Young and Loaded

Chapter Two

   Doctor Death Defying, greeting us with a classic line. Not sure it's original, though, but for copyright reasons, I'm gonna assume it is.

   His matted brown hair hung messily at his shoulders, the hair from his mustache nearly entering his mouth. I would always tell him to shave or trim it, seen as most people would be able to understand him better if he did, but he would wave me off. Always. He wheeled over to us, the squeaky wheelchair protesting with every inch it moved. I could see Jet Star cringe with every noise, probably product of the headache he'd earned from blood loss.

   I bet the back of the Trans-Am looked like the scene of a massacre.

   "Jet got shot," Ghoul piped, making my head turn to look at him. His mask was off, the rubber material being clutched in his right hand where the holster of his blaster hung. His hair had been dyed three days ago, so it was pitch black and hanging just above his shoulders. "So it wasn't us. Just Princess Fro over here being careless."

"You're one to talk, you reckless piece of shit," Jet Star snarled, making a noise of protest.

"He did save your ass."

   Four heads swiveled my way at once. I cocked my head to the side, faded red tendrils of hair momentarily blocking my vision. Brushing my hair back, I placed my free hand on my waist, leaning a little to the side. I shot a wink at Jet Star, smirking a little. "Though you could've just let Ghoul get shot. If you had time to take the ray to the arm, he had time to move."

   Ghoul rolled his eyes.

   "Either way," Kobra began, taking a step between Ghoul and me, knowing well and good that one of us was bound to try to attack each other. "We still have to help Jet."

   It took his intervention to launch us from just standing there to trying to get him inside the diner. Unbelievably, blood was still gushing from his shoulder wound. Or maybe it was dry blood. I never really truly got a good look, seen as blood and me don't exactly get along. Unless it's Drac blood. Then I drink that shit for breakfast and never hesitate to pull the trigger on one of those fuck buckets.

   I grabbed Grace's hand with my own, looking to my team mates before going to the door of the diner. I didn't bother even glancing at the wound on Jet's shoulder, knowing that I'd probably pass out if I even laid an eye on it. Or looked at it for more than three seconds.

   The second I pulled open the door and we entered the diner, it went deadly quiet.

   People were staring, half-eaten food falling from their mouths and back into the cans in front of them. I assumed automatically that all they had today was damned Power-Pup, which I suppose was better than the bird feed they once tried to give to us. But that wasn't important. What was important was getting to a first aid kit as fast as possible in attempt to try to bandage up Jet Star.

   "Hey, isn't that the Fabulous Four?"

   But of course that wasn't going to happen.

   Three beats. And then a wave of chatter passed over everyone, and people started to get up — I freaked out when some of them started to throw themselves at us. One after another, looking for some sort of recognition and praise. One girl started talking about how much she admires us, another guy starting to talk about how cool it was to watch us train. People watched us train? I didn't know that. I'd chase them off next time if I caught someone watching. Though we haven't done so in a while.

   I pushed everyone back, trying to make room for Jet Star. But they pushed back, creating frustration. I could feel my blood boiling, my fists clenching, my eyebrows furrowing. Something rose in my chest, a sort of anger that seemed to be bubbling, like lava, ready to explode.