Archive of Our Own ^beta

Party Poison is seventeen when they die.

It’s a mistake, really. 

No, really.

It’s their third week out in the Zones and they still haven’t found shelter. They’re wearing a stolen scarlet racing jacket with black and white stripes down the sides and Kobra’s wearing a too-big woolen sweater they’d carried out from the City and neither of those things keep either of them quite warm enough at night.

It’s the rainy season, a bitter February storm is due to sweep through Zone Four that night, but neither of them know enough to pay attention to the clouds gathering on the horizon. Kobra points them out, but all Poison can do is shrug and say that they hope there’s somewhere to hide along the next few miles they walk.

They pretend not to notice how Kobra starts shivering as dusk falls and the clouds disappear from view, but they do put an arm around his shoulders and pull him close. They’re gonna have to find something fast, before one of them gets sick. Before one of them, well…

They’re not gonna think about that.

It’s late in the evening when they find their shelter, a tiny little cave underneath a hill, and Poison doesn’t think twice before bundling Kobra inside, and taking the spot facing the entrance. It’s cold and cramped and far too small for two nearly-grown killjoys, but they’ll take what they can get at this point. 

Kobra falls into restless slumber and Poison follows soon after, their arm slung over his shoulder and their face buried in the back of his neck. 

They dream of something strange, big and blue and cold and drowning , something choking and and heavy. They’ve never seen the rains before, how were they supposed to know? How were they supposed to watch out?

They wake in the middle of the night to Kobra shivering violently in their arms and rain pounding at the sand near their back. Without a second thought, Poison sits up and shrugs off the jacket, wrapping it around Kobra instead. His shivering ceases, and they lay back down, oblivious to the icy air and the ceaseless rain.

⁂

Poison slips back into their dreams, but this time there’s a deep black bird with glittering eyes awaiting them. 

They sit up and spit water out of their mouth, wiping their eyes. The desert’s been transformed into an endless, shallow pool of water, flat and mirror-like, reflecting the surrounding mountains. It’s beautiful, pristine. 

The bird is impatiently cawing at them from a joshua tree, and they stare. It’s huge and magnificent, all dark black and purple, and before their very eyes, it steps down, transforming into a woman. She hovers over the water, the tip of her foot barely making a ripple on the surface, and the iridescent darkness of her cloak seems to forbid a reflection: instead, the water shows the night sky, stars and all, and Poison drags their hand across it in amazement.

“This was not supposed to happen,” she says, her voice deep, thrumming with the music of the spheres. “You were not supposed to enter my realm this early.” She leans down to where they sit, gently caresses their face. “This was not written, this was not supposed to be.”

“Um,” Poison says eloquently, awestruck, reaching up to touch her cloak. The feathers are cool and soft to the touch, but they too are the mirror of the stars. “Where... am I?”

The Witch laughs. “I’m sorry, dearest. This is... unexpected. You’re in my realm, I’m afraid.”

Party Poison frowns at the nickname, but they don’t protest. “I don’t know who you are.”

“The Phoenix Witch,” she says. “Death itself.”

They nod, pulling their knees up to their chest. “So I’m dead? Can you put me back?”

The Witch shakes her head. “I could if it were an illness or a wound, but once your body’s cold, it is no longer under my protection, and the Others do not take kindly to what little is in their realm being taken back..”

Poison has a sudden vision of their own face, lips blue and eyes glazed over with frost, and they want to cry. “So there’s nothing? I have a brother, I need to keep him safe, I need to be there for him. You can’t deny me that, you can’t say I have to come with you, he needs me.”

The Witch seems surprised that they care for their brother above their own life, the feathers on the neck of her cloak standing up like the hackles on a dog. She’s silent for far too long. 

“Say something,” Poison begs, standing up to face her head on. The night sky clings to them, but they brush it off, taking a step back. “Say something, please, I don’t want to leave Kobra alone, please. ”

She nods. “I cannot offer you your body back. It is too far gone from my domain, it is at the mercy of the elements now. But…” 

“But.” Poison stares up at her accusingly.

“You will be sent back, as a ghost. I will allow you to take the appearance of who you would have been at your greatest, as a favor from me to you.” Her expression is hidden by her mask, but the way she holds herself, the way she speaks, leaves no room for debate. Take it or leave it.

“Deal.” 

