robinauts

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AU primer:

Hey! This AU setting comes from My Chemical Romance's 2010 concept album "Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys," which is after MCR stopped being so goth and got a bit power pop. It’s amazing.

I think the most important primer for this is the music video for the song "Na Na Na," where Gerard Way LARPs in the desert with their brother, their friends, and Eisner award winning comic book writer Grant Morrison. It's a lot of fun to listen to and watch!!

Anyway - it's five minutes into the future in the California desert (AKA the Zones) after a war tore apart the world. Outsiders called "Zonerunners" drive around the desert in colorful clothes, fighting Draculoids (mooks) and Scarecrows (elites), which are soldiers of the nearby Battery City, which is owned and controlled by Better Living Industries. BLI hates creativity, individuality, etc - Gerard Way went to art school, okay - and want to have everyone in the area part of their regime or dead. It’s like Mad Max mixed with shounen anime.

Zonerunners typically have cool pseudonyms - Gerard Way's desert LARPing name is Party Poison, Frank Iero's is Fun Ghoul, etc. They also wear helmets or masks to obscure their faces due to BLI's cameras. They also have fun slang and pirate radio. Fun fact - the goddess of death in this is universe is not the Raven Queen, but the Phoenix Witch. Since Gerard Way plays a lot of D&D, I wonder if they got inspiration from that...

I didn't bring any of the "characters" from the original story into this fic; it's all TAZ!

Content warnings: non-graphic animal death, mention of dogs going extinct, offscreen references to death and PTSD.

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The sun is barely still peeking over the horizon. They’re all the way out in Zone 7. The static is too high for their radio to be of any use. Their bikes are out of gas.

God damn it.

“Well, this isn’t usually the way things go polka-dotty for two crash queens like us!” Carey laughs from where she’s sat against a rock, jamming a fresh battery into her ray gun. Her dragon mask is tossed beside her. “Rode out here to try and scrounge up somethin’ nice for our date night, and all we found was some Drac tires to shoot flat, and then some Drac heads to shoot in. And now we’re stuck! Told ya we should’ve headed back when we reached the edge of Zone 6. Bad way to end our day.”

“It’s what we’d be up to any other night,” Killian sighs, flumping down next to her girlfriend and shaking out her hair as she removes her helmet, all the layers of paint on her battered leather jacket doing little to keep out the desert night. “Except we wouldn’t be so damn cold. I hate sleeping in the scrubland.”

“Baby, you say that as if our little diner hideout isn’t cold as seventh hell.”

“It’s at least indoors. And we got those blankets from the swap-n-steal last week. If anyone breaks in and steals them back…”

Carey shoves her head at Killian’s bicep, and Killian obligingly lifts her arm so Carey can squirm up against her. Everyone she’s friends with likes to climb all over her because she managed to grow up tall and buff despite the scarcity of the Zones; Carey’s the only one who doesn’t eat dirt for it. “Don’t get twisted, dollface, you got me here to keep you warm!” Carey chirps, wiggling her fingers against Killian’s stomach in an effort to tickle her. It doesn’t work, and her hands are as cold as the midnight moon as per usual, so Killian grimaces anyway. Carey cackles, and Killian shoves gently at her forehead, glaring at her.

“If the rest of you is as cold as those paws of yours, I’ll take my chances sleeping alone.”

“Baaaaaby,” Carey moans, perching her chin on her girlfriend’s collarbone. The smell of fresh teal hair dye is sharp in Killian’s nose; she’s been noticing the harsh streaks of color on Carey’s neck all day. They’ve got no time for clean dye jobs with their lives. “No, we gotta sleep all cuddled up, it’s basic Zone safety! Share body heat!”

“I think I’ll lose body heat if you-”

There’s a sharp crack out in the vast darkness. Both of them tense, hands snapping for their ray guns, staring out behind every irradiated shrub for a figure in white.

They’re still and silent for what feels like hours. Killian’s eyes are straining, trying to see any hint of movement. Maybe it’s a desert ghost, wandering around wondering where the old world went, needing to be picked up by the Phoenix Witch. Or maybe it’s a marooned scavenger, driven mad from months spent in the outer Zones, desperate enough to resort to cannibalism. Or it’s a Draculoid.

Or a Scarecrow, maybe. The two of them, KD and Sweet Flip, are high enough on Battery City’s exterminate list that Korse might’ve sent an elite to tail them until they’re alone and stranded - and then dust them, out where their bodies will never be found. At least, not before either the desert sun or a radiation storm leaves them unidentifiable.

