Holding Out for the Wishing Well

The first thing Gerard noticed when he opened his eyes was the poisonously green sun in the smoky red sky. Sickly black clouds skidded sluggishly through the smoggy air, as if they themselves were part of the pollution. He sat up, the brittle, brown grass crackling beneath him, and looked around. He was both surprised and glad to see Mikey, Frankie, and Ray mirroring his own actions, looking around in bewilderment and sitting up to exchange confused looks. Glancing down, he realized he was wearing his old Black Parade uniform, and a quick look around revealed his bandmates were in uniform, too.
“Welcome, My Chemical Romance.” A disembodied voice echoed eerily in the men’s ears, prompting them to glance about for the source. “You have finally arrived in the Realms of the Dead. On Earth, you referred to this place as the underwolrd.”
“Wait, we’re in Hell?” Frankie blurted out, immediately clapping his hands over his mouth. He had no idea who he was asking, or if they would like being addressed like that.
“That, too, is another name for the place in which you now reside.” The voice agreed somberly, and the men’s faces fell. They never would have imagined ending up here. Maybe they hadn’t been the best people they could have been, but who was? They had saved lives with their band, they had changed people. They’d done some good.
“You are here for one reason, and one reason only. The citizens of the Realms of the Dead need policing. Our last force became weak and was overrun. We need stronger souls to save the lost, the broken, the beaten, and the damned.” The voice explained, and Gerard spotted something next to him in the grass. Two somethings, actually; a yellow duffle bag and a yellow… gun? Had they been there the entire time? Stealing quick glances at his friends, he saw Frank had a similar package in green, Ray had blue, and Mikey had red.
“Wait, you think we’re the guys for the job?” Gerard asked suddenly. “Just because we sang that stupid song?” The lyrics themselves rang in Gerard’s ears like they had so many times after a concert. Would you be the savior of the broken, the beaten, and the damned? If this voice – God? – was basing his decision on song lyrics, maybe he needed his head… or celestial form, or whatever – checked.
“That, and how you lived up to the words on Earth.” The voice answered. “Do you accept your duty as the new Killjoys?”
Frankie and Ray looked at Gerard for guidance, but Gerard wanted to have a vote. He’d never been any leader in any way, shape, or form; the band was a family, not a dictatorship. Mikey, however, surprised them all. He looked up from the red gun he’d picked up, his eyes filled with conviction, and answered for all of them with a resounding “yes.”
Ray, Frankie, and Gerard all nodded, knowing that was the decision they would have reached, anyway. They had written the song, and they had taken the words seriously. They always had and always would.
“Good. As the new Killjoys, you will discipline the insubordinate citizens of the city. Your guns are the only force that can kill in the Realms of the Dead. Guard them carefully. You can still feel pain, but not perish at the hand of any unless they wield one of the guns. The same is true of any soul dwelling here.” The voice explained. “You have been given masks and Killjoy uniforms to disguise yourselves when you patrol, so you may exist normally in the city. Wear them only when you are enforcing the law. Let no one steal from, mug, or injure another soul. Protect any and all equally, and show no mercy to the insubordinate.” It was a clear dismissal, though the four men sitting in the decaying grass had no idea where to go. As they blinked, the endless field around the faded into a cityscape, dark and imposing; all cracked sidewalks and boarded windows. The sky was a more ominous red here, the clouds more vaporous, black smoke than individual dark puffs. The sun, too, shone with a grotesque, sickly light, poisonous green in the sky, a mockery of the beauty on Earth. The four men climbed to their feet, looking around in wary distaste. Even in their darkest dreams and comic books, they had ventured into no such place as this.
“Your home is on the far side of the tracks, follow the notches in the buildings.” The voice could reach them wherever they went, apparently, though it was fainter now. Following orders, Ray was the first to spot the surreptitious mark in the building to their left. He led the way through the dank, imposing city, indistinct shadows darting through alleyways and out of sight, their disembodied laughter ringing, distorted by the heavily polluted air.
The foursome finally reached the railroad tracks, which were overgrown with obvious disuse. Crossing the abandoned rails, the men looked ahead and saw there was a slight change; the gothic buildings were more ornate, fewer windows were boarded shut, and there was less smog. It was even easier to see the sick mockery of the sun shining down on the underworld. The men moved slowly forward until they reached the building that had their mark on he door: a spider bearing a lightning bolt on its abdomen carved haphazardly into the wood.
