on his toes. The familiar killjoy is curled up with his hands covering his eyes over the visor of his helmet. He’s muttering something about ‘lasik,’ but Pete pays him no mind. He grips the killjoy's wrist with both of his hands and hauls him to his feet. 

Then they're running together through the madness. Pete's all but dragging him through the crowd; his iron grip doesn't leave the guy much choice. It takes a while, but after slamming into the wall and dragging his free hand along its length, they reach a doorway. 

The door is unlocked, so he rips it open and tosses his companion inside. He steps in himself and slams the door to muffle the sounds of panic from the main foyer. "We need to talk," he says tersely, ripping off his makeshift bandana now that they’re in a more ventilated area. 

The killjoy is regaining his balance when he freezes at the sight of Pete's face. After a moment of hesitation, he also pulls off his helmet. “You're the guy- the hospital guy! you're not dead?” he says, astonished. “I didn't die, but I didn't tell anyone about you either. I’ve kept quiet so just- just give me a chance to reason with you,” Pete replies.

An uncertain look is crossing the killjoy's face, but he hasn't made any moves to high-tail it, so Pete just starts talking. “I need help from you. From the killjoys. I can give you inside information, weapons blueprints, documents- I work inside Better Living HQ,” he takes a short breath. “My friend, Patrick, I think they've done something to him. He’s been in a coma for years for something I don't even believe in anymore- Just please, you have to have someone medically equipped in the zones. I can't trust anyone in the city, and I can make it worth your while.”

By now, he’s gripping the killjoy's shoulders, and he's sure his desperation is showing. The guy is searching his face intently, his mouth falling open in awe. He doesn't say anything, but he starts to nod slowly.   

The moment of understanding is quickly ruined when the door is slammed open again. 

“Mikey! Holy crap- uh,” It must seriously be Pete's lucky day since the other two stooges are standing in the open doorway. “It’s you!” Greasy points an accusing finger in his direction. Even Curly looks a little shocked to see him. 

“He hasn't told anyone. We haven't been worried about the hospital for weeks since there was no official statement,”  The killjoy he's still grabbing on to (Mikey?) says in his defense. Pete turns back to him in shock but gives a look of gratitude. ‘He wants our help,’ Mikey finishes glancing at him quickly.

“Right..” says Greasy after a moment of tense silence. "That’s irrelevant right now. Take him with us, we'll deal with it later,” Curly says sternly, marching down the hallway. When Greasy goes to follow, he roughly grips Pete's shoulder and tugs him forward. He's the one getting dragged now.

“So what exactly are we looking for?” Pete breaks the silence as they come to a stop at a massive vault. “Like we’d tell you, jit,” Greasy says snarkily. “Blasters,” replies Mikey. “ Hey, Kobra, what the hell?” They shoot each other venomous glares.

“So are you gonna use that crazy gun again to cut through this door?” Pete asks genuinely; he wants to see it up close without being on the receiving end this time. “ I wish,” Greasy sighs dramatically, “but she's still recharging from when we used it to laser off your arm hair,” he shoots Pete a proud smirk. “You mean it takes a month to recharge?” Pete counters, unimpressed. He takes pleasure in the way the killjoy deflates.

“ Well, no matter, I brought an even more beautiful lady this time!” Greasy drops to one knee and starts unzipping a case that Pete didn't even notice till now. By the way the other two are shaking their heads, he knows this will be bad.

What he pulls out has to be the most repulsive gun Pete’s ever laid his eyes on. It’s clunky all over with a thick wooden grip and four, FOUR, barrels. Greasy tries to twirl it on his finger like a cowboy, but it's too awkward to spin, so he just sort of tosses it into the air and kisses it to save some face. 

“You’re kidding me, right..? Did you grave rob a Revolutionary War hero? We're in California…” Pete says at a complete loss for words. 

“You just can't appreciate the splendor that is Hydra. She's wonderful and has never failed me!” Greasy says with glee. He starts firing like a maniac at the door, half the shots getting embedded into the wall since it's impossible to aim a gun with four bullets rocketing out of it in different directions at once. Well, four bullets if he's lucky, most of the time it’s three.. and sometimes only two, since it just can't stop getting itself jammed. Pete's powerless, so he just watches on as Greasy tries to hit even just a single bolt on the vault's hinge. 

