Chapter Text
Day and night don’t mean much anymore. Patrick lifts his head, groggy and aching, as the latest shift of guards slams their truncheons against the metal door of his cell. “Wellness check!” bellows a voice. Patrick sneers weakly, but carefully erases the expression before he turns towards the guard, whose eyes he can see at the narrow three by five inch strip of glass set in the door. By this time he knows the drill. Sit up, face the door, arms extended, hands with palm up. Ostensibly meant to ensure a prisoner’s continued health and compliance, Patrick understands fully that this is just another way to fuck with him. He hasn’t had a stretch of uninterrupted sleep since he came to this, his second prison.
It’s hard to uncurl himself from under his meager little blanket. He is perennially cold; winter in Chicago doesn’t fuck around and wherever this cell actually is, his captors are wasting no money on heating fuel or warm blankets. The harsh fluorescent lighting overhead certainly puts out no heat. It hurts to pull his hands from where they had been tucked, into each armpit in a reflexive search for heat. The multi-voiced chorus of his injuries scream at him as he does, and he grimaces as he attempts to extend his hands. “I need pain meds,” he says quietly. The first half-dozen times he had begged for treatment had achieved next to nothing, and he knows that a textbook definition of madness is doing the same thing over and over expecting different results, but. His persistence is a function of his misery. “I’m still hurt, I still need treatment, doesn’t this violate the rule against cruel and unusual punishment?” He very carefully doesn’t look at the mangled fingers of his right hand, or the cruelly swollen wrist.
The eyes stare at him, flat brown and lifeless as a pair of ball bearings. “Where exactly do you think you are, little bitch?” Patrick draws a careful breath, mindful of the pain in ribs as he does, wary of the derision and malice in the guard’s tone. He tries to think of the right answer, the right words that won’t anger the guard further. He’s so tired; he knows he shouldn’t have opened his mouth, and now his greatest fear is that the man will enter the cell and torment him further. It wouldn’t be the first time. Patrick has learned very quickly the complete impunity with which the rulers of this cell block can act. His vision grays at the edges as his head continues to throb, and he tries to marshal an answer.
Before he can, the first pair of eyes moves abruptly to the side. “Don’t engage, Doyle,” a second voice admonishes pedantically, and Patrick finds himself facing a different set of eyes, gray-blue and framed in pronounced crows feet. “Inmate requesting medical treatment?” The second guard asks. Patrick nods hurriedly.
Without warning the little slot in the door used for meal trays shoots open with a clack. A tiny cup appears on the shelf. Patrick pushes off the narrow bunk on which he sleeps, and shakily makes his way to the door. The eyes watch him as he takes the cup and eyes the pair of little brown tablets it contains. “Advil.” Patrick lifts his eyes in disbelief. “A pair of fucking Advil? I need a hell of a lot more than-”
“Treatment rendered and logged.” The older guard’s voice cuts through Patrick’s, and the door slot clacks shut. The eyes disappear. A moment later Patrick hears the voices of the two men, muffled by distance and the thickness of the walls. The same resounding blows are heard, against the door of the next prisoner, and the next mocking calls for a Wellness Check continue.
Patrick sways a little, shoulders drooping. He keeps his palm wrapped around the little cup as he walks back to the shelf the guards were pleased to call a bunk. He gingerly sits, wincing against the pain in his ribs, and tips the pills back, dry swallowing them as best he can. Crawling back under his thin blanket gives him a weird sense of déjà vu; how many other times has he resettled himself after these “checks,” in the same fashion? Same motions, same pain, same penetrating cold. He wonders, for an idle moment, if he’s actually already dead; if this grim loop of events isn’t some fucked-up kind of purgatorial penance he’s being forced to pay. If this is all that’s left.
***
Pete staggers, a bit, coming out of Gerard’s shadows. He lurches against the table in front of him, knocking a mug off and watching it spill its remaining contents in a perfect arc.
