Kobra sits in his room, holding Bandit as Party rocks Defying. The windows are open, letting in the sounds of Bat City foot-traffic. People have adapted, realising everything can't go back to the way it was. Stores are opening, people are living. They're turning into a city again.
There are still the few Killjoys, roaming out a around in the desert, more choice then necessity now.
You'll see them in the city sometimes. Hard to miss with their weird colored hair and strange outfits, but they still go. They roam freely. All the original Killjoys have grown up. Ditched their wild desert roaming, for stable jobs and families.
In the end, everyone has to grow up.
The New KJ's. They're a bunch of kids if you ever saw them. Mostly youth, not knowing where they fit quite yet, so they go. They sit in the desert. They're "free", and then they come back into Bat City, with blue hair and old eyes. None of them have, nor will they ever, see what the original Killjoys had to do.
It's all done up and buttered down, making them sound like a rag-tag bunch of vigilantes, that rebelled and won.
And that's not a lie.
They rebelled and they won, but there was sacrifice. Name's that won't ever find their ways to headstones. Blasters firing last shots into voids no one would look in.
The legion of the Dead Too Young.
A graveyard out in Zone 3, of the unknowns. Their names are on the headstones.
Gasoline Fire, Venom Fire, Missle Kid, (My heart after kaleidoscope-memes 's books.) etc.
And in their place of "honor",outside the radio station out in Zone 6, lay Dr. Death-Defying and Cherri Cola.
No one ever found Cherri's body, and the ones that did know, weren't too keen on going to find it.
"Party." Kobra hands his niece to his brother and wheels himself into the bathroom, a coughing fit starting.
He closes his eyes as he covers his mouth with toilet paper.
He feels a ghost-like pair of lips on his forehead. A familiar touch that he, himself made disappear.
"You okay, Kob?" Party asks, his eyebrows furrowing under his yellow hair.
"Yea." He manages, between choked coughs.
"Okay. I'm gonna lay the twins down."
"Alright. I'll be fine."
"You sure?"
"Positive, Party Poison."
He hears Party grunt with effort, and the door shut a minute later. He stands from his wheelchair, holding fast to the counter.
He's fully regained feeling in his spine again, and can walk like he used to, aside from a slight limp, but he's getting sick. Really sick.
And if they knew how much better he was getting, while at sane time being worse, it would break them. Breaks all of them. He has a year at most, if this doesn't get cured.
He throws the bloody toilet paper in the basket, and washes the blood from his mouth, before walking back into his room and falling onto the bed. The last person that needs to know about this, is Party. He already has enough with his new family. He doesn't need to be worried by his baby brother too.
Mostly Kobra. Cause he's my baby.
Thus hurts. It all hurts.