What Tomorrow Needs Chap. 1

Thunk.
Thunk.
Thunk.
...
Thunk.

Instead of hitting a curled fist against the wall a fifth time, I stopped to look at the cold appendage. Instead of the dark tan I had become used to seeing the last few years, I looked like my old self: pale, somewhat sickly. Life out on the Zones had been hard, but, don't let anyone fucking lie to you. Life in there was worse. The Cells were the worst place I could ever come up with, and it makes the worst of nightmares look like the work of children. No, in the Zones, you've only got food, water, Dracs, and radiation to worry about. The Cells? Much worse.

A frustrated growl rose up in my vocal chords, and was quickly silenced by the pain of thirst. I peered around the dimly lit room, and was reminded, for the thousandth time, of the attic of a haunted mansion. There I was in a tiny room where the only source of light was an exposed bulb. The room's other occupants stared at me, probably wondering why I was still trying. Days and nights were the same now, in that box.

Or, they might have been looking at my face again. I often caught them staring. One even once asked me if it hurt. Let's put it this way. Imagine enough heat to create a wound, and then cauterize it. Now imagine that just skimming the right side of your face. I had no idea what it looked like, but I just knew it had to stay bandaged all the time. My cheekbone and brow bone felt as though I had very little skin remaining there. My eye survived the blast, but wouldn't focus like the other would. The upper half of my ear was just... gone.

I must have looked damn hideous.

I leaned against the wall, breathing out lightly, crossing arms much thinner than I could ever recall mine being. If my nerves and senses weren't firmly in this body, I swear to you, I doubt I could tell who it was. No more fabulous Killjoy extraordinaire, no more badass Zonerunner. Hell, the only way I could estimate my time in the Cells was how much of my roots were showing. The mane of my filthy, tangled hair was too long now, getting in my eyes as I would do nothing but pace the room.

A pathetic, disgusting whine came out of my betraying mouth as I cast another look about, and my lackluster eyes met once again with the steel door to the Cell, and the thin boy next to it. In my early days there, I'd discovered the wooden walls (which were probably just there to up the damn creep factor, and the wood has the fake, plastic shit) were just a cover up. More metal lie beneath, and the cold of it had seared my palms. In a corner of the cell, some of the boards were still a bit askew from where I'd torn into it, desperate to find the bastard that put me in there and return the favor. My body began to quiver with either sadness or rage; I'm not sure which. Being locked up in there made me begin to question if there is a difference between any sort of feeling.

I normally just feel numb. Apathetic.

It made me sad every time I saw him (I had registered the feeling of 'sadness' with his face in the early days, before they broke me). He'd said his name was Fleet Fire when we first met. He was only about twenty-four or so, and had come in a few days after me. Then we got another guy, even younger, who was terrified to give us his name at first. We'd finally figured out, from hearing him cry out as he slept, that he was Proximity Range. He'd also at some point been out on the Zones with some girl named Darling Red. Me an' Fleet thought that Darling'd been ghosted when they brought in Prox.

"Hey, Party, chill," Fleet said in that soothing voice of his, looking at me seriously.  I guess those bastards didn't push him as hard, because his voice didn't echo in that same hollow way mine did. Nor did he always sound tired and afraid like Prox did. Every time the door creaked I would jump up like a cornered, feral animal. Our peroxide blonde (probably where he got half his name) would curl himself up and stare at the floor, limps jerking in terror. Fleet would just meet that shit with a level gaze.

He reminded me of Jet Star.

I wanted to go home. More than anything, I could feel the cries of my body, wanting to run again, wanting my clothes again. I wanted again to annoy Dr. Double-D by singing every time he was around, even he secretly enjoyed it. I wanted to debate style with Show Pony again, and help him mend our damn clothes. I wanted to laugh with Jet Star when he worked on the Trans Am, and help him get the shit out of his damn hair. I wanted my brother back like hell; I wanted those whispered conversations about what Kobra Kid and I had enjoyed before this down damn world went to shit in 2012. I really, really wanted to just sit on the roof of the damn diner with Fun Ghoul, both of us trying to share space on the flat top of the still-lit E. I didn't care if Korse and his cronies turned me into a greasy spot on the fucking highway after. I wouldn't care if none of them trusted me anymore and Fun Ghoul pulled the damn trigger himself on me. I just wanted back.