“This is why we're after blasters,” Mikey says dejectedly from behind him. Pete turns his attention to him. “We know we're in a rough spot when we have to rely on this thing; the bandits don't even try to steal it.” Mikey meets his eye, and Pete laughs at the distaste in his words. 

To give Greasy some credit, he does manage to blast open the door, just with a suspicious amount of ammo shells scattered on the floor. 

After that, all four of them fall in line and start gathering the contents of the vault. He realizes he's helping terrorists raid a military base as he falls into the supply chain, but really, he can't find it in himself to care. Mikey runs back the way we came and guides more killjoys to the vault. They strap guns all over each other, fastening them around arms, legs, and midsections. Each killjoy has at least four blasters on their person when Curly cuts them off.

They push back through the warehouse as sounds of shooting start echoing down the hallways. The smog must’ve cleared enough to start an actual fight. Pete’s carrying two blasters himself, so he's ready to jump into the fray if need be. The rush of adrenaline is making him confident. 

Much to his surprise, Curly expertly leads their group around the commotion, avoiding an all-out firefight. His brow is set with concentration, committed to leaving with the greatest amount of guns and lives. 

He’s surprised again when he sees a familiar head propping open a doorway to the outside. Curly slows to a stop and turns to face him. “Kobra told me about your dilemma. Party won’t be happy, but I don't care. Everyone in the zones talks about toppling this city, but we’ve got no shot the way things are. We’ll be in touch about your friend.” Curly gives him a nod. 

Greasy reaches out his hand, and Pete passes over his blasters. “Thank you, it means a lot,” He says with a small smile. 

He takes a backwards step towards the doorway as the killjoys give him short waves. He even gets a couple approving looks. 

He pushed the officer's head out of the way and held the door open with his hand. “See you later, Mikey,” he says with a smile. The blonde head shoots up with a shocked look as the door swings closed. 

Chapter Text

All your life you’ve had to stand in line

Still you’re standing on your feet

All your choices make you change your mind

Now your calendars complete

After the warehouse invasion, a week easily slipped by without any disturbance. Pete figured he’d be antsy, but the adrenaline from his adventure let him pass through the work days in a daze, excluding the morning after, of course. He was absolutely certain that he’d be executed the second he set foot into the building, so he loitered outside the main entrance for a solid fifteen minutes. When he started peering through the glass to try and catch the firing squad hiding behind sofas and coffee tables, Brendon took matters into his own hands and dragged him inside.

Past that little hiccup, everything proceeded as usual. Even though it wasn’t intentional, he kept his ears trained on the office chatter throughout the day, trying to pick up on anything useful. Every day after work, he went to see Patrick. He wanted to verbally tell him the news, to tell him how he had cornered and infiltrated a killjoy operation, but he couldn't risk getting caught so early in the game. It’s difficult for Pete to act like a brainless PFX druggy, so he was trying to avoid additional attention by not bragging about his very illegal night out.

The week came and went as Pete desperately ignored his mounting anxiety. The killjoys had been pretty serious-looking when they declared they’d help him, but the radio silence wasn’t exactly reassuring. They said that they’d be in touch, but what did that really mean in this context? Were they gonna send him a messenger pigeon? Or maybe leave a secret message in lemon juice for him to discover with his desk lamp? They weren’t exactly clear, and it was making Pete paranoid.

The answer came to him the following Monday: physically.

He’d come back late from the hospital after hours of daydreaming out loud to keep Patrick entertained. He’d sat down to pull out the laces on his oxfords when a rhythmic tapping came from the lone window that faced out towards the alleyway. He could only see the person's hand since the rest of their body was pressed into the shadows, but the fingerless gloves told him enough.

Nervous energy coursed through him as he fumbled with the hatch on his window. He figured there was a chance they’d had a change of heart after a week's worth of heavy debate. Instead of a messenger, they’d sent an assassin to shank him in the comfort of his own home. Unfortunately for him, the hand had already begun to pull the window open from the outside.

Pete had no choice but to awkwardly shuffle back into his dim apartment as his guest dragged himself through the window. The whole feet-first motion was rather smooth; this guy had clearly crawled through tons of windows in his life, but there was some obvious hesitation about whether his tacky biker helmet would make the squeeze. Pete was just about as happy as he could be about hosting a known terrorist. Out of all the odd characters he could’ve been saddled with, he ended up with the one who he could almost form a positive opinion about. This guy really was his good luck charm.