“Home, sweet, home.” Frankie grinned weakly, though his friends were too nervous to return it. They pressed inside, and found that it was almost an exact replica of all their favorite places on Earth. Gerard had his basement bedroom, Mikey, Ray, and Frankie all found their own rooms upstairs, the kitchen was large and proofed against Mikey’s infamous exploits, they had a large living room and a room with instruments and amps and microphones obviously intended for jam sessions. All in all, it wasn’t too heart-wrenching for the guys to find out they hadn’t made the cut for Heaven.
Frankie, Ray, and Mikey immediately set to settling in, but Gerard was too antsy to do so. With a quick farewell, he trotted out the door and off the stoop, wandering the streets without giving his gun or Killjoy uniform a second thought, leaving them safely on his bed.
Gerard didn’t realize that his feet had carried him instinctively to the darker side of town, as he was too deep in thought.
How the Hell did this happen? We’re in Hell? Even Mikey? I don’t get it. We weren’t bad people. We did our best to save people. We knew we were saving people. So how did we end up here? And now we have to kill everybody who doesn’t belong in Hell? All the while living up to the stupid promise we made in some silly song we gave up on… Gerard cut off his train of thought there, unwilling to admit to himself that he couldn’t save the world. He had tried, he had done his best, and the world had scorned his efforts. He had tried, and the world had firmly informed him that it didn’t want saving. He was being smart, taking what he had and cashing in, moving on. He hadn’t quit.
Gerard’s thoughts blinded him, not releasing him until a grubby hand grabbed him by the arm and yanked him into an alley. Two dark shadows loomed over him, the dark sunglasses they wore reflecting the ominous red of the sky. Gerard found himself shoved against the wall by one thug as the other leered at him, both guffawing stupidly at their captive.
Of course I had to be the big, tough, macho man and leave the gun at home. Gerard thought, groaning mentally. ’m so screwed.
“Empty your pockets, pretty boy.” Demanded one of the men, his breath rank as it reached Gerard’s face. “We want what you’ve got.”
Gerard tried to explain that he had nothing on him, and exactly where he’d like to stick that nothing, but he suddenly found his oxygen supply cut off. That stupid voice is gonna be wrong, and I’m gonna die on day 1 of Hell.
A crash sounded from the opposite end of the alley, and the two goons turned to look, backing off slightly. Gerard took the opportunity to gasp some much-needed oxygen, knowing whatever was coming couldn’t be worse than the two idiots looming over him.
“Tweedles, I told you to stay outta my sight.” A female voice drawled, the shadow from the far end of the alley closing in. All Gerard could see was the red feather sticking out of her hair, fluttering slightly as if taunting the two thugs. “So Dumb and Dumber, come and get it.” She motioned for them to come to her, but they held their ground, guffawing again.
“Sweetheart, you don’t scare us.” One of them shook his head, clearly amused.
“Then I think I need to fix that.” The girl said, coming closer. She had grey eyes that flashed with anger and anticipation of a fight, bright in her pale face. Her black hair was a stark contrast to her light skin and eyes, as well as the faded shirt and jeans she wore. The feather, too, was vividly scarlet against her hair, one of the brightest colors Gerard had seen in the city. “You should be nicer to fresh meat; let them see little old me before thugs like you.”
“Right. We’ll just be on our way, then, cupcake.” Laughed one of the goons, readjusting his grip on Gerard to cut off his air again.
The girl sighed, then drew a knife from her belt, throwing it into the overly-muscled neck of the nearest thug. He howled in pain, clawing the blade free, and turned to glare at the girl, who fearlessly followed her first blade, a fresh one in each hand. She leapt neatly onto the injured man’s back, thrusting one knife into his friend’s head as she gouged out one of the first thug’s eyes. The second released Gerard and backed off, turning to stumble down the alley, his friend tottering along behind. The girl dropped neatly off his back, landing in a crouch, and watched them go before straightening with a sigh.
“They got my two best blades.” She said wistfully, staring at the end of the alley. “Shame.” She seemed to get over it quickly and turned to Gerard. “You okay, skip?”
“Yeah. Skip?” Gerard asked, confused.
“You’re new, you just skipped out. Now you’re here.” The girl shrugged. “Everyone new is skip.”
“Well, I’m Gerard.” He offered his hand, and the girl smiled crookedly before taking his hand, meeting his eyes squarely, an impish light dancing in their grey depths.
“Well Gerard, if you call me Keladry you’ll get castrated, so stick with Kel.” She returned, and Gerard laughed softly, though he didn’t doubt her.