"Can't," I whispered into the still, stale air. "I want out. It hurts., being here."

"Fight 'em, man," Fleet replied, with a spark of heat in his voice. That made me look back at him again, actually meeting his gaze for a second. "I mean, fuck, man. You're Party Poison. They all know you're here. Korse can't keep his mouth shut. Everybody knows. It's not endgame yet."

"How isn't it? I'd be fucking useless in the Zones now, after what that 'visionary' did to my fucking face!" I snarled the words, and pointed up at my right cheek. I'm sure I would have foamed at the mouth like a wild animal if I had the fluids to do it. Instead, my head spun, making me sink back against the study surface of my prison.

"They keep trying to give you something for it, to fix it," Proximity mumbled into his knees, not even looking up from where he was curled into the room's single army surplus-like blanket. "They'd fix it, if you let them, you know."

"No. Hell no. Sure they'll fix my face. Sure! Right after I betray the guys still out in the desert," I glared at the lumpy shape of him on the floor, my throat straining to continue making noise. "And then once they have what they want out of me, I get three options. I get ghosted, put in the Bins, or become another one of them. Fuck that!" It wasn't courage, no. I was never the brave one of the team. That was Jet Star. I just have the voice, and I'm the damn diva. I hated that, that word, but it made sense. The only reason I resisted now was purely stubbornness. I'm like a damn child that way.

Fleet quickly interjected with, "nobody wants you to give up. I'm just saying, force Korse to let everyone know you've still got a pulse, man. They know he's got one of you guys. They knew he didn't kill you guys when you broke in. There wasn't a battery left in the Zones when they heard. It's their chance, man!" I could see passion gleaming in his optimistic words. He dragged himself unsteadily to his feet. "They're geared up! Aftermath's secondary, the Doctor would say. Inspire the masses!"

That kid had one word stamped on his heart: hope. He also had the words 'naive' and 'somewhat mentally lacking' on him, but that was beside the point. Whenever he looked at me, the celebrated Party Poison, he didn't see a broken guy with a toasted face wrapped in gauze. He thought he could see the gunslinger in blue and yellow, who could influence the world with a megaphone. He though both my eyes could meet his, instead of one just rolling around alien-like in its socket.

He saw Party Poison, not a dead man walking.

I felt horrible when he did that. I felt like it was my fault I was there. I guess it was, though. It was my idea to get Grace back like that. I'd smooth-talked them all into the quick, snappy plan. I'd talked them all into just rushing in, opening fire, and raising hell. We'd barely gotten her into the van. They thought I was dead on that disgusting floor. The last thing they heard from me was desperate screaming. I told them to run, to take her with them, before that bastard caught me by the neck. The bruises his hands left went away after a while in the Cells. But the nightmares of staring into those heartless eyes, unable to help, stayed a lot longer.

I sort of wish he had got the aim right. Just splattered me against the concrete and plastic walls. Maybe then I wouldn't feel so fucking guilty. Though I guess I'd made a good distraction in the end. I'd heard they'd come to and made a run for it while Korse was raging about me still having a pulse.

But there I was, staring at Fleet Fire in the harsh light of the Cell. My limp hair made a dragging noise against the shoulders of my white jumpsuit. My real clothes had been confiscated when I got put in. I thought it was a mockery to be dressed in something so like a Drac, but I wasn't rebellious enough to run around naked. Every day, they'd put a new stack of three bleach white uniforms in the Cell, leave for the two minutes dedicated to changing out of the old ones, and then take them back. To just bleach them again. The clothes didn't smell washed, like clothes always had before the Great Fires, but they always reeked of chemicals. I guess they think by taking our color away, they take away our rebellion. I guess that's why one day Fleet left with his orange and pink hair, and had come back with jet black. He acted out more than Prox and I did. Fleet didn't let the Dracs know how much it affected him. After they left, though, Prox and I got told all about it.