The killjoy straightened to his full height after clearing the window limbo and sort of shuffled in place before having a moment of realization and reaching up to pull off his helmet. Pete appreciated the gesture; it was kinda nice to look into someone’s eyes rather than into their catchphrase, but the guy was so committed to staring down at his feet that it was entirely pointless. If Pete were his English teacher, he’d have given him a failing grade on his presentation already.

Pete cleared his throat, “So what’s the deal? You’ve got all the authority here, so tell me what’s up.” The guy glanced at him and opened his mouth to say something, but he quickly closed it again. The awkwardness stretched on. Pete shook his head, “C’mon, I’m not psychic. Don’t make me start reading your palm,”

At that, the killjoy made up his mind and offered his hand out to Pete. “You actually want your fortune, buddy?” Pete said skeptically. “No! just- just a proper introduction,” He said with a furrow in his brow, Pete took pity on him and gave his hand a firm shake. “Uh, nice to meet you, I’m Kobra Kid, but I guess you can call me-,” “Mikey,” Pete smiled, Mikey nodded in response.

I don’t think he’s comfortable with me knowing his name.

Silence stretched for another few seconds. Pete let out a sigh, “It’s nice you decided to show. I don’t have a tacky code name, so you can just call me Pete, but I’m sure you figured that out last time you broke in here.” Mikey had the courtesy to look a little embarrassed, but he seemed more concerned about his code name being tacky than the trauma they inflicted on Pete.

“Alright, tell me: you guys gonna help me out or what?” Pete prodded. “Yes. We said we would, didn't we?” Mikey said with a newfound confidence, gaining back some of Pete’s respect. “Party Poison, our leader, wasn't happy about us making promises to you, but even he can’t pass up this opportunity. We don’t know anything about the state of your friend, but if you can get us some simple samples, we can provide some answers.”

Pete bites lightly on the tip of his nail and nods in affirmation. “The ward they keep Patrick in is like a ghost town. If you can give me some supplies that aren’t bulky enough to be caught on camera, I’ll get whatever sample you like.” “Right,” Mikey reaches down and starts to unzip a cross-body pouch. He pulls out a small black case. “This is a simple blood drawing kit; it shouldn’t be hard to figure out- you could probably wing it, but Ray insisted on leaving you detailed instructions. They’re inside.” He holds the case out in front of him, and Pete takes it from his hands.

“Ray? Which one is that?” He visibly sees the color drain out of Mikey’s face; it's kind of hilarious. “Okay, okay, wait. If he’s handling medical supplies, and he’s leaving me helpful instructions, it must be the tall curly-haired one… Uh, Jet Star!” Mikey’s gone past pale and is starting to look a little purple. Pete smiles in victory.

“Relax, dude, please,” Pete can’t help but laugh. “If you run back to your shanty house in the zones looking like that, they’ll think I tried to kill you by sucking all your blood with one of these needles.” He shoots Mikey a friendly grin.

“Not funny.” He says, sighing and avoiding eye contact to hide his expression. “I can’t believe I let that slip, I’m seriously no better than Frank-” He quickly digs his fist into his mouth and squeezes his eyes shut.

“So the greasy one is called Frank? Yeah, that makes sense.” Pete’s really laughing now.

“It’s not funny! Fuck, they’re gonna kill me.” Any awkward tension is gone, what with Pete’s laughing and Mikey muttering under his breath.

“Alright, well, I'll take this with me tomorrow. When will I see you again?” “Two days from now, there's another routine hole in the security.” Pete nods repeatedly. “Hey, wait, how do you guys move around anyway?” Mikey kinda gives him a gross look at that question. His being offended offends Pete.

“Okay, there’s a couple extra tools in that case. Use them if you can, but the blood sample is the most important.” Mikey says, and Pete chooses to just brush off the blatant deflection. “Right, I'll see you in two days then.” Mikey turns without a word and trapezes out the window with slightly less grace.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆*⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

Pete stares critically down at Patrick. He's got his back to the camera and the smuggled black box resting on the edge of the comforter, waiting to be dissected. He's not worried about being monitored in here, so he lets out a small huff and pops the clasps to release the lid.

