Asylum - Danger Days {Completed}

8. Dropped By a Bullet Shell

And this would be the chapter based off of the music video for "SING", which is on the side for those of you who may not have seen it. Love you all!

"Cleaned-up corporation progress. Dying in the process. Children that can talk about it, living on the railways. People moving sideways. Sell it till your last days. Buy yourself a motivation. Generation Nothing, nothing but a dead scene. Product of a white dream. I am not the singer that you wanted but a dancer. I refuse to answer. Talk about the past and rooting for the ones who want to get away." --- SING

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Dropped By a Bullet Shell

Route Guano. That's where shit happens, according to Party, That's what he told me a few days ago, when Korse's Dracs were chasing us on their motorbikes. It was the day that Missile Kid was taken. We'd pulled onto the dirt road and passed the sign that said "Route Guano" and was marked with a skull and crossbones underneath, the skull with a lightning bolt splitting its forehead. Party had turned around in the driver's seat and flashed me a smile. "Take it all in, Paranoia. This is where shit happens." That's what he told me.

No less than five minutes later, the motorbikes came streaking toward us, kicking up a flurry of dust behind them. It wasn't hard to gun them down. Dracs are slow and none too bright. After the bikes were capsized and the Drac bodies littered the road, the boys explained to me that they'd fought dozens upon dozens of times on this same dirt track that leads directly to the city.

That's where we are now, flying down the road at a speed that would be illegal if there were any people to enforce it. I didn't realize cars could actually go this fast. But it's a dire situation; we're rescuing Missile Kid. But unlike all the other times that the Fabulous Killjoys drove this path, Route Guano is completely empty around us. There's not a soul in sight, be it Killjoy or Draculoid. It's almost as if they know we're coming, and are waiting for us just a few more miles away. That's not really the most comforting thing to think about.

The Trans Am is filled with tense silence. Jet is staring out the window, Ghoul is cracking his knuckles, Kobra is deadpanning again, and Party is gripping the wheel so tightly that his knuckles are stark white. I anxiously rub my hands against my jeans, trying to dry them off. They're sweaty, probably from nerves. I've never been more stressed in my life, and living as a Killjoy certainly puts you in some pretty intense situations. But this is something else.

Battery City is as still as the desert when we arrive outside the tunnel Kobra directed us toward. The city itself is immaculate: the buildings are tall and made of glass, the streets are clean, and the air is free of pollution. Propaganda hangs from lampposts and the sides of the buildings and cement walls, promoting the pills that they force down their citizens' throats to make them happy and docile. And completely brainwashed.

Party pulls the car over by the side of the tunnel entrance, safely out of sight of the few Drac guards milling around inside. We all climb out, quietly shutting the doors behind us. Party crosses his arms across his chest. "We remember the plan, right?" he asks, narrowing his eyes purposefully at Ghoul, Jet, and Kobra, skipping over me. They all nod while I tilt my head. "Good. I sent a transmission to Dr. D before we left the diner. He knows where to be and when so we can get Missile Kid out safely and efficiently. Shiny?"

I nod with the others, actually feeling included. Their unspoken communication pisses me off. Why can't I know what they're talking about, too?

"We're a little ahead of where we need to be right now, so we have some time to kill. Stay out of trouble and don't go too far; I'll come find you when we need to get going," Party continues, addressing us like we're children. I have a feeling that it's directed more toward the guys than it is toward me, however, because he gives them a nod and off they go together, leaving me behind with Party.