Bulletproof Heart

An azure spectrum crossed itself upon my makeshift bedspread, slowly becoming a warmer color, and heating my silver blanket in turn. The sun had risen, and fired its own rays at the glass prism that hung at the very top of my industrial steel teepee. This graffiti-stained, smelly, old thing had been my home for years and years, ever since the fire, or, to be more accurate, arson.

Smoke wafted through the air like the smell of fresh baked pie from Auntie Miller’s, but this was no picnic. The heavy mixture polluted the air around, bristling in the trees and swallowing the breath of the families that ran from their homes, swallowing life from some. I closed my eyes, the fire was far too vivid for my keen sight, I couldn’t remember the last time I had seen something so bright.

Hell was on earth, it seemed, in the form of bleach white porcelain masks of disdain. The Draculoids, with their venomous red mouths, as if they were not evil enough, they seemed to represent everything the world hated. In just their ensemble: that sterile hospital smell, the bigotry of years past, and the blood that fueled us and, still, disgusted us.

I stumbled on through the forest, my mother holding my hand as we fell through what seemed like acres of brush and woods. Finally we stopped. It wasn’t relieving, I just wanted to keep running, I was too scared to stop, what if they caught up?

I now knew what death was, it was Better Living, and I feared it far more than I had ever feared anything before.

I ignored the memories, reaching for my clothing with conviction, a verdict to try and forget. My roommate, Kaleidoscope Kitty, (I liked to call her Kitty and say she could walk through walls) had already vacated her bed, she had a heavy duty protection detail for a senator who was about to announce his allegiance to the Killjoys. She even had to wear normally colored clothes to blend in, the poor thing.

My clothing was fresh and crisp, it was my Killjoy uniform, today was my twenty-fifth birthday, and the first time I had ever worn my ‘costume.’ Said costume consisted of: creamy mauve cargo skinny jeans, olive green combat boots from WWI, a sunny buttercup yellow long-sleeve, inlaid with deep navy stars and stripes, and the final straw: a worn black and brown-red leather jacket to shield me from the desert sun. I didn’t feel the need to adorn my face with the mask I wore normally, so I just put on sunglasses.

I couldn’t believe the day had finally arrived. This was the first day I was allowed to join the Killjoys by their rules. Their philosophy was that the good die young, so let them age, or at least that was my own interpretation of the guidelines. A new troop was coming in, supposedly from the city. I thought all of them were brainwashed, but I supposed these four rumored ‘renegades’ were hardcore if they left their cushy life for this.

I’m just glad I couldn’t remember the majority of my cushy life. The last moment I could recall was our dog-hair covered sofa going up in flames, as we ran out of the backdoor without stopping for anything except for our lives and that for only a moment.

Buckling my boots and giving them one last spit-shine, I found my way out into the primary maze of the Killjoy camp, weaving between people who had seen me grow up, finally one of the congregation myself. The training course was up ahead. It wasn’t much, just some tires, makeshift obstacle courses, and a lot of heart. Much of this training course was the product of a lot of quick and quiet scavenging on my own part, and a lot of sweat and blood. I itched on the skin around my eyes to rid them of the dried sleep mucus that had plagued me during the night.

The squeak of tires traveled around a sharp as a knife corner, a sand-soiled, vandalized car came into view, slamming on the breaks dangerously, kicking up sand. The sand didn’t get in my eyes, but it did get all over my shoes. I was very particular about my shoes staying as clean as humanly possible; they were the only thing left from my family. I stole them from a museum, as they were my great-grandfather’s combat boots.

Four men stepped out of the car, as the sand settled I noticed that the details on the car were intentional, not from vandalism. The men that stepped out were as intriguing as the bandanas they all pulled down from their noses. The one that drove had hair as manic as his car; it was as bright as holly berries and as loud as a fire engine. His yellow mask was still on, unlike his other comrades, though I wouldn’t imagine he had anything to hide, based on his other features. The blonde that approached him had a similar chin and brow line; clearly the two men were related. The third was entirely in contrast to the two, dark curly locks and lips larger than saucers were the noticeable features. And finally there was a long black haired man, who grinned at the sights before him, winking at some of the females, slamming the car door, just as if he had walked out of the drivers’ seat. He looked arrogant as all hell.

I spat at the ground, hitting my shoes. Kneeling down, I began to clean them briskly, so that I could get to training as soon as possible. A shadow fell over me, blocking the sun from my shoulders. I stood up.