Inside, there's a couple of apparent items. First, the aforementioned instructions that are written in crisp cursive on a yellowing receipt, followed by the blood draw kit lying on a bed of styrofoam. There seemed to be space underneath the styrofoam for more tools, but for now, he pulls out the blood draw kit by its tubing and inspects the dangling silicon pouch. He gets the gist: stick Patrick's arm with the needle end of the tubing and let the blood flow into the pouch. Still, he consults the instructions for safety:

DO NOT TOUCH ANY EQUIPMENT WITH UNWASHED HANDS.

Pete shamefully drops the kit. He can't really remember the “good ol’ days” with Patrick, but he's sure they did gross stuff like spit on each other and do blood oaths, so their bacteria must be buddies. Still, he thoroughly sterilizes his hands before reaching for the pouch again.

Despite the small hiccup, Pete dutifully follows the rest of the instructions, and the blood starts to sluggishly travel through the clear tubing. While it fills, Pete inspects the rest of the goodies in the black box.

There's a handful of replacement needles, swabs, gauze, a small scalpel, a vial of sterilizing agent, and even a pair of latex gloves at the very bottom. Filling the general space of the box is a concerning amount of containers for other samples. Mikey said it was optional, but now that he’s here, Pete figures he should at least try to collect some more useful data.

The swabs, gauze, and scalpel allude to some sort of graft sample? But Pete doesn't know how he feels about presenting the killjoys with a little moist bag of Patrick's skin. He’s only met them three times; maybe he should refrain from convincing them he's the second coming of Ed Gein.

He thinks about clipping some toenails for a couple seconds, but that idea gets thrown out the window for similar reasons. He's starting to sweat a little bit at his inability to come up with any viable ideas, so in a fit of indecision, he pulls open the desk table drawer and grabs a pair of scissors before shearing off a healthy lock of Patrick's hair.

He shamefully stuffs the hair in one of the little baggies and reassembles the box with it inside. He places the styrofoam on top, hiding his bounty. He ruffles Patrick's hair. You can barely tell.

Focusing back on the blood draw, the content of the bag has reached the desired amount, so Pete refers to the instructions and lines up a piece of gauze as he pulls the needle out at an angle. He properly cleans the skin and bandages the wound before situating Patrick's clothes and blanket over the punctured area. For as much as he used to praise Patrick's nurses, he thinks they're more likely to discover his new haircut than the bruise from the needle.

Still, he's antsy about being caught. He packs up quickly and bids Patrick farewell.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆*⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

Pete's been pacing around his living room for about thirty minutes when the knock on the window comes. He pops the window latch, and Mikey comes crawling in again.

“Do you climb into windows eight stories up often?” Pete can't help but criticise. “Only when Party Poison isn't looking,” Mikey huffs out before pulling off his helmet and taking a few steadying breaths. Pete raises an eyebrow, “He doesn't trust you? Are you a low-ranking henchman? Please tell me you’re above ‘greasy’.” Pete knows he's bombarding him.

“ No, no, it’s more like he doesn’t- well, believe in me. It's irrelevant.” He shakes his head, and Pete lets it go. He got more insight on killjoy dynamics from that comment than all his previous prying. “And yes, I would say that I do rank above ‘Frank’,” He emphasizes the name like Pete would’ve forgotten it. He didn't, he just doesn't prefer it. “But he would probably argue that I'm below him. In reality, we just treat each other like equals.” He finishes blankly.

“Of course, something vague. At least you’re being talkative,” Pete mumbles as he pulls out a chair at the table and gestures for Mikey to sit. They’d probably be seeing each other a lot in the coming weeks, so better to get friendly now. Mikey hesitates, but quickly gives in and takes a seat. He's kinda perched on the end with his body drawn in on himself, his face staying stoic, but his body language betrays his nervousness. As much as Pete wants to keep him talking, there would be time for that later. He chooses to spare him and walks to the fridge to pull out the sample.

Mikey perks up at the sight of the box and reaches out to receive it from Pete. “I’ll take this back to Ray right away. It may take him some time to analyze it though,” He warns, and Pete just nods. “Oh! and we’ve got a job for you too.” Pete raises an eyebrow. “ I'm listening,” Pete replies.

“We’ve noticed that scarecrows are becoming more common out in the zones in response to our activity in the city. I guess they wanna take us at the source rather than start a firefight so close to the public.” Mikey says, and Pete makes a noise of agreement. “Well, we're getting concerned about their prowling. They aren't really attacking anything, just patrolling. Party wants you to figure out if they have a potential target they're scouting out somewhere.” Mikey finishes.