The last time they were at the Bureau hideout, the Director had muttered something about a special team of Scarecrows in all red, armed with something beyond Better Living’s mass-produced ray guns and bazookas. When Killian asked, desperate to know what she might be up against, the Director wouldn’t continue. Shut her down, over and over.

The Director is the oldest person she’s ever met, practically in her 40s - although the radiation might have aged her some. Killian caught word that the Director is a veteran of the wars, and that just raised her regard of her. Most veterans prefer the placidity of Battery City. And the ones that ended up outside the city walls spend their time chemically forgetting themselves. The Director knows so much, but tells so little of it. Maybe it’s for the best; her eyes say enough.

The Helium Wars lost a lot of information; what’s left is locked up in Better Living’s sterile underground vaults. Killian’s heard of freedom fighters who, in a fit of ideals, tried to break in and steal blueprints and histories. They were ghosted before they even hit city limits.

In Killian’s opinion, the only way to make a difference from out here in the zones is to dust every Drac you see. If it’s a Scarecrow, shoot if you can, run if you can’t. Die with your mask on if you’ve got to.

There’s a flash of something moving underneath a creosote bush, and before Killian can do more than flinch, Carey has her arm leveled and a bolt fired off. The new battery in her ray gun caused the shot to spark and shine like a signal flare; the sound of it reverberates over and over off the canyon walls around them. They both crouch down in case something notices it.

There’s a pause. The dying gasps of something. Then silence, except for her and Carey’s restrained breaths.

After a taut moment, wary of ambush but too burningly curious, Carey darts forward to investigate her kill. Killian keeps an eye on everything around them, especially their bikes.

“Well, could be worse!”

Killian looks over. Carey is holding up a three-eared, sickly orange jackrabbit.

Definitely could be worse, but there’s always a pang of regret that they didn’t manage to pick off a ghoul of some kind. Even if they’re on the losing side, Killian wants to go out with a respectable Drac kill count.

Carey walks over, tossing the jackrabbit down on the dirt. “Too irradiated to eat,” Killian comments, nudging at it with her foot. “Nice shot, though. As always.”

Carey gives her that certain proud smile that shows her canines, which she had sharpened a year or two back. Killian has this beautiful vicious grin memorized, what with how many times she’s given her that same compliment. She remembers the firefight where they first met, and how if Carey didn’t have that instinctive aim of hers, they wouldn’t still be around to be together today. Theirs is not a calm romance, but it’s one that made it. One doesn’t find that often out in the desert.

But it’s better than in Battery City. It’s calm there, yeah, but would it really be a romance?

-

They sleep in half hour shifts, too tense from a damn jackrabbit to sleep in peace or start a fire. In the morning, the harsh desert sun replaces the frigid night, and the ambient static has cleared enough that they manage to grab Avi’s frequency on their bike radio, and he nearly shouts with delight when they identify themselves.

“KD! Sweet Flip! We were wondering where you two tumbleweeds had somersaulted off to!” He drawls, but even through the shit connection Killian recognizes the relief in his voice. “Y’all shiny?”

“Sparkling,” Killian tells him, and isn’t sure if she hears a sigh of relief or a spurt of static. She hurries on in case it’s the latter; no point in wasting this blessed moment of clear air. “Ran outta gas on a scouting run. We’re out in Zone 7, vision-distance from Route Guano. You know that old billboard? The one -”

“The one with the cat ears on the BLI logo, I heard of it,” Avi says, and she can hear him looking through oil cans. “I think I got somethin’ for y’all. And since I’m so inflated about you two being okay, I’ll even throw in some of my armadillo tequila, how ‘bout that?”

Carey and Killian exchange a look. They don’t want to refuse Avi because he’s a good dude and gifts aren’t meant to be refused, but his armadillo tequila is the paragon of Zone sunshine - fermented piss. “...Who’re you sending it with?” Killian ventures.

“I figured I’d send the tres horny boys, they’re being a real nuisance around the station today,” Avi says, still rummaging. “You’ll see that paint splatter of a car of theirs a mile away. That fine with you?”

“Jazzy!” Carey replies while winking at Killian, who lets herself chuckle knowing that there’s no way this connection will carry the sound. Knowing Merle’s habits, he’ll drink all the hooch and pretend he never got it. Their obnoxious personalities are a fair trade for not having to swallow that swill, and Carey will be happy to see Magnus. “Oh, and send along something to chow on too. We're starving.”

