The Tale of Johnny and Jenny

That night Party Poison and Good Time had gotten to know each other a little better over a can of Power Pup as the sun rose. As light began leaking through the windows she could finally get a better understanding of the base – a 1950s style Old World diner with scorched bar stools, tattered faux leather booth seats with stained foam erupting from tears in the seams and there was dust and dirt and dried up old bits of food all over the place. It had clearly seen the brutal days of the takeover and suffered even more from the result of the rebellious anarchists now hiding here. There was, though, some fascinating artwork splashed across every wall she could see – bright colours, characters and monsters. Cartoon depictions of famous Killjoys and evil BetterLiving/industries leaders. She would be spending some time examining these when she was stronger, asking who drew them.

Despite the artistic nature of the base, she was surprised that it was so disorganised, they ran a pretty tight operation out in the battlefield. But she mused on it, wondering if the dirt and mess kept S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W agents dismissive of the building. Or maybe they were just messy people behind all the training...

The heat began to build in the shelter and dark shapes began to become apparent from their shifting in booths around the building. She shifted in her seat uncomfortably and was very aware at the lack of ray gun on her person. She knew Party Poison wasn’t out for blood, but Killjoys in general could be a tricky bunch of people. It’s what happens when you’re an outlaw and a rebel, classed as a criminal. Sometimes you attracted the wrong kinds of people. Her unease was felt by Party Poison and he was impressed to see that although she had pushed the tin of Power Pup away from her as though she had finished, her metal fork was still held in her hand. He put his own down and nudged her good knee under the table to get her attention silently. She jumped and her grip on the fork sent her knuckles white as she narrowed her eyes at him, not appreciating the contact.

“This is my team, and my family.” He said quietly and gestured to the restless figures making the most of the last moments of darkness. “We have known each other since the Old World. I can promise they won’t cause you any harm.”

His reassurances were appreciated so she tried to appear to relax a little, but she struggled with her wariness and still felt on edge. No amount of good gut feelings, promises and calming looks could shake a decade of bad experiences in the middle of a World War. You don’t trust strangers even if they save your life and treat you well. You never knew when you were being used or tricked and she had to say she’d learnt the hard way twice before and was lucky to escape alive. She wouldn’t make the same mistakes again.

“Your team?” She asked, trying to gather information in a casual kind of way.

“Yeah, well. You know who we are - you recognised my name almost immediately. We’re the Fabulous Killjoys.”

“You’re THE Killjoys. I’ve not been living under a rock, you know. We have a killer transmissions board at our base, Doctor Death is always going on about you guys. Our motor babies have-“ The spark that had lit in her eyes from talking about them went out in a flash. Tears welled up and her chin wobbled a little. She never cried publically, not in front of her now-dead family, no one since the Analogue Wars and the Fires. She had always held the family together through the tough times, sang the lullabies of the dead with a sorrowful strength. But where had that gotten them?

Dead, sightless eyes staring at her amongst the carnage. The stench of laser burns. The heat of the sun radiating over her skin and making her want to scratch and scratch and scratch. Bring them back, bring them back, bring them back.

She stilled suddenly and was pulled out of her trance by a hand hovering over own. She’d been viciously scratching at the back of her hand with the other and it was red, raw and bleeding slightly. Horrified she felt hot tears stream down her face and she looked down and away, blinking them away from her eyes.

“I’m sorry.” Was all Party Poison whispered but it was never going to be enough. He knew this, she knew this. They said no more; he retracted his hand and she sniffed a little and roughly dried her eyes with her sleeve. She cleared her throat and gave him a weak, hopefully glance.

“I was the only one you could find?”

He couldn’t meet her gaze and stared remorsefully at the table. “We scanned the whole area with a sensor beam...” and he trailed off as shook his head in confirmation. Her face fell and a few more tears escaped but she managed not to break down completely in front of him.

“I suppose that’s it then.” She shrugged slightly. In truth she didn’t know what to do or who to try and contact first. She supposed someone from Operations may still be alive but she didn’t know where to even begin to track them down. She’d figure it all out later, she supposed. There were people approaching them and she felt her natural unease slip right back into place.

“So, she breathes.” An unfamiliar voice chuckled through a yawn and stretched up to a lofty height. He tucked shin length dark curls behind both his ears and tried to smooth out some of the uncontrollable curls. Good Time was so focused on assessing this new arrival, she completely missed the approach of another who didn’t seem to have much of a concept of personal space.

“Good morning!” He sang cheerfully and threw himself into the spot right next to Good Time, grinning this wide toothy grin at her and flicking a few stray black hairs from his eyes. “I’m Fun Ghoul. I fixed you.” He held out a heavily tattooed hand for her and she hesitantly shook it, too dumbfounded at his forthcoming approach to really do much else other than comply. When he looked at her expectantly, still shaking her hand well over ten seconds later, she realised he wanted a name and snapped out of her stunned silence.

“Urm, hello. I’m, urm, Good Time.” She choked out awkwardly, annoyed at herself for not making a better first impression and seeming stronger.

“I’m Jet Star,” the tall man settled down next to Party Poison and began sedately opening a can of Power Pup. “And I didn’t touch you whilst you were unconscious.” He threw her a hint of a smile and she made her mind in that moment. He was cool.

“But Jet, you should have heard her scream!” Fun Ghoul was tearing into a Power Pup like he’d not eaten since the Old World.

They were so unusual in their overall manner, and their humour so dry she accidentally let them catch her off guard for a second and she snorted with laughter, a genuine grin on her face. She caught Party Poison’s gaze and they shared a smirk before she remembered she was in a stranger’s camp with no weapons and they were potentially warming her up for a slaughtering with morbid innuendo. She didn’t want them to take her amusement the wrong way either, she was no Porno Droid. And she wasn’t going to be mistaken for one out here in the desert by men she didn’t know. Her smile dropped and she spoke quietly, with control.

“Thank you for fixing me up, Fun Ghoul.”

He nodded in acknowledgement and looked at her funny for a moment. Her stomach sank and she gripped her fork weapon a little.

“Where are you from?” He frowned, “You sound funny. You’re not from America. Are you.... Irish?”

She shook her head and wondered why Party Poison hadn’t asked yet. Maybe this was their tactics. She narrowed her eyes a little and warily considered lying for a second before deciding not to risk it. “I’m from England.”

They both (Jet Star and Fun Ghoul) made ‘Ohh’ faces as they chewed down on their meal and shook their heads now with recognition.

“Fucking love England.” A new voice, but not unfamiliar, mumbled sleepily and a dishevelled Kobra Kid slid in next to them. Good Time instinctively flinched a little as the booth became busier and she realised she didn’t have a good escape route – she was sandwiched into the booth by every single one of the strangers. Inwardly she cursed and chewed on her bottom lip in aggravation. Rookie mistake. “Some of the best music from the Old World...” Kobra Kid continued to mumble and Good Time wondered if he was even really awake or just sleep walking through the early morning motions with his team members out of habit.

Just as Good Time began to settle down a little, growing accustomed to the space she had around her and coming to terms with the bulkiness of the two broad leather clad Fabulous Killjoys she was stuck between.

Suddenly a squeaky voice shouted out: “Good morning!”

Good Time shot nearly a foot in the air, knocking the table with her knee and stabbing herself in the palm when she dropped her fork and tried to catch it quickly. She looked around and was taken aback to see a wide eyed, beautiful young girl with a mass of curly hair and her very own miniature Killjoy outfit on. She was giggling like she hadn’t a care in the world and waved at them all.

“I’m the Girl.” She announced to Good Time, looking through her with her piercing blue eyes and smiling sweetly. “I like you; you look pretty badass all beat up. What’s your name?”

After repeating her name for the second time, Good Time couldn’t take her eyes off the Girl in disbelief. She wasn’t a Ritalin Rat, she wasn’t a Motor Baby... She was...

After the BetterLivings/industry began to consume the smaller companies and corporation in the Old World, they monopolised health care across the globe. It was before there was much more to be suspicious about other than corporations avoiding tax. There were political and economic concerns for the longevity or the future of health care and by ‘working with the people’ an International Health Service was born.

Every citizen went through extensive screening for health and skills. Intensive training for citizens who lacked the education or the means to keep fit. Money poured into mental health facilities to support the growing numbers of people suffering from the emotional ‘diseases’ as they became known. Those with a strong genetic lineage and exceptional fitness were encouraged to find stable relationships and partners and so began the BetterLiving/industries cleanse of the population.

Children were genetically modified in the wombs and their DNA was restructured. They couldn’t even be classed as human anymore. They grew up to be variations on the same designs and eventually diversity became a stylistic choice. Disease was eradicated but it came at the cost of individuality of the entire human race.

But not The Girl.

I looked at Party Poison with wide eyes and knew I wasn’t going anywhere anymore.