“Well, you’re right about a lot of scarecrows being gone, and the ones that are left don’t really like me. I'll have to rely on ‘office gossip’, if you can call it that. Most of my coworkers just sit at their desks drooling out their mouths all day,” Pete contemplates. “Well, no wonder they don't like you.” Mikey turns and says under his breath. “Hey, okay, you do not get to say that. You have no idea what it's like! Now that I've gained consciousness, I’ve realized just how dull everyone is.” Pete scolds him, but he can't help laughing at the ridiculous situation.

“I’m just saying, you sound like a henchman too! At least I actually get along with Frank. Your coworkers must think you’re a raging narcissist,” Mikey counters, but Pete catches the small quirk of his mouth.

“Alright, that's enough. Put your ugly helmet on and get out. I can't stand you any longer. I'll take care of ‘Party’s’ request, so just go home and kiss his dusty shoes.” Pete retorts, dramatically shooing Mikey out of the chair and towards the window.

Again, there's a struggle on the way out the window, and a clear ‘It's not ugly!’ that Pete chooses to pointedly ignore. When Mikey's out on the other side with the black box safely clutched in his grip, Pete closes the window from the inside.

For a second, they stare at each other through the glass. Pete gives another smile and a short wave. Mikey waves back. Then, he jumps over the side of the fire-escape and disappears into the darkness.

Chapter Text

Took my chances on a big jet plane

Never let ‘em tell ya that they’re all the same

Oh, the sea was red and the sky was grey

I wonder how tomorrow could ever follow today?

Pete’s had roughly a whole month chock-full of sleuthing for the Killjoys at this point. He passed along Patrick's blood sample about four weeks ago, and he’s really starting to run on fumes here. Ray says you can't rush science- or at least that’s what Mikey tells Pete Ray says. It’s making him anxious, but to be fair, he has no business arguing with science; that's Patrick's gig.

He can at least feel proud that he's the sole reason the Killjoys are happily tanning, or designing garish clothes, or doing whatever punks with perfectly acceptable radiation exposure do out in the zones. If not for him, they’d be getting steamrolled by the culmination of all of Better Living's military might. He's not feeling very patriotic these days, so that's a win for him too.

If he’s being honest, it's really been a drag. His coworkers are privy to highly sensitive information about military operations in the zones, and it's not really hard at all to eavesdrop on their drivel. There's nothing juicy about it; they don't do it because they want to, they do it because passing information by word of mouth is just standard procedure.

The people working here verbally share information to pass it between interconnected departments over various floors. Funnily enough, it's their fear of Killjoy interference that got things like communicating valuable information over email totally outlawed. Unfortunately for Pete, excursions into the zones aren’t the only thing Better Living deems valuable, so he officially knows way too much about a primitive military tactic to strap desert geckos with explosives. Pete hopes he’s long gone from Battery City before they ask him to test that design. 

So, yes, he might as well be watching a plant grow in front of paint drying, but Mikey has assured him it's paid off big time. They’ve met up three more times since the blood sample, always at the same time, Friday night. He’ll never say he misses being on PFX, but he has missed having a routine.

 Pete knows it’s naïve, but he can't deny that he's got an extra spring in his step on his way to work on Fridays. It's hard to keep it purely transactional when the terrorist you're collaborating with really is a cool guy under all the stoicism. Mikey stays a little longer each time, and talks a little less about military targets and formations. It gives Pete a small bit of hope that Mikey may want to befriend Pete in the same way Pete wants to befriend him. It would be nice to get along with someone who hasn’t been in a coma for several years; no offense to Patrick.

Speaking of the devil, it's a Friday afternoon and Pete’s watching the last dredges of oversaturated sunlight dip below the skyline. When he was bumbling through life on PFX, the post-nuclear sun didn’t really bother him at all. He was too busy staring down at his shoes, or down the barrel of a blaster to really take notice. Now that he’s conscious, the revved up sun is unforgiving. The beads of sweat that cling to his skin flatten his cropped hair to his forehead and neck. Even with the sleeves rolled up, his crisp shirt and slacks weigh him down, the suffocating concrete city concentrating the heat downwards and cooking anyone on the streets. He’s constantly in a rush to the next building. He’d rather bask under buzzing lithium lights, than the oppressive reflection of Better Living's glass fortress. 