“Thanks, now I’ve gotta clean that,” Mikey grumbles mildly, looking entirely unruffled by his abrupt rematerialization alongside Pete. Pete envies his aplomb. Is it because Mikey’s had years of traveling this way with Gerard to acclimate himself, or is it something intrinsic to being a Way—something uncanny in the brothers’ DNA that feels natural doing this? Mikey pulls off the beanie he had been wearing when they took Pete’s family to Vancouver earlier, and jams it into his jacket pocket. “Mi casa es su casa, and all that. You want a drink or anything?” And indeed, as Pete looks around, he realizes he’s standing in Mikey’s kitchen. They’re all the way back in LA; tonight they’ve made a round trip of over 2400 miles in just a little over half an hour, Jesus. He rubs his hands along his arms briskly, trying to drive the residual chill from their journey from his bones. He nods absently as Mikey calls over his shoulder to his brother as well. “You too, Gee, you know all this hopping about dehydrates you so bad.”
“Thanks, Mikes.” Gerard is moving as well, stripping off his battered jacket and sitting at the little kitchen workstation where Kristen or Mikey has set up a laptop. “Mother hen,” he says fondly as his brother tosses him a bottle of tea. Catching it awkwardly (Pete briefly fears for the survival of the computer), he twists it open while waking the screen from sleep mode. “Jesus, dude. ‘0000’ for your lockscreen?” He levels a severe look at his brother, but begins typing rapidly.
“Of course—its gotta be simple, Rowan’s always on that thing playing those Daniel Tiger games while me or Kris is making dinner.” Mikey looks a little abashed, though, as he hands Pete a Coke Zero. “You could use the one in my office if you need something secure, though.”
Gerard flaps a hand at his brother, mind already half on the display before him. “At least you understand what you’re doing with these things. I’m counting on you to set up our LAN and install the VPN client at the compound...” As he speaks, Gerard opens discord and quickly types a note. He fires it off and cracks his knuckles. “Now to see if Brian’s still willing to see us tonight.”
Pete’s a little alarmed. “You’re all into the cloak and dagger stuff, but you send a message plotting shit on freaking discord?” He feels rather exposed.
“Please.” Gerard’s eyeroll is almost audible. “When he tipped us off about Bob’s message, Brian and I also discussed a prearranged set of sentences to use, if we convinced you to come and wanted to set up a further meeting.” He gestures at the screen. “Nothing but vanilla, here.”
Pete looks over his shoulder, and sees the familiar app screen. The message Gerard has sent (ostensibly from Mikey) asks whether they’re still on for paintballing next week, and suggests times. He sees the meeting location, and frowns a little. “Jungle Island Paintball? Is the name significant?”
“Verisimilitude, dude.” Gerard smirks a little at his rhyme. “Its the name of a real place where Mikey’s met him before.”
“Dude shot me in the ass way back when I was trying to arrange a meeting so he and Gee could reconnect,” Mikey reminisces, ruefully. “Second-best pair of jeans ruined on my brother’s behalf.”
“And your sacrifice was noted and appreciated, man.” Gerard looks impatiently at the screen again, and picks at the label on his tea. “This is the part I hate. I guess we wait a bit til he sees he has a note.”
Mikey, who has been sipping at a bottle of coldbrew coffee like insomnia didn’t exist, gives a minute shrug and stands, heading to the sink. Grabbing a handful of paper towels, he returns and begins to dab at the arc of liquid spilled across the table earlier by Pete. Pete hastens to assist, gesturing for the remaining towels and making sure that no spots are missed. The silence stretches.
“Soooo...” Pete’s anxiety, strengthened by his fatigue and the unnerving day he’s endured, is spiking. It occurs to him to wonder if he’s being terribly selfish, monopolizing the Ways while their own band and loved ones are equally, if not moreso, in danger. “You guys hinted you got both your families to safety already?”
Mikey replies, giving an equivocal so-so gesture with one hand. “As much as any place can be safe these days. Gee and I invested in a place down in Costa Rica, about three years ago. Its got a bit of land, coastal access, and an off-grid combination power system. We first used it the summer after we bought it, when the LA wildfires got really bad. Sent the kids down there during the worst of it, with a rotating cast of parents to look after them.”
