Bleached Out Eyes

Chapter 1 - Dust Babies

Ghoul knew that the sun would be setting right about now, but if he looked out of the window without knowing the time in that moment, there was no way of knowing that.

He and Jet had found themselves holled up in the diner, battening down the hatches and blocking up any gaps in the windows, doors, and walls and preparing themselves for a sandstorm.

Sat on the bar of the diner - what once must have been a friendly family restaurant, now an empty shell of a building on the side of a long forgotten dust road - Ghoul was picking stones out of the tread of his boots. Most of the time he didn't care; they lived out in the deserts of the Zones, stones in his boots weren't an issue unless they somehow actually got inside of his boots. But walking on the linoleum coated concrete floor of the Diner, the stones created an incessant tap, tap, tap, that even Jet was complaining about, to the point that he gave Ghoul one of his screwdrivers to pick the gravel out with.

Jet himself was in the back, looking through what supplies there still were and trying to figure out how much they should take back to the Lockup with them, once the storm had passed.

Outside, the storm was howling through the corrugated iron panels of the old building, something rattling loudly against the exterior and echoing off the hard walls of the place.

Barely audible to Ghoul, over the banging and the wind, was Jet's singing. Jet was older than Ghoul, and had been younger than Ghoul had been when he'd left the city. He's seen some things, he'd heard some things, and Ghoul would always be jealous that Jet had once heard songs on their original tapes rather than just through people singing them after the tapes had been lost or worn out.

"Hey, Jet?"

Ghoul had to practically shout to make sure Jet heard him, but the stocky, frizzy haired man called back in reply, "Yeah?"
"What's that you're singing?"

Ghoul paused his pinging of stones across the floor as he waited for a reply, raking a hand through his long dark hair and pulling his bandana off from around his neck.

Jet walked out of the back room, carrying the small radio with him, and scratched his head.

"I, uh... I dunno. Damn," he shrugged, "It might not even be a real song, who the fuck knows."

"Ah well," Ghoul shrugged and went back to de-stoning his boot, "You gonna try getting the radio working?"
"Yeah, but the static from the storm might mess with the signal so I dunno if we're gonna get to hear from Dr D tonight."

"Well I at least want to know how long we're gonna be stuck here."
"I can try working on the Jukebox again?" Jet suggested, switching on the radio and trying to tune in to a station.

Pausing his actions again, Ghoul looked at Jet, deadpan, and said, "Jet, the jukebox can't tell me what the weather's gonna be, and neither can listening to Blondie on repeat."

"Hey, I know for a fact," Jet punctuated the word with a smack to the radio as he continued to try and get it working, "That there is some good music in there."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever."

The radio continued to emit static and the garbled nonsense of half-tuned stations, until finally, after ten solid minutes of searching for some kind of audible broadcast, the deep, rich tones of Dr Death Defying's voice graced the air inside the diner.

"...Show Pony...on the far side... storm, out in Zone Five, with the storm moving west and across to Bat City. I suggest, to all you dust babies listening out there on the waves, that you get settled, 'cause these are gonna be some long, dusty nights. But fear not, children, because Dr D is here, and I promise to you that everything's gonna be okay. If you've got a gun at your hip, and hope in your heart, not even the Scarecrows can hurt you..."

The familiar sound of the Last Post started playing through the old portable radio, the one blown out speaker rattling slightly with the treble.

Ghoul and Jet had no time to enjoy the music that Dr D played next, as headlights passed over the front window of the diner.

Before Ghoul could even react, Jet had struck a defiant stance, drawn his gun and had his eyes trained on the door, prepared for the worst. Ghoul could only tug his boot back on and exclaim, "Who the fuck is driving in this storm?"

"I don't fucking know but I don't like that they've stopped here."

Ghoul tied the laces on his boot as best he could, and drew his own gun, listening out for any untoward sounds from outside. The headlights of whatever vehicle had pulled up were now gone, meaning either someone was waiting for them, or someone was on their way to the door.

Sure enough, a few moments later, there was loud knocking on the door and Ghoul and Jet were at arms, unsure of what to do. Neither of them wanted a fight, but if whoever was outside was just another innocent killjoy, they couldn't just let them get sand-blasted to death.

Looking at one another, Jet took the initiative and directed Ghoul towards the door, where there was still a loud knocking, as well as someone yelling over the whistle of the storm.

"On the count of three," Jet said, Ghoul nodding in agreement, "One, two, three!"

Ghoul wrenched open the door, dislodging their makeshift draft excluders, while Jet had his gun held steady in front of him, directed at where the mystery person would be stood.

Two figures fell inside, along with a cloud of dust and grit, and collapsed to the floor. 

Without even having to take a second look, as they wrestled the door shut again, Jet and Ghoul could tell that these were fellow killjoys.

One was dressed in red leather, their blond hair windswept and obscuring their face. The other was dressed in blue leather with a shock of scarlet hair, but again their face was hidden, this time by a pair of goggles and a red and black bandana.

The redhead quickly regained some composure, coughing as they sat up on the floor. They sat up, pulling the blond into their lap and taking the bandanas off from both of their faces, and, looking up at Jet and Ghoul, asked in a tearful, pleading voice,

"Please, you've got to help him!"