He wonders if the Killjoys fare any better in the desert. There’s no substantial structures out there, so there isn’t any hope for shade, but a break from the concrete would be nice. He’s heard rumors of an oasis out in the zones, but it’s protocol to disregard them in the event of an ambush, or some sort of targeted acid plot. Even if radiation sickness truly is Better Living propaganda, he knows the fluctuations in weather and climate aren't. If any stray draculoid took a nice long drink from a mysterious body of water in the zones and died promptly, it was because of acid rain- not because the Killjoys spiked their neighborhood pond. Pete thinks these wives' tales about exotic Killjoy strategy are just projections of Better Living's own unique ideas.

Despite his complaints, Pete thinks he would enjoy the feeling of the sun from outside the city. He finds beauty in it as the last rays slip beyond the horizon. He's never left his entire life, or at least the life he can remember. He only has feelings from before the blast: closeness to Patrick, an itch to be productive, a distaste for excessive violence, and, of course, a sense of naivety. He's coming to terms with the fact that the life he's been living is hardly a life at all, but it's the only one he really knows; the only one with any memories at all.

He just really wishes he could remember something about Patrick. There was a little stretch of time before the accident that he can remember clearly. It's what he's been grieving over for so many years; a feeling so powerful it cut through the fog of PFX. But Pete's greedy, it just isn't enough. He knows what he's got to do, he just can't really remember the whole reason why.

His thoughts are starting to take a dangerous turn, so he's grateful when he makes out a vague outline of a fist in the window and hears a gentle knocking. 

He flips open the latches on the window and props it open so Mikey can trapeze through. Much to Pete’s surprise, two others follow him into the apartment.

Pete can say he’s glad to see Ray, but he's got some qualms about having Frank in his personal space. They neutralize each other, so Pete just rolls his eyes at Frank for now. Frank makes a disgusted face back at him. Mikey steps between them before they start glaring at each other.

“Pete, we’ve got the results back from Patrick's blood sample. I brought Ray to go over some stuff with you.” Mikey starts. “Yeah? And why’d Frankie here feel the need to tag along?” Pete shoots back, craning his head to glare at Frank anyway. 

“I’m here to tell you how helpful that lock of hair from your buddy was,” Frank says with a smirk. “Really..?” Pete says, a little dumbfounded. “Yeah! I made a voodoo doll out of it. I hold it close at night, and I've never slept so well in my life. It's like a dreamcatcher! Or crystals under my pillow! Or-” Mikey cuts Frank off with a sharp elbow to the ribs. 

“A voodoo doll? Are you slow? You can't be greasy and stupid at the same time, you've gotta pick a struggle.” Pete says sharply. “It's a lock of hair! You’re the stupid one- what else do you do with a lock of hair?” Frank says as he tries to scramble forward, but Mikey and Ray are standing shoulder to shoulder, blocking him. Pete almost goes to meet Frank in the middle. But Mikey and Ray's scathing looks deter him.

“Frank, if you don't calm down right now, I will make it clear to Party Poison that you can't handle any missions of this nature. You know he’ll listen to me,” Ray says boldly, shutting the situation down immediately. Frank takes a step back and sighs loudly. “Fine, but he can't call me Frankie.” Pete just raises his arms and shrugs.

“Alright, like we said, I've looked at the blood work- and not just surface level. I’ve looked at everything. Other than some nutrient deficiencies, your friend is fine.” Ray clears his throat and continues. “And I'm not just saying fine, I mean, he has no reason to be in a coma.”

Pete doesn't know if he was expecting this or not. He doesn't know if this is a good thing or not. All the angry energy is gone. He just furrows his brow and lowers his gaze.

“Given the circumstances, his coma had to be purposely induced. If it were for any medical reason at all, there would have been some sign- some symptom, and I can assure you I've checked everything. I’m sorry.” Ray states, and Pete nods. It's all he can do right now.

“I've also been researching Parafrexonyl. We were oblivious to it until just recently, but it was concerning enough for us to try and steal a sample, which is how we met in the first place. We assumed the people in the city were just brainwashed by propaganda, but it was suspicious that not once over all the years did anyone even attempt to escape to the zones. Well, the situation is more complicated than we thought.” Ray averts his eyes.