The minutes ticked by, and eventually Fleet had given up on drawing an answer from me.  After five minutes of trying to look serious, he simply sighed heavily, told me he wished I'd try, and sat back down on the floor in a movement of white cloth and black hair. I stared at him, menace no longer pooling in my eyes. I went back to feeling numb, and after that outburst, I was sure we would not converse for another few days. At least, not on the topic of anything meaningful.

After a few more minutes, the growl in my throat started again, and I began to pace the room, feeling weak limbs sing out piteous whimpers with every movement. Because of who I was, and only because of that, I got half the food and water ration as the others did. Fleet tried to give me some water most days. Even Prox tried once, back when he was still mute. I refused every time with teeth bared in childish defiance, and would pick myself up to pace the room again. Zonerunners had become used to very little food, so their weight stayed about the same. But I got around half the rations I'd gotten out in the Zones, and my own weight fell away by the day. I still paced the room, even though I knew it was just tearing away muscles in my body instead of helping them, since I couldn't get enough in my body to maintain them.

About twenty minutes went by of just my quiet pacing, and during that time, Proximity had fallen asleep. Every so often, he would gasp or begin to shake in his sleep. I would normally just quietly stare, or trying to ignore him. It freaked me out, honestly. Fleet, being more kind than myself, would just lay his hand on Prox's arm. The kid would hum for a second, and fall back into his sleep. It was horrible, watching him sleep. He could never get enough sleep to calm his wild nerves, because of his nerves. Fleet, near the end of my pacing, began to hum some old song that I thought I should know. I had a feeling it had come out in the later 2000's.

The bolts on the door started to click and drag against the metal frame. Prox's face morphed into a horrified expression as he shrunk back against the wall, but Fleet just sneered at the guards in the doorway. Like a feral cat, I felt myself instinctively back up, teeth showing. But two heavily armed BLInd cronies just sauntered in the door, two more standing outside. As always, platinum blonde Prox saw the rayguns and started shivering like he saw death (which, I suppose, he did). The scary part was the way Fleet just stared at the weapons hungrily.

"Party Poison," one rasped as he pointed a whistling gun at me, "come." They aren't a talkative bunch, the Dracs. The most they talk is when they scream if you rip their mask off in Zone 6, and that's only because the radiation is eating their lungs. I tensed myself, and suddenly all the Dracs were looking at me, all guns set to stun, trained on my chest. I let out the breath, tersely, and walked to the door.

"Fight, Killjoys! Fight them, Party Poison! Fi-" As I walked out of the door, I heard Fleet Fire's screech of hope fill my entire body. He howled the words at a fevered pitch, and I felt, for the first time in a long time, slightly encouraged.  Soon after, the humming noise became louder, and one of the Dracs whirled around, firing a neat shot. The yellow glare of the stun beam caught my good eye, and I heard the voice instantly die away, and then a thump as he fell to the floor.

"Room A2. Go," the Drac told me again, though I could barely hear him. I turned around to look over my shoulder as I was dragged into motion. Though they were shutting and locking the door back, I could see Proximity Range's panic attack. He was shaking Fleet back to consciousness, just to be sure he wasn't spending his time in a room with a corpse. ("Fleet? Fleet, please, wake up!") Even as they bolted the door back shut, and replaced the locks, I could still imagine his horrified sobbing. ("Not again! Please, Fleet. Goddammit!")

I turned around to face down the hall, my breath caught in my throat, all that hope draining away. I was marched under the bright lights, towards another meeting with likely torture. I set my jaw, but my eyes stung. The Cells are much harder than the Zones.