⁂

They come to in a haze of dawn skies and the sound of Kobra’s sobs. They’re on top of the weird rock formation they and Kobra had taken shelter under last night, so they carefully make their way down. Nothing strikes them as particularly odd, til they catch a glimpse of their hand and arm - they’re wearing worn brown leather gloves and their jacket’s a bright cyan, the leather crisp and new. 

Weird . They’d kind of assumed they’d still be wearing the red leather jacket that they’d given to Kobra last night, but blue was cool too. They drag a hand through their hair, and that- that’s red. They pull a piece of it in front of their face to examine it, and it’s so sickeningly bright, they spin around in a delighted circle. It brushes their shoulder blades and flies in their face, but it’s so cool and loud and colorful-

They’re pulled back into the present when Kobra lets out another wail, and they run towards him, pulling him away from the thing he’s clinging to.

Oh.

Barf! 

It’s their gross dead body, its skin is ashen and its lips are bluish and pale, and they realise how stupid they looked with blonde hair. It’s a comfort to know they’re adjusting to this whole being-a-ghost thing, at the very least.

Kobra’s started struggling, clawing at their arms. “Come back, ” he wails, and then, because the dipshit can’t recognize his own brother, “Put me down, freak!” 

Poison carries him away from their body as he screams and cries more, and sets him down around the back of the hill, grabbing onto his jacket so he can’t run away. 

Kobra turns to face them.

He screams.

“Ow, my ears ,” Poison whines when Kobra’s done. “You’re such a little freak.”

Kobra decks them, right in the face, but his fist passes through and he shivers, gags, and pukes on Poison’s boots. 

“Gross,” Poison says, because while apparently people pass through them, puke does not. “I hate you so much right now.”

Kobra lets out a low whine and falls bonelessly into Poison’s arms, his crying starting anew. “A- are you real?” he asks when he can breathe. “I woke up and you were dead and I couldn’t wake you up and now your hair’s red and I- I don’t-” He cries harder. “You didn’t wake up and you were cold and I’m really scared and I don’t understand what’s happening.”

Poison ignores the obvious inconsistency of ghost physics, and drags Kobra over away from the puddle of vomit and to a suitable resting spot, far away from their dead body. Which, again. Total ew.

“I died, okay?” they say soothingly, stroking his hair. “But I wasn’t supposed to, so the Witch let me come back and I got to get a fancy new ghost body, it’s how I was supposed to look when I was gonna be a proper killjoy.”

Kobra nods and buries his face in their chest, wrapping his arms around them. “Y’weren’t supposed to die..?” he asks faintly. 

God, the poor kid must be so tired… “Nope,” they say cheerfully, hoping Kobra’ll lighten up. “Just a mistake, Witch couldn’t give me back because I was outside a’ her realm, whatever that meant.”

“Witch?”

“Um. Goddess of death, apparently?”

Kobra’s silent for a while.

“Okay,” he says finally, unsticking his face from their shirt and scrubbing at his eyes. “That’s. Uh. Weird, I think? But you’re here-”

“-And a ghost-”

“- So I’m gonna be okay.” He smiles confidently. “Does this mean I can keep the jacket?”

“Yes,” Poison sighs. “What ever .”

⁂

So that’s their life.

Kobra gets weird looks from people who can’t see Poison, he gets even stranger looks from people who can. They hover over his shoulder like a silent magenta flame- since they glow in the dark now, evidently- and steer Kobra away from what they figure is gonna fuck him up. 

For all intents and purposes, people think Kobra’s a lone wolf with a crazy good sense of judgement and an affinity for staring into the air and having weird conversations. 

At least half of Kobra’s so-called good judgement can be attributed to Poison, and in a similar vein, the near constant electric shocks that people get when they brush too close can be as well.

Neither of them have gotten into many firefights- they stay too far under the radar for that, despite the fact that they’ve lived in the Zones for nearly a year by now. Kobra’s adept at hiding, and Poison...doesn’t actually have anything to worry about. 

But the one time they do get into a clap, it goes well. Really well. Kobra’s gotten decent at hand to hand combat through sparring on the occasion they meet someone willing to teach, and Poison is pretty much an invisible weapon. When they sneak up behind the SCARECROW and shoot its brains out of its face, nobody notices til it’s dead. 

When the dracs start shooting, almost nothing happens. But there’s a thrilling burst of energy as the raygun blasts fizzle out as it reaches them, and Poison manages to kill everything Kobra hasn’t, delighted at their newfound ability.