Gerard picks up the thread of his brother’s reply, adding, “And yeah. I took Lyn and Bandit down five days ago. They brought a lot of our documents and records in case we really do have to build a new life down there. I brought Chantal and her twins to join them earlier today, and before I came to meet you tonight, I stepped Kristen and the girls as well. When I left, the wives were all out on the terrace with a pitcher of iced tea talking about a grocery run to the nearby town. It’s really beautiful there,” he continues wistfully. “but I do get worried about the bullshit here somehow spilling down there someday.”
Mikey raps his knuckles on the artfully distressed wood surface of the kitchen table he’s leaning against. “Don’t jinx that shit,” he says darkly. “It’s the best, most secure place we could find. Got room enough for everybody we care about, too.”
Gerard sighs, glancing at the quiet computer. It sits patiently, offering no opinion. But Mikey’s words send Pete’s thought veering in another direction. “But your guys! What’s—Mikes, what happened to Frank and Ray? Are they safe? Are you bringing them there too?”
At this, Mikey snorts quietly. His expression lightens a bit, contemplating the other half of MyChem. “Where to begin. Ah—they’re both a little busy, to be honest. Ray’s in the Caribbean right now. My dude was first in line when they opened up the vaccines to our age group. Once he was covered he flew for a stop in Jersey to see his parents, and then straight down to Puerto Rico. You know he’s got family down there, right?”
Pete nods.
“He’d been making regular trips down there, ever since ‘17, when those two hurricanes hit the island. Absolutely would break your heart to listen to the stories he told about what happened to his grandparents and some of his cousins. He worked his ass off helping them rebuild, contributing his spare time and money as best as he could.”
“’Cause that’s Ray, you know?” Gerard speaks seriously, the respect in his voice evident. “Dude takes care of you, doesn’t forget you when he’s decided you’re important to him.” Mikey nods—so does Pete. He knows Toro’s a good guy. “And apparently, it was working. He was so happy, describing to us how things were finally edging back towards normal.” His voice drops abruptly. “But then came 2020...”
The younger bassist shook his head. “Toro was so frustrated, when things went crazy with the virus. And with everything locking down, it was impossible to travel there. I’m pretty sure he would have found a way, if it was just personal risk, but he drew the line at possibly spreading infection to his abuelos, or Christa and his kid. So he waited until he could get the vax, and down he went.”
“Wait, so he’s been down there for weeks?” Pete wants to know.
“He’s kind of in limbo, actually.” Gerard looks somber. “the Destruction started about four days after he flew down. When the cities were on fire and nobody knew who was running things, you remember air travel totally shut down. When the junta emerged and declared to the world that they were in charge of the show, one of the things they made a point of doing was screwing over all America’s territories. Cut off federal assistance programs or disaster relief, slapped the travel embargo from the islands to the US mainland, and now it seems they’re very quietly moving to issue a decree stripping all territory residents of their US citi-”
“—zenship? Christ.” Pete shakes his head. “Everybody’s heard about the travel freeze, sure. But fuck them for killing the aid. And the citizenship thing? Dammit. I thought that was only a rumor. Fuckers have a pretty narrow idea of who really belongs in this country.” The obvious thought occurs to him. “But wait—if he’s trapped down there, why haven’t you stepped down there to the rescue? You-” And he stops, as Mikey cocks his head and gives Pete a particularly patient stare. “Oh. Ohhh. You guys are in contact?”
“When I figured out what was going on I got my ass down there pretty quick,” Gerard says. “Ray had made it easy, he invited us down to the island way back in ‘08, when we were decompressing from Black Parade, so I knew where to go. He’s doing pretty well, all things considered.” He leans back in his chair, idly scratching an arm. “I wanted to get him out of there right away, but he said no.” He shakes his head. “He pointed out that anybody who did any serious digging would be pretty curious about how he returned to LA without using his airline tickets. They’d make up shit about illegal border crossings, question his own citizenship, put Christa and little Evan in danger. So no. No grand re-entry to the mainland, for now.”