“The drug, PFX, is basically a weaponized version of naturally occurring signalling molecules. It inhibits dopamine reception and causes dramatic fluctuations in endocannabinoids to overregulate emotions. It also has some sort of degenerative factor that attacks the hippocampus and Amygdala, which would cause memory loss. It's prescribed at such a high dosage that anyone taking this is more like a zombie than anything,” Ray finishes.

Mikey is the only one who’ll look at him. Even Frank has a solemn look directed at the floor. Better Living Industries just sunk to a new all time low in his head. It’s all starting to make sense.

“We hunkered down in the subway tunnels to avoid the bombs and stayed there for months out of fear. When they finally started sending people up, they told it to us straight: We're the last of humanity, but it won't be long till we go extinct from radiation. Anyone who wasn't miles underground but managed to survive isn't human anymore because of it.” Pete glanced up and caught the astonished looks on the Killjoys’ faces. 

“Everyone started scrambling; they weren't ready to give up. Especially Patrick. He must've been close to getting his PHD before all of this. He was one of the first people they deemed a ‘post-nuclear biologist’. He was working towards a solution, trying to slow down the radiation, but there was an accident, and he received a dose that was nearly lethal. He was inducted into the study as a subject- I thought that was what he would’ve wanted. But if there wasn't any radiation to begin with, then there really is no real reason for him to be in a coma.” Pete’s voice clips and his vision fogs.

“You’ve got to help me, he's hooked up to a life support machine- it must be what's keeping him comatose. If I make a mistake messing with it, I could kill him. Ray, please, you’ve got to detach him and resuscitate him somehow. I'm begging you-” Pete's getting frantic as he steps closer.

Ray stops him with heavy hands on Pete's shoulders. “Listen, I promise you right now I will do everything I can to help your friend, but it’s got to wait.” “What?” Pete says in shock. “It’s Party Poisons command, your information is too valuable. If we take your friend out of the city, they’ll know you had something to do with it. You may be willing to sacrifice yourself for him, but we aren’t willing to sacrifice you.” Ray continues in a gentle voice.

It doesn’t feel gentle; it feels harsh. Pete turns to Mikey to find him staring with a pained look. He obviously feels remorse, just not enough to do something about it. Pete shakes his head, “I can't believe this- you can’t be serious.” 

“Pete, I understand but-” Mikey starts, “You don’t understand! The only reason I got as much information as I did was because I was going out of my way to ignore how much my life was ruined. This is too big to ignore. I’m two months sober from PFX. I can't just turn my brain off like I did before. I'm a human, not a zombie.” Pete throws their words back in their faces.  

The room goes silent. 

Frank finally breaks the tension after a long sigh. “You might not believe us, but we were against doing this. All of us. I won’t sugarcoat it; this isn't Party Poisons’ command, it’s his ultimatum. If you refuse to give us information as some sort of protest, you’ll never hear from us again. Your friend will stay comatose for the rest of his life, or you’ll both die trying to escape on your own. You don't even know how to leave the city; you'll never get him across the border. You’ve got no choice.” 

Pete pulls away from Ray. “Just get out of here.” “Will you help us then?” Mikey asks tentatively. “I don't have a choice, do I?” Pete shoots over his shoulder, and Mikey's face twists up.

Pete doesn’t want to look at them. He hears a faint 'let's go' and the sound of the window shutting. He finally collapses on his dining room chair.

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆*⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺

Pete had a lot of time to think. All night, really, since he couldn’t sleep after that disaster. He can’t tell if he’s more upset at the Killjoys or at Better Living. It doesn’t matter; he’s not affiliated with either of them anymore. 

This corrupt deal they’re trying to get him wrapped up in is pretty tough to work around, but he refuses to go along with Party Poison. The Killjoys didn’t specify any end to their whims, probably because they didn’t want to alienate him further. Who knows how long Party Poisons’ planning to exploit him before he even gives Patrick a second glance? But Pete’s not as hopeless as they may think.

He let a lot of information spill last night, but it doesn’t really matter. If anything, he was just guilt-tripping them. He could tell by their expressions that, despite fighting against Better Living oppression on principle, the Killjoys really were oblivious to the situation inside the city. But they’re oblivious about Pete’s situation, too.