“You smell like ozone,” Kobra complains after the clap, shoving them away as they nudge his arm. He’s grown taller in recent months, turned sixteen, and thinks he’s the fucking cat’s meow- Poison guesses he’s probably about twenty-something by Zones standards, everyone seems to be dying younger and younger out here. “Dude, you’re gonna scare everyone off, c’mon.”

And that’s the other thing- Kobra’s become concerned with his social standing, he’s been flirting with guys and talking with girls and making friends with the bartenders and practically everyone he meets. Poison’s not gonna lie, they’re kind of living vicariously through him, watching every interaction like a hawk, filing the information away for later.

On the rare occasion that they do find someone that can see them, they make the most of it. Show Pony’s sweet, actually, and they’re not a half-bad kisser. They hadn’t even flinched when they’d found out Poison was a fucking glow-in-the-dark ghost, only invited them out for a rave. 

They and Kobra spend a lot of time with Pony, actually. They’re one of the few people that’s so nonchalant about literally everything, it’s relieving. 

Pony and Kobra talk about the latest tech while Poison flips through Pony’s magazine collection- fuck Ben Affleck, for real- and Pony and Poison gossip incessantly while Kobra plays videogames on Pony’s decreipt old Gameboy whatever- by now, Poison’s had enough talk of Doom or whatever to last them ages. 

They all hang around and listen to Pony’s showtunes and riot grrl and Kobra’s skatepunk and thrash metal and Poison’s glam rock and anarchopunk and they’re almost like a little gang of their own, Poison almost wants to invite Pony to adventure with them, but Pony’s loyalty is first and foremost to the radio station and Doctor D., and Kobra and Poison don’t have a car or a hideout or anything like that. 

But it’s nice for awhile. It’s really, really nice. 

⁂

They get the car a little while later, actually. 

It’s another clap, just them and Kobra alone this time. They’d been heading to the market; Cherri’d found Kobra a skateboard and he’s practicing using that, Poison’s walking and carrying all their damn supplies.

Thankfully, it’s just before dawn, and the desert sands are still cool, the air is crisp and refreshing. 

Kobra’s skateboarding in circles around them, singing along to his latest music obsession- a mixtape of WuTang Clan and the Beastie Boys and something else that Doc had given him, Poison likes the one called Sabotage- and everything’s pretty fucking cool, to say the least.

Poison takes the liberty to try floating again- they do it sometimes when they’re not paying as much attention to staying human, and it’s like the dream of the Witch, how she just barely hovered over the water. 

They manage it for a few moments, they can feel the asphalt drop away beneath them, and walking’s easier, their backpack weighs less, and they let out a delighted shriek. Kobra looks over and claps, and Poison gracefully touches down with a bow. They know it’s not the most interesting trick in the book, but it’s always thrilling to do weird ghost things, even if it’s only for a second. 

They and Kobra continue their walk for a while.

They should arrive at the market just after sunrise, when everyone’s busy setting up- there’ll be an opportunity for some thievery from the richer traders, the ones that stick their noses up at offers of shiny rocks and PowerPup, and maybe others will have decent tasting candy- wouldn’t that be a dream. 

It’s not long ‘til their perfect day turns to shit, though, because here comes a patrol of dracs and one SCARECROW barrelling down the highway. Poison sighs and shoves Kobra behind the sand dune, but it looks like the bright red of his jacket was seen anyways, and the car slows down.

The thing is a glittering white- and it’s old , like, freaky old, probably the City trying to make sure it’s wrecked so nobody will protest against making updated models, but Poison immediately wants it. 

The only problem is, they’ve never stolen a car before.

Usually Kobra loots it for valuables, runs away, and then Poison opens the gas tank and lights the thing up, unwilling to let BLI make any sort of profit if they can help it.

But it’s a damn nice car. 

They take out their raygun as the dracs line up in search of Kobra. Three dracs, one SCARECROW, second ever clap in their life- unlife, sorry - what could go wrong?

If anything, this is even easier. Kobra goes straight for the ‘CROW, Poison’s left to take out the remaining dracs, who don’t know what hit them. They go down in an easy one-two-three, Poison hears the telltale snap-crackle-pop of the CROW’s mask being blown to smithereens, its brains along with it, and then it’s just the two of them again.

Kobra immediately moves to the car to empty it, but Poison holds out a hand.

“Dude,” they say sagely.

“This car’s kinda cool, I guess,” Kobra says, immediately guessing where the conversation will be heading.