“I’m Party Poison. Sorry about that, but I figure your shoes will get dusty anyways, I wouldn’t bother.” I scowled, curling my lip in contempt. His voice was too slick, he was definitely from the city; he wouldn’t last long in the desert, especially since there weren’t any roads for him to screech along in the lower zones.
“Anita Valentine. Come with me, I’ll give you off to the Firsts; you need to be briefed, and possibly debriefed. How old are you guys? Under twenty-fives are against policy.” I was strict and emotionless in my tone to the casually leaning men.

“You guys are as bad as Better Living, rules and regs up the ass.” That was the cocky one; he already had an unlit cigarette between his lips. If he didn’t quit that sickly habit he’d have a hard time on the lamb, should he get caught or worse.

“Once you’ve earned your stars and stripes you’re free as a bee.” I retorted, resenting their candor and nonchalance on such serious issues.

“Thanks, Anita. The rude one is Fun Ghoul, I’m Jet-Star, and that’s The Kobra Kid.” The relatively normal curly-haired one pointed to the stoic blonde one, who silently held out his hand, which I neglected to shake.

“Anita isn’t my first name, and I’ll refer to you by your full Killjoy names at all times, and I expect you’ll do the same. Don’t ask anyone their real names; I’ll expect it’s too painful for most of us. Assimilate to the culture nippily; you won’t have time to make friends if you get through your training quickly enough. I’ll take you to the higher-ups on my way to training.” I began walking; the red hair-dye bombshell was quick to catch up, as were the rest of his buddies. I smirked; maybe they would make it after all.

“Thank you.” Party Poison said stiffly, wandering into the indicated insulated shipping crate that served as Personnel Department here.

“Hey,” he turned around at my shout, “Get over that manners shit, it won’t do you good here, Sewer Rat.” My lip twitched at the accurate nickname I already had for the callous stranger.

“Didn’t know you knew what running plumbing was, Country Mouse.” He smiled openly, and I narrowed my eyes at his retreating back. I didn’t know people still smiled in the city. I didn’t know people still smiled at all.

I ran all the way to training, I was early getting up, but I still didn’t want to be too close to on-time.

I fell into a line of jacked up Killjoys, all of them excited to be getting out there for some real rigorous training. I recognized Rayven Revenge sitting on the ground eating an apple. She had saved her fruit ration until now, clearly. Smart girl, but like all of us, the war had affected her to no end, she was irradiated by bombs and the fallout caused her to have, yes, retractable wings. She reflected her own outfit clearly, with a bleak and defensive talk to match her walk, or fly. The overly-large black feathered things sprouted out of her back as we were called to attention. The LA recruits ran over, barely getting into position, hands on their blasters.

“Now, Maggots, will I ever have to speak to you in this obnoxious military shout ever again?” shouted Commander Fierce, eyebrows pulled together in mock anger.

“Nope,” we all answered, our bodies slack, and clearly not to attention. Fierce nodded brusquely, clearly accepting the jest, and getting out of the firing range.

“Each of you has a target. This is a test, you will be graded. Fire at will.” Each of us had a scarecrow stuffed to the brim with Styrofoam. All of them were painted like Draculoids. We fired at the targets, and the sound and sight of lasers reverberated through the clear sky, until…

“Cease fire!” Silence fell across the range, with the exception of some newbie shooting his self in the foot, no one moved. I had been waiting for this moment since I was eight, when I was saved. I hoped it would not disappoint. I had been waiting here longer than anyone; surely I would be the best on the firing range.

Fierce walked across, inspecting each target, keeping the highest number and target in his head until he came across two in the very middle, mine and Party Poison’s. With a quick glance down the rest of the targets, he eliminated all except for ours. Sweat hit my palms like it did my brow; I did not want to be second best.

Fierce approached us.

“Both of you are equal: nice placement if this was a joke, Anita Valentine, but it’s not. Shoot to kill; aiming for the gonads isn’t going to help unless you have the time to let them bleed out. Party Poison: Don’t get too cocky, your aim is second best because your ray gun is far higher quality than hers… The rest of you: go practice.” Fierce walked away towards the armory, something on his or her androgynous mind. All that was on my mind was anger, pure and simple.

This was the beginning of a vendetta. How dare he try and out-shoot me?

“Great job, I definitely wouldn’t want to be on the other side of a shootout with you.” I ignored Party Poison’s sportsmanship. It had no place in war.

“Nor would I, you, because I would win,” I replied, storming off to the other end of the firing range, blood and sweat dripping down my palm from where I dug my nails into it from anxiety.

All for nothing! Seventeen years of my life to be beaten by an outsider.

This was a war unto itself.