Killjoys - Frerard

2

thank you to my darling iz for writing this back in the day ilyyy

- M

The majority of the flight passed with a stony lack of conversation. The only sounds in Frank's ears were the thunder of the propeller spinning atop the helicopter like a metal tornado and the occasional whirr or buzz or click of the controls. He didn't initiate conversation with Bryar. He didn't see the need to.

Frank had never actually considered what the other man was to him. A general, of course, a boss of sorts. But was he a friend? Frank owed the older man his life, that was for sure. Not many people would have stuck up for him like General Bryar did. Shipping him back to Belleville was the kindest thing the general could have done, though it wasn't a blessing. It really fucking sucked. Frank hadn't been stationed in Fort Dix for ages but it had been his home - a cold, relentless, unforgiving home, but a home nonetheless.

Thinking about it, although Frank was pissed as hell at being discharged from the regiment he had poured blood, sweat and tears into training at just because he appreciated dicks more than his fellow privates, there was a part of him that was looking forward to being free. He wouldn't have to hide his sexuality. He wouldn't have to put up with that absolute asshat Lieutenant Colonel Radke. He could live life on his own terms.

As long as he kept out of the way of BLI, that is.

Just thinking about them lit a fire in Frank that made his blood boil. All of this - the helicopter, the rucksack of his belongings by his feet, the wasteland of decimated countryside streaking past below him - was the fault of Better Living Industries. 'Better living, yeah right', Frank mentally scoffed.

General Bryar, having glanced across and noticed Frank's clenched fists and tensed jaw, decided to speak up before Frank impaled his hands on his own fingernails.

"What are you thinking, kid?"

Despite Belleville approaching on the horizon to Frank's left and General Bryar's question from Frank's right, the young private kept his eyes firmly fixed on the windscreen in front of him and, gaze unwavering , hissed "I'm going to take them down. Every last one. Or I'll die trying."

•••

Black hair blown off his face, Frank watched as the helicopter propellers spun, lifting his last link to Fort Dix up into the air and away. He watched it's silhouette get smaller and smaller until it disappeared into the layer of grey cloud doming over Belleville. There was no rush; he didn't have anywhere to be. From the moment General Bryar had slammed the helicopter door behind Frank, he had been alone. No breath had been wasted on goodbyes.

Now, though, as he looked around the empty landing bay, he figured he should have a lot going through his mind.

He didn't.

That was how Frank found himself wandering the streets of Belleville, desperately trying to find some way, any way, out. A change was needed. He was sweating, grumpy, and his feet hurt like a motherfucker; he never wanted to see another pair of combat boots again in his life.

(That was a lie. He was extra as fuck and combat boots were his source of being.)

The looks he was getting from the citizens of Belleville were disapproving to say the least. It was common knowledge that someone in combat boots and khakis wandering around the city in the middle of the day during a full blown resistance war was an army reject. And an army reject without any missing limbs was gay. And gays were dangerous. That's just how it was. Any non-cis, non-hetero person was a target for BLI and anyone who associated with them was collateral damage. No one spoke to Frank as he trudged aimlessly up and down streets. No one wanted to be seen as a supporter. Also Frank was covered in mud smears from lack of washing machines back in Fort Dix, and he had a habit of humming to himself without realising. Those also probably contributed a bit.

Finally, numerous side glances and several foot blisters later, Frank came upon a train station. He had a total of exactly not that many dollars in his bag, and frankly he didn't care where he was going. He just wanted to be anywhere but here, and as far away from New Jersey as he could make it. A fresh start. That was what was needed.

So Frank made his way to the nearest platform, made his way onto the first train, and practically collapsed into the closest free seat - with the intention of buying a ticket on board, of course. We're not condoning illegal activities, kids.

As the wheels started screeching and the platform began rolling backwards behind Frank, he leaned his head against the window. He finally had time to think. And think he did. Not about anything important, just about when he was next going to buy a coffee and and which of the pairs of women's boots featured on the advert on the train wall he liked best, and soon Belleville, New Jersey was behind him, fading fast from sight and memory, as a bored sounding automated voice announced Frank's destination:

"Belleville to Newark, change for California."