“We’re gonna steal it,” Poison decides, and Kobra looks delighted. 

He’s worked on Cherri’s truck before and fixed up Doc’s chair, but he’s never looked at anything so fast. 

After an hour of ripping out tracking chips, Poison upends a eye-bleedingly pink bottle of paint over the hood and deems it drivable. And then Kobra tells them it’s a Trans Am, which is objectively hilarious, so they toss a blue bottle of paint to Kobra, and both of them spend another hour painting the hood with their hands. 

The trip to the market gets pushed back ‘til later that afternoon, and they spend the morning doing donuts in the middle of the road. 

⁂

There’s a tradition in their little gang about naming their helmets. Pony’s is Dottie, Kobra’s is Lucky, and Poison doesn’t have one.

Which is, in their mind, super lame. 

They’re not really looking for one right now, but they’re visiting an abandoned shop they found on the outskirts of Five, one of their rare solo runs. It’s not like they’re tied to anything, no, but it’s easier to stay grounded when there’s someone else in the car with them, and neither they nor Kobra like to be alone for long.

But today it’s sunny, there’s been no predictions of any kind of storms, sand or rain or otherwise, so Poison figures they’re pretty damn good. They run a finger over the bad luck beads on their wrist and say a quick prayer to the Witch, closing their eyes for a moment.

It takes a minute to force themself to focus on the car. There’s so little keeping their mind from wandering off right now, it’s almost hilarious. Being a ghost isn’t all fun and games, it’s also surprise teleportation and losing giant chunks of time and basically anything else that could happen with crappy memory, but basically instantaneous.

Okay. Abandoned building. That is where I’m going and I am going to go there in the car. Motherfucker.

They turn the music up louder, screaming along, and it seems to do the trick for the hour-long drive, til they spot the building in the distance, and pull up in front of it. The car shuts off automatically, as it is wont to do when Poison’s driving, and they climb out, scanning the area for any immediate threats.

It’s all clear, and they fumble open the door - more ghostly powers! No more locks!- and head inside. It’s dark, but they don’t bother to find a light. Instead, they pass their hand over what’s in front of them, using the faint glow to find their way. 

There’s shelves upon shelves of craft supplies, costume jewelry, near untouched, and they put as much of it as they can into their backpack before moving on. Bolts of fabric- useful, but uninteresting, they’ll grab some on the way out- and in the back, there’s masks. 

They’re all kinds, some are simple half-masks like posters for plays hung up around neutral territory, others are domino masks like the kind they have already, still others are animals and fantastical creatures and all sorts of things.

They pick up a simple one, painted in a clown’s face like their domino mask, but the texture is all rubbery and wrong, so they put it back. There’s a horse, a crow, some kind of snarling beast, and an elaborate sort of dragon-looking thing.

And then they see it. There’s something blue and furry tucked into the corner, covered in a plastic wrapping. Poison pulls it off without ceremony, and dust flies in their face, but they can’t find it within themself to care- the Mousekat head from the old BLI cartoons is a bright, eye-burning blue to match their jacket, with two round pink circles of blush, a yellow star, and another yellow spot on its forehead.

Its nose is adorably heart-shaped, and while the thing is fucking massive, Poison adores it immediately. 

“Helloooo,” they coo, running their hands over its ears. It’s seriously the softest thing they’ve ever felt, and they inspect the inside- it looks like there’s more than enough room to fit rebreather tech and bulk it up a little bit, so they slide it on to test the fit.

Fuck me, is the only thing they manage to think before they collapse.

It’s hours later when they wake up on the floor, feeling thoroughly worn out. The sun is beginning to set, and as they sit up, they push their hair out of their face, frowning. Mousekat sits on the counter above them, looking shiny as ever, with a rebreather tube sticking out of its mouth.

“What the fuck ,” Poison breathes, and lays back down. 

⁂

They have a haunted helmet, a sickass car, a best friend, and a baby brother. Their life is perfect. 

Poison and Kobra are attached at the hip. They sleep in the car after long drives, visit the radio station, go on joyrides with Pony and to Mad Gear concerts with whoever’ll accompany them, they gain confidence in firefights and start making a name for themselves.

The Zones call them the Venom Brothers, after Doc makes up a quick nickname on his broadcasts when he’s sick of saying their names and “getting the damn alliteration all mixed up.” Neither of them mind it much, though there’s always a few people asking,

“Where’s Party Poison?”

“Why is the Kobra Kid always alone?”

“Why can’t we meet Party Poison?”

Every time someone asks, Poison makes their frustration known. They don’t want to be invisible, they don’t want Kobra to be called a sham, but the good doctor only shrugs and Pony only offers to take them out more often and Kobra shares their distaste, but can’t figure out what to do about it. 

It all comes to a head one day when they’re making a trade: Kobra and Poison got their hands on some explosives, someone else got their hands on valuable intel about supply routes. Since Poison’s preferred method of destruction is dropping a lit match in a can of gas and then standing silently while everything explodes around them, neither of them have much use for C-4: the trade is a no-brainer. 

They’re hanging out in a warehouse. It’s dark, given that the walls are mostly intact, and Kobra’s been navigating by using Poison as a human flashlight. They’ve lugged the crate of explosives inside, shoved it over by a wall, and now they’re just waiting for the other half of the trade to show up.

It’s a disturbingly long hour before they do: Poison whines constantly about boredom, flips through stolen magazines, Kobra runs laps and sings along to Suicidal Tendencies (Pepsi’s become an inside joke at this point) and the C-4, very boringly, does not explode.

It’s some hours later when the door cracks open, and Poison freezes. Two figures step in. One’s tall, wearing an astronaut suit or some shit, and the other’s hilariously short, with messy black hair and half a Chelsea smile, the scar tissue knotted and pale. They’d probably make an imposing pair, save for the fact that they’re clutching each other’s hands like a lifeline. 

The short one catches Poison’s eye instantly and there’s a strange glimmer of recognition, and Poison throws him a sly smile, while the tall one drags him over to where Kobra stands by the crate of explosives. 

That’s interesting, to say the least: tall one can’t see them, short one can. Poison slinks over to stand behind Kobra as he takes a piece of paper and a small flash drive from the tall one, then kicks the crate over to him. 

“Jet Star,” tall one says with a winning smile, and Kobra looks up at him in surprise.

“The Kobra Kid,” he replies, and shakes Jet Star’s hand.

“Party Poison,” Poison says, not to be outdone.

“Where’s your brother?” Jet Star asks.

“...I’m Fun Ghoul,” Fun Ghoul grumbles, his gaze burning holes in Poison’s face.

Wait. Wait- They know this guy. They went to school with him, like, forever ago, and they’re filled with the sudden urge to fucking murder someone, because nobody’s supposed to know who they used to be. 

The obvious solution here is to tackle him, and Ghoul shrieks as he goes flying, landing hard on the floor with Poison on his chest.

“Oh my god,” says Kobra, rolling his eyes.

“Oh my god, ” says Jet, because to him it probably looks like Ghoul’s wrestling with nothing.

“My brother’s a ghost,” Kobra says nonchalantly.

Jet nods. “Okay. Explains the weird pink thing that’s following you around.”

“Huh.”

“Yeah. Fucked up, dude. But kind of radical.”

“Mhm.” Kobra pulls out a joint from his pocket and lights up. “You smoke?”

Jet looks at it, frowning. “Never have, but I think I might need to, considering Ghoul’s trying to kill someone that’s already dead.” He glances over at Poison and Ghoul. 

Poison’s pinned to the ground and the pink glow around them is growing stronger, Ghoul has one arm over their mouth and is using the other hand to try and strangle them. Poison’s pushing up on Ghoul’s chest, and then they knee him in the crotch, and Ghoul rolls off with a loud oof. 

“Is that what they look like?” Jet asks as they flicker into view, and takes the offered joint. “I thought they’d be taller, somehow.”

Kobra shrugs and blows a smoke ring. “Surprised you can see ‘em now, but yeah. They’re kind of average.”

“I’m not average,” Poison shrieks, standing up, only to be violently pulled back to the floor by Ghoul. “I’m fucking spectacular, assholes !” 

The fight continues for far too long, and when it ends, Poison’s the clear winner, but probably only by the logic that they can’t really be hurt. Ghoul, on the other hand, has a black eye, his knuckles are split open, and he’s definitely favoring one leg. Poison bites the back of his neck as they walk over to rejoin Jet and Kobra, and Ghoul hisses, slamming a fist into their stomach in retaliation.

Jet and Kobra are well on their way to being stoned out of their minds, sprawled on the cracked concrete floor of the warehouse and passing the joint between them. It looks fucking hilarious, and while Jet won’t stop laughing, Kobra is stony-faced and flips Poison the bird as they approach.