“Border crossing my ass,” Mikey mutters. “It’s no different than crossing the Delaware from Jersey into Pennsylvania—Puerto Rico’s part of the damned country and they know it.” Yet despite his bitter words, he looks a little smug, looking at his brother.
Pete gets it quickly. “But...you’re still doing something?”
Gerard finishes simply, “Fuck yeah, I wasn’t gonna let him and his family be miserable! I go down every three days, at a set time. I’ve brought him back to his home most nights, and he keeps things on the Q.T. while he’s with Christa and Evan, never leaving the house. It’s not perfect, but it works, for now. We’re thinking we should probably move all three of them to our place within the week.”
Pete drains the last of his tea, thinking about separation and isolation. His chosen career certainly has meant long stretches away from his children and Meagan. But the matter of having the choice taken away from you, tearing apart families on illegal and cruel pretexts—its devastating to contemplate. With worries about his own bandmates and fears for Bronx fresh in his mind, he’s especially glad to hear that Ray has a lifeline.
He’s about to ask what Frank’s doing, but he pauses. It takes him a second to realize that the sound he hears is Mikey’s computer bleeping quietly. Gerard sits up, anticipation writ across his face. Mikey leans in close, peering over Pete’s shoulder to read the screen.
“We’re in business,” Gerard says with satisfaction. Pete reads the message; according to what Schecter has written back, he and Mikey will be paintballing at three pm on the date Gerard asked for. Parking is still free in the lot next to the playing field, the message assures them. Pete hoists an eyebrow at Mikey, who grins.
“The night isn’t over yet, man.” The younger Way says. “This means he’ll see us at 3 AM. ‘Free parking’ means nobody’s observing his place and we’re clear to step there right away.”
“Oh. Sure. Ah—do we really have to bother Gerard to drag us?” Pete asks hurriedly. “I mean. Aren’t you tired by now? We could drive to Schecter’s house, couldn’t we?”
Mikey laughs, not without sympathy. “You want to make it to this meeting or not, dude?”
Pete’s swaying on his feet a little, it’s well after 2 in the morning and he’s not twenty-five anymore, dammit. But the thought of finding out more about Patrick drives him on. “Of course I do.”
“Then we travel Gee’s way. Brian’s meeting us at his office, all the way down in Carlsbad, he’s not gonna risk having another meeting at his house here in town. We step to Riot Squad or we can’t make the connection at all tonight. And who knows what will happen in the future?”
Gerard puts his ratty old jacket back on, and neatly chucks his and Pete’s empty bottles into his brother’s recycling bin. Coming back to the other two, he looks at Pete, sly challenge in his eyes. “C’mon. Not afraid of the dark, are you?”
Pete, he sighs. Extends his hand. “Asshole. If you let me go in transit I swear I’ll come back somehow and haunt your ass.”
Mikey claps him on the back reassuringly and extends his other hand to his brother’s shoulder. Gerard takes his hand and the last thing Pete hears is, “actually, that’d be kind of cool.” Pete rolls his eyes in the frozen darkness.
***
They fall from the shadow and Pete’s ears fill with screams. Terrible yelping cries, the product of an unhinged mind in extremes of despair or pain, jolt Pete into action before he’s aware of even moving. In a flash he’s grabbing Mikey and Gerard by the shoulders, yanking them back into the shelter cast by the nearby stucco wall and close-leaning trunk of a palm. Mikey’s shape blurs into his black cat form again and melts deeper into the darkness, vanishing nearly as effectively as Gerard does. The screams continue, someone begging for help in a high-pitched voice, and Pete casts his eyes around frantically. He feels Gerard grab his wrist, and his voice, barely a breath, ghosts against Pete. “What’s happening? Who-”
There. Pete hears a rustling in the cluster of toyon to his left. Something moves, thick leathery leaves shaking as the victim (and their tormentor?) comes closer. A figure emerges from the bushes. Pete blinks. “Gerard?” His vision isn’t perfect in the moonlit darkness, but there’s no way to mistake what he’s seeing. “Why is that peacock screaming for help?” He wonders for a mad second if this is another shape-shifter like Mikey, in distress.
Mikey’s nose, black and velvety, bumps up against Pete’s knee reassuringly. A second later, human-Mikey is there, chin resting on Pete’s shoulder. “That’s no shifter, if you’re wondering. That’s a real bird. Gee? You remember when you and Brian first talked, back in that park?”
Gerard frowns. “That Carillo ranch thing? Hold on. Yeah. They had a flock of these things wandering the grounds. First thing that made Brian actually crack a smile, that day, when one shrieked and made me drop my coffee. You think they’ve expanded their range since then?”
Mikey keeps looking at the bird. Thinking. “Or maybe something happened at the park? Maybe it was hit during the fighting and the birds went all feral and shit, started wandering?” He shakes his head, as the peacock struts past them. It give Pete an evil look, and shakes its long train of feathers. They rattle like dry branches. Pete breathes a little easier when it disappears into a copse of trees, presumably to roost.
“Well.” Gerard dusts his hands together, like their brief startlement can be brushed aside as well. “That was fucked up.” He gestures at the expanse of trees and well-tended low bushes on what looks to be a small corporate campus, spread in front of them. “Okay, Brian’s company is in this complex. Landing in the bushes is awkward, but at least we’re less obtrusive than if we appeared in the middle of somebody’s cubicle while they burn the midnight oil.” He gestures, and the other two follow. They aim for the nearest of the trio of buildings, despite there being no signs of activity or lights within that Pete can see. He’s not surprised when the automatic doors stay shut. But Gerard mutters a “Hang on...” and bends down. He hops awkwardly a little, as he removes one checkerboard Van. Straightening up, he extracts a black and white access card from the shoe, which he slaps to the electronic pad by the door. The light on the pad flashes from red to green, and the door gives a muted click. Mikey pulls on it experimentally; it opens. Gerard gestures for the other two to precede him, and Pete follows Mikey. He leans towards his friend, and whispers conspiratorially, “I’m impressed we got in, given where he stored the key.” Mikey snickers, but manages to look convincingly innocent when his brother looks over to where they stand. That leaves Pete looking like the asshole when Gerard asks what’s so funny, but. He doesn’t mind. Anything to distract him from the tension of the upcoming meeting.
Mikey strides to the row of elevators at the far side of the darkened lobby, and presses the call button. Pete comes to stand beside him, and Gerard runs a hand distractedly through his hair as he watches the green floor numbers count down to the lobby. “Riot Squad takes up the whole top floor. Brian said he’d be waiting for us...” The door opens, and Mikey is the first to step in to the dimly lit car. The other two file in, and they silently ride to the fourth floor.
When the doors slide open, Gerard steps out, but stops quickly. Pete, following close behind, collides with the singer’s back. He opens his mouth, about to grumble, but then his eyes register what Gerard’s staring at.
They stand in a marble-floored vestibule area of sorts, facing a bank of glass doors etched with the simple Riot Squad company logo. Pete can see desks and electronic equipment through the glass, posters for various bands and solo acts scattered along the walls—but that barely sinks in. His gaze is caught instead on the banner dominating the wall behind the reception desk. Quartered like a St. Andrew’s cross into red, white, and blue segments, the top of the image on it was crowned with black and surmounted by a symbol that looked almost like a rudimentary fish balancing on its tail. “American Blood and Soil Reborn,” trumpet the gaudy gold letters running along the bottom of the cloth. Pete’s neck prickles. Intensely aware of the silent building, the dark suite he faces that could hide any manner of threats, he hisses quietly to the others. “This a fucking joke?” He focuses on some of the smaller images on the walls, realizing that many are not band or equipment posters after all. They’re junta bullshit; calls to arms to protect “true American culture” from the dark tide that threatens. Pete would sneer if he wasn’t abruptly jittering with fight-or-flight adrenaline.
Mikey looks equally spooked, which reassures Pete not at all. “Gee. They—they got to Brian. Him calling us to his place earlier, this whole thing from Bob, it—it’s a trap.” Nobody takes the moment to acknowledge the Star Wars reference.
Gerard is pale, eyes wide. He takes in the trappings of the new regime that festoon the rooms before him. Then he frowns, mouth pulled to the side in a tight little grimace. “I—no. No fucking way. This is fucking terrible, but this isn’t Brian. He’d never join those bastards. I’d stake my life on it.”
Snick. Shshhhk-click. The small sound of a gun uncocking, in the hush of the building, is deafeningly loud to Pete. He jumps a little, hand to heart, and spots a figure in the unobtrusive little alcove that houses the water fountain and the door to a restroom. “Glad to hear that, Gerard. Before this is all over, you just may have to, at that.”
The figure steps forward, into the dim hallway night-lights, and Pete realizes it is, in fact, Brian Schecter. The beard is new, and his temples sport a few strands of gray. But when Pete mentally switches out the chunky black sweater for a sweat-stained band tee and lip ring, he can see MyChem’s former manager, as clear as his memories of that Warped summer sixteen years ago. The piercing blue eyes are the same. The snug little Sig Sauer pistol in his hand, however, is not.
“Jesus Christ, Brian,” Gerard’s voice shakes a little. “You knew we were coming.”
“Yes.” Schecter is unmoved. “And I know that you can’t be too fucking careful these days.”
“No. What the fuck.” Mikey’s voice is unexpectedly aggressive, Pete thinks, for someone confronting a man with a gun. “What is this, Brian. Are you part of them, now? Was this whole message-from-Bob thing a trick so you could bring us in?” He’s nearly hissing with suspicion, lanky frame tense and fists clenched. Pete can see the black cat in him very clearly, for a moment.
Brian looks at the younger Way for a moment, expression unreadable. His eyes travel to Gerard, and finally sweep over Pete. He sighs, shaking his head. “Actually, I’m kind of amazed you managed to bring him with you,” he says to both Ways. His expression shifts. “Do you know, Wentz, your name has come up on the LA council’s itinerary? Warner was forced to turn over their records, their hard drives, over a week ago. And your little vanity label has been the focus of some ugly attention.” He steps towards the glass doors, and gestures to the three of them. “Guys, look. Come inside. There’s no one else here, and I promise to tell you everything.”
Pete is by this time in no mood for the intricate and baffling silent conversational powers of the Way brothers. As they trade minute shifts of expression and hoisted eyebrows, considering Schecter’s offer, Pete simply shoulders past Gerard. “Gerard said you had word about Patrick.” He edges past Schecter and into the room beyond. “Tell me everything you know. Please.” Behind him, he hears one of the brothers sigh. He turns and sees Gerard and finally Mikey enter behind him, not without resignation and residual wariness. Brian enters last, expression satisfied. Pete watches, still tense, as he locks the doors behind them and sets the alarm code.
“Don’t want surprises or eavesdroppers,” the older man says as he comes towards the others. He gestures, leading them away from the entry, down a dark hallway that opens up to another series of rooms. Pete recognizes areas for mixing and writing, desks and equipment familiar and reassuring, but Schecter leads them to the door of what turns out to be a recording booth. This time Gerard steps up first, following his former manager into the little room’s cramped confines. Mikey follows Pete, and stations himself by the door, tension still evident in his frame.
Brian drops into a swivel chair, gesturing for the others to take the remaining seats. He glances at Pete, and picks up a tablet from the stand near the mixing board. “This has everything that Bryar sent to--”
Mikey, apparently, isn’t done yet. “Stop. Don’t say a word, Pete. Not until we get an explanation for why it looks like he’s thrown in with them.” The distrust in his voice is quiet but sharp.
Brian quirks an eyebrow, and Gerard pipes up. “Hey, wait, Mikes.” He turns his gaze to his ex-manager. “I do trust you, Brian. Calling us earlier and setting up this meeting seems a pretty inefficient method if the plan was to turn us in. The regime could’ve just sent militia to our houses. So I’m pretty sure you do have news.” His expression turns unhappy. “But yeah, I fucking surely would like to know about your decorating choices.”
Brian affects pious surprise. “What, you don’t like the glorious picture of the future the regime is painting for us? Tsk. Me, I’m just a producer working to provide this country with uplifting material, of course.” His expression abruptly turns sardonic. “It’s cover, Gerard. The best way to keep out of their grasp is by hiding in plain sight. As long as Riot Squad is still in business, I can keep trying to help.”
“Like passing on word of missing or imprisoned friends or family?” Pete asks.
Brian smiles a tiny smile, barely a quirk of his lips. It warms his eyes, and Pete relaxes a tiny bit. “More than that. You know I’ve got connections. I’m not just moving intel; we’re a pipeline here. We’ve moved almost two dozen solo artists and bands out of this country to safety since the Destruction. A lot of musicians were under pressure from the junta long before they created this decree that Gerard saw in DC yesterday. Professional blacklisting, using the militias to physically threaten, seizing assets; their methods are endless. People saw the writing on the wall, and they needed lifelines.” He brings his hands together. “I had resources. I had the knowledge. But I couldn’t be blatant about what I was doing, or I’d paint a target on my own back. So down I went to the city council, and registered my company on the list of ‘patriots’ businesses.’ We all know they have sanction to operate, they don’t get the scrutiny the remaining independent places do. And it let me keep working.”
“Hold up.” Mikey has been drawn in to the story despite his wariness. “I guess I can get a white lie to do a greater good, but, that fucking banner. That’s ugly, man.”
Brian nods, somehow packing revulsion, weariness, and a jaded cynicism into his expression. “And I have to spend hours in sight of it every day. Fucking makes me ill. But the bureaucrats downtown made sure I went to Carillo and got ‘the necessary insignia.’ Local branch of the PFM treats shit like that as the seal of approval. Usually won’t look twice after they’ve seen you display their symbols.”
Pete feels a greasy eel of disgust slither down his spine, remembering the casual menace of the roadblock the Patriots’ Free Militia had thrown up near his own house, the surreal experience of being menaced by heavily armed teenagers and a donut-slinger.
Gerard, however, pipes up with interest. “Carillo? The ranch-park-thing? What happened there?”
“A park no longer,” Brian sighs. “About a week after the shit went down in LA, a caravan of militia rolled into Carillo. They took the old stables and the hacienda compound first, and turned out the staff and teachers. Now they squat there like they own the whole thing, and use it as a propaganda mill/barracks/interrogation site.” He shakes his head. “Used to take my daughter there for classes...”
Pete snorts softly. “Explains the damn bird, then.” Schecter sends him an inquiring look. Pete tells him about the peacock that shrieked so heart-stoppingly on their arrival.
“Oh yes. The PFM didn’t give a damn about the plants and animals the park maintained. The birds at least survived, ‘cause they were able to fly away, and also they’re kind of vicious fucks. But a lot of the rest of the wildlife wasn’t as lucky.” There’s a silence.
Pete’s impatience gets the better of him. He coughs awkwardly, and asks, “Okay...now that we get what’s going on around here, can we please get back to why you called us? You said you had information?”
Brian nods, but looks a little uncomfortable. Looking at both the Ways, he holds himself a little more tightly, his mouth flattening down at the corners. “Yeah. Look. I hadn’t talked to Bob in about six years, okay? Sure, he and I still hung out a bit between 2011 and ‘12—we both enjoyed a beer or two and bonded over being bitter at you guys back then, but. Bob really couldn’t let things go. He had a victim complex a mile wide that paired with this weirdly entitled attitude. It started getting in the way of his professionalism when he tried running sound for other bands. So when he got in a huff and dropped out of the industry altogether, around 2015, I really felt like I had no reason to see him again. Our lives were going in two different trajectories. Then, what—radio silence between us for maybe six years, the world goes to shit, and then, a few days ago, I get a fucking text message asking if my email’s still the same. I almost didn’t answer, but my curiosity got the better of me. I wrote back that it was...and the next thing I know I’ve got a note in my box with a couple screenshots attached.” He shook his head. “All the note said was that ‘the people I’m working with have made a mistake. See if you can get word to his guys.’” He held the tablet out again, gesturing to Pete. “This has the images.”
Pete takes the device, scanning the open email that illuminates the screen. Bob’s message is there, just as Schecter said, and below it, a trