Killjoys, Make Some Noise

•three•

almost a year motherfuckers, whats up
- M

•••

The coffee at the California Avenue Train Station tasted like shit, but hey, it was still coffee. So, as he drank the hot beverage and contemplated the likelihood of it being brewed with stagnant water he decided to people-watch. It was one of his favourite pastimes, watching passersby and making up stories about their lives.

Of course, in his mind, everybody was secretly gay. No two people of the same gender could so much as look at each other without Frank immediately planning their wedding. He let the homosexual thoughts freely wander his mind for the first time in months, the bitter realisation that it was these thoughts that ended him up in this mess, effectively homeless and lonely as all hell, settling in his subconscious.

A dark-haired waitress cleared Frank's coffee cup almost silently. Her red gloss nails were a comforting pop of colour in a world coated by a monochrome glaze. Clearly, BLI had no sense of style. Frank chuckled to himself, letting his body fall further back into the tattered black seat he was slouched in.

The voice-over sounded with that obnoxious ding-dong followed by the lifeless drone of the middle aged station master. Frank decided now was as better time than any so he left his seat and headed for the exit, narrowly avoiding a bustling crowd of overweight business men.

It didn't take long for the smog of the city to blanket every one of Frank's senses upon exiting the train station. He hadn't been subject to the toxins of common air in months; the army bases were pumped with fresh oxygen but the average man was left to slowly suffocate.

So, of course, Frank lit himself a cigarette. Call him a hypocrite, complaining about smog and then purposefully poisoning his lungs, but smoking was his choice. The poor bastards all over the US, living under BLI's control, they didn't have a choice in any of this. It was a sad reality, a harsh contrast to the world he'd known as a young boy. But this was his life now; knocking between military bases all over the country and sofas of long lost relatives.

Frank had accepted that this is the way life would be forevermore. A constant buzz of changing faces and rolling skylines would become the norm for everyone of his kind; constantly ducking between shadows and trying to hide in plain sight, it was that or risking an already-limited freedom just to express attraction for those of the same gender or, even more frowned upon, expression of ones own gender, simply being whomever felt natural.

The very thought of such freedom made Frank's heart flutter. He remembered days when self-expression was a god-given right, but now they were just that: memories. Fuck, he would give anything to go back to how things were, when he didn't have to hide himself and the only standards he had to live up to were his projected high school grades.

He smiled bitterly and stubbed his cigarette out, the butt crumpling under his trusty combats. The action may have looked slightly odd to anyone watching him but his attire was suspicious enough as it was, at least this way the droids would think he was fucked in the head and not the ass.

He drifted past one of the aforementioned droids, a sick feeling settling in his stomach. He couldn't decide if it was the knowledge that he was high on BLI's radar after his discharge from Fort Dix or the god-awful coffee from the station but everything seemed to have suddenly gotten real and his gut could most certainly tell.

The street quickly became more and more crowded and a shrill tone bore its way into his head. One, two, six shoulders collided with his own one after another and he was close to giving up his fight against the masses of pedestrians ahead of him. What was the point in walking if he had fuck all to walk to?

"Frank? Frank Iero?!" A watery voice swirled between his ears and a large afro bounced up to his eye-line. He could have sworn Bryar didn't have that much hair, but who else knew his name and could find a way out of New Jersey?

The whistle in his ears just grew louder and the entity in front of him kept talking, not that Frank could understand a word it was saying other than the repeated 'Frank?'

Frank. Frank. Who the fuck is Frank?

His vision faded from blurry figures to pitch black. His legs gave up on him but before he could hit the hard concrete below he came to a conclusion: that coffee was definitely brewed with stagnant water.

•••

A Better Living Industries regulation apartment was Frank's first sight when he awoke, well, the ceiling of one. He momentarily took comfort in the similarity to his cousin's apartment before remembering that Anthony was still in Jersey.

He shot up from the blinding white sheets and cursed the sharp pain in his head before slowly peeling his eyes open.

"Dude, he's up!" A skinny blonde guy called from the doorway, his hazel eyes scanning over Frank's small frame. He hadn't once felt more self-conscious than he did in this particular moment. "Chill out, Frank, I'm not gonna eat you."

"H-how do you know my name?" He had never stammered before, being the youngest in your squadron taught nerves of steel even if he only stayed at one base for a month or two before being shipped back to his hometown.

"We went to high school together. That and it's written on your uniform, and your security badge." Frank just frowned at this response. "Mikey Way."

That name brought back a flood of memories from school. He only knew of three people who left New Jersey for college and didn't get sent back when BLI took over; the ways and that one kid, fuck, what was his name?

"Ray Toro." The afro from earlier was stood next to Mikey, with a man attached to it, of course, the afro wasn't standing by itself or at all for that matter.

"Fuck." Frank chuckled, eyeing the two guys. They were both taller than him now but these were his best friends from high school, in the flesh.

"Good to see ya, Frankie."Start writing your story