“This was my last one, man,” he protests as Poison snatches the joint for themself and takes a hit, then blows the smoke right in Ghoul’s face. “Fuck you, give it here.”

Poison tosses it back, and turns to Ghoul, who stares right back at them, frowning deeply. “Anyways, nice to properly meet you,” they purr, holding out their hand. Ghoul shakes it, looking immensely disgusted at this development. 

Poison’ll count that as a win. 

⁂

The next time they meet Jet and Ghoul is purely by chance.

Poison and Kobra are running from dracs for the eighth time this week, too far away from the radio station to have another sleepover with Pony and Doc, so Poison takes the chance to test out the new tires on the Trans Am.

The land is relatively smooth here, save for a few scrubby bushes that easily crunch beneath the tires, and the hills are easy to drive between and lose their pursuers. It’s a while before Poison slows down; they’d been pushing a hundred, easy; and even then, their grip on the steering wheel is still white-knuckled and the pinkish glow around them is tinged red.

Kobra reaches over to pat their shoulder gently as they fiddle with the stereo a little, getting more and more frustrated as their hands pass through the knobs. 

“Settle down,” he whispers, and Poison sighs, flexing their fingers. It’s hard to stay solid right now, their hands are turning cold and slipping away, and they know they’re not quite touching the pedals right now, it’s only an illusion. Kobra turns up the radio to a low volume, and there’s Doctor D’s station, a slow, quiet song the Eagles playing, helping to soothe their nerves.

The drive feels long, far too long, and both Poison and Kobra sit in nervous silence, afraid to talk lest they miss the noise of dracs on their tail. The volume of the radio’s barely above zero, there’s only the gentle crunch of sand beneath tires. 

There’s a building in the distance, and Poison nudges Kobra’s shoulder. Kobra blinks back into wakefulness, squints against the growing darkness, and nods.

That’ll be where they stay the night, then. 

It’s an old diner, the neon lights on the front crumbled and broken enough that it only says DIE. There’s a silver-blue motorbike parked out back, but hopefully whoever left it here’s only abandoned it, or maybe they’ll be easy to fight off. 

Poison pushes open the door with their shoulder, and Ghoul- Ghoul! - jerks around from his seat by the bar, where he’d been talking to Jet. 

“Um,” Poison says eloquently, motioning for Kobra to join them. “We kind of need a place to stay the night? We’re hiding, can’t go back on the roads, it’s too dark anyways. I didn’t wanna intrude, but if we could just crash here..?”

Jet looks ready to accept the offer as soon as he sees Kobra, but Ghoul shoots him a look that shuts him up before he can say a word.

“How do we know we can trust you?” Ghoul demands, sliding off his stool and striding over to stand toe-to-toe with Poison. “How do we know you’re not just gonna rob us blind and make off in the middle of the night?”

“I can’t…” Poison says quietly. “All you’ve got is my word, I don’t know how else to convince you, we really just need a place to sleep, I don’t care if you lock us in the goddamn freezer, please. ” They know how pathetic it sounds, but it’s what they can manage, they haven’t slept well in a month, and neither has Kobra.

Jet places a gentle hand on Ghoul’s shoulder and pulls him away from the door where Poison and Kobra wait. There’s a discussion in harsh whispers, and then Ghoul turns back to the door.

“We take your guns and knives,” he says decisively. “And you’ll have to stay in your room all night, but you can stay.”

Jet smiles over Ghoul’s shoulder, Kobra waves back, and Poison smirks towards Ghoul, who flips them off and stalks towards the back of the diner, grabbing Jet’s hand and dragging him along.

The next morning, Ghoul pulls them aside for an apology, tells them that he won’t ever use their real name, their secret’s safe with him, and everything’s suddenly a lot easier.

Kobra and Poison never actually end up leaving the diner: the Trans Am gets a parking spot next to the bike, and Jet paints the night sky across the roof, Ghoul takes a thick black permanent marker and starts scrawling words across the rims of the tires whenever he can find the time.

Poison is more than happy with this event: they get a roof over their head, they can watch out for Kobra more easily, and Jet and Ghoul prove themselves to be the best friends they’ve ever had, even on the rare occasions they get truly angry and end up levitating half the furniture. 

They still have sleepovers with Pony, who in turn makes friends with Jet and Ghoul too, and it turns out that if you’ve found the shortcuts, the radio station is only a half-hour drive away.

If this life is what dying got them, they’ll make that trade again in a heartbeat.