Avi hums. “Well… we really only got some Power Pup to spare.”

Power Pup is the BLI-brand dog food that the company dumped excess cans of all over the zones after domesticated dogs went extinct. Tastes about as good as irradiated jackrabbit, but won't cause their guts to melt beyond some truly unfortunate shits. “It'll have to power this pup,” Carey and Killian recite dutifully, and Avi laughs along with them at the well-known desert commiseration. They're a spread out culture, but a culture nonetheless.

They sign off shortly after; Johan’s about to do a broadcast, and with BLI’s increased scrutiny, pirate radio has to navigate some choppy waters that require all available channels - and it’s for the best, because the static is rolling in again. Avi assures them as best he can that the boys will be there in no time flat, and through the mounting popping and whining of the connection he says, “This is Glass Cannon, signing off!”

The radio devolves into harsh static, and they’re left with faith, trust, and desert dust. No pixies out here.

Carey perches on the seat of her bike, kicking at the hull. She’s always kicking at that one particular spot when she has to wait around, to the point that the neon blue lightning bolts she painted there are starting to wear off. Killian sometimes thinks she should get her to stop doing that - paint is increasingly scarce and, unless they find a real nice bunker underneath the sand, they can’t touch up her decals - but always decides against it. Carey is allowed her fidgets. She’s a bundle of lightning all cooped up in one tiny, powerful body, ready to burst out at any moment and strike down whatever needs striking. When she’s stuck somewhere, she thrums with her pent up energy, paces and hops in place and twiddles her thumbs, seemingly immune to the desert sun that bogs everyone else down with sweat and heat.

Carey is full of vivacity and life, she’s shine and paint and loud songs from the radio, she’s a souped-up bike flipping off a ramp without knowing what’s on the other side and hollering all the way. She’s everything Better Living wants to clean up and wipe out and turn to monochrome, and Killian loves her for it.

Killian goes over to Carey and leans across the handlebars so she’s right in her face - with her standing and Carey astride her bike, they’re basically the same height.

Carey stops kicking and straightens up so she’s looking right in Killian’s eyes, a small smile crawling across her face seemingly unbidden. “What’s up, KD? Killian-Duck? Kinda-Dopey? Kills-Dracs? Kangaroo-Dino -”

Killian flicks her on the forehead, and Carey giggles and swats back. Killian tells her, “You’re one of the only ones that knows what my ‘Runner name actually stands for, so stop making up stupid nicknames when we’re alone.”

Carey’s smile is softer now, and she leans forward so they’re nose to nose, breath fanning onto each other’s faces. “Kerosene Dream,” she murmurs, running a hand with painted nails across Killian’s cheekbone, eyes so intent and warm. Killian shivers with it all. “Came outta the fires like the Phoenix Witch herself, they say. Gonna carry us all through Hell.”

“You’re talkin’ Zone legends, baby, heat gettin’ to ya?” Killian replies, but can’t help the embarrassed smile that twists up her cheeks. “I’m no goddess, no matter what some chemrats pass around their dens. Fando’s burning wasn’t that big a deal.”

“You’re a big deal,” Carey says, intent and believing, not to the point of pie-in-the-sky worship but instead to down-on-the-ground love, and then she leans up to kiss her, and they lose themselves for a while.

Eventually, Killian sees a big cloud of dust at the horizon out of the corner of her eye and parts from Carey. “The cavalry’s coming."

Carey fits her mask back on her head - Killian didn’t have her helmet on when she met the boys so any mystery was a lost cause, but they don’t know Carey as anything but a dragon on a motorcycle. Carey likes it that way, says it keeps those dustbrains intimidated. Killian doesn’t think anything scares them, even Scarecrows. She also thinks that they would’ve been dusted twenty times by now if she wasn’t around to keep their engines running.

But that applies to almost everyone in the Zones, at one point or another. Her and Carey, saving the desert, one dead Drac at a time.

Killian sees Carey wink at her through the eye of her mask. And then, because luck might be what keeps them kicking instead of good aim or their bikes, and the lifeblood of the Zones is superstition - they tap their fists together, and say,

“Look alive, sunshine.”

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Additional notes:

Thanks for reading!! I hope you enjoyed it. I had a really fun time writing it!!

Thanks so, so much to Bethany, Skyler, and Mauve for betaing! And Mauve for the summary. Love you guys!!

Find me on tumblr at flovvright!