They have no reason to think he’s anymore than a sorry desk worker who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. They might be a little suspicious of his stunt during the raid, but that could easily be played off as desperation. That’s nowhere near enough evidence to even consider he’s had Scarecrow training. 

Which, of course, he does have. He’s been sitting pretty at Better Living HQ as a weapons tester, but he graduated from the academy like anyone else. Of course, he can’t remember who he was before everything went down; he doesn’t know why he was so qualified, but he is. Better Living must’ve had a file on him since they personally invited him to the program. He and Patrick were both drafted into their authoritarian scheme; it just felt nice to be useful when the entirety of the human race was on the verge of extinction. 

He doubts the Killjoys would’ve been so quick to accept his help if they knew he was technically a formally trained Scarecrow. He never was a fan of excessive violence, so when killjoys did start popping up in the zones he and Patrick worked together to secure him a job at HQ. It was just better this way: he and Patrick could stay together, and he’d never have to go beyond city limits to kill whatever was hidden in the rubble. His job isn’t flashy, and he’s looked down on as a coward by his peers from the academy, but it’s the only reason he’s still alive today. 

But now’s not the time to worry about his life. No matter what he chooses to do, it will still be dangerous. He’s willing to lay everything down if it means he and Patrick can get some semblance of a normal life. To do that he’s got to go beyond the city, and if the killjoys won’t take him, he’ll take himself.

His foot is drumming against a plush carpet in a lobby outside a grandiose doorway. This floor is nearing the very top of the building, so he’s trapped in between the tall wall of glass panelling and the intimidating door. Across from him sits a minimalistic desk with a worker in a crisp suit clicking aimlessly at a computer. Pete remembers him vaguely; he’s only had the pleasure of meeting the director a handful of times, but he recognizes the secretary. His name is Ryan, if he remembers correctly. 

Pete’s vibrating with nervous energy, but whatever he does doesn’t seem to bother Ryan at all. He’s been pointedly ignoring him since he rode the elevator up here. 

He’s allowing himself to be jittery since Ryan clearly has no interest in him. When he goes in for his appointment, he’ll have to school himself into being calm and collected. 

This plan quite literally goes against some of Pete's most fundamental principles, but morality isn't really a topic of interest anymore. Gun to his head; Party Poison or the director, he's killing himself.

Speaking of which, Ryan clears his throat and shoots a glance at the door. Pete takes it as his cue to brush off his sweaty palms and reach for the shiny silver handle. He's feeling very small, so he opens a small entrance on one of the double doors and side shuffles in. He can feel the piercing gaze of the director, but all he sees are his scuffed oxfords. Some habits die hard. 

“Pete, to what do I owe the pleasure?” the director says with what he guesses is an easygoing smile; he still refuses to look. “Sorry to bother ma'am, I'm here to issue a formal transfer request.” He gets to the point with his pre-rehearsed lines.

“Huh, how interesting. Since the founding of Better Living Industries, we’ve never had a single transfer request. I was under the impression each job was assigned with the utmost consideration of our employees' preferences and talents.” She continued with a terrifying certainty in her voice.

“Well, you see, ma’am, as an academy graduate, I was professionally trained to work physically in the zones. It feels wrong for me to continue my work here when I believe I could best serve Better Living Industries from a tactical position.” He shoots out his propagated excuses.  

“This is truly odd behavior, Pete, especially from you. I can't help but recall your natural aversion to dispatching threats. I believe that was why Patrick put in a special request for you to work here at HQ, a truly unique and rare opportunity that you were awarded, I might add.” She says it like she did him a priceless favor. 

“I understand your concerns, but I have my reasons. It was actually our recent meeting during the anniversary of Patrick's accident that got me thinking. I'm just so grateful for what you’ve done for Patrick over all these years, and I feel like I haven't paid my dues to the company. For whatever aversions I may have, my devotion to this company is stronger. I think Patrick would agree, it's time I took a tour out in the zones.” Pete finishes. He hopes she can't see the beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

The silence stretches. He can feel her considering him.

“Very well then. I'm always glad to see my employees reciprocate my loyalty.” He feels the easygoing smile return. 

“Congratulations, Pete, on being the first ever Better Living employee to make a department transfer. I will notify Korse about your decision to enter active duty as an official Scarecrow.” Her final statement is dismissal enough. 

Pete congratulates himself on being the first ever Battery citizen to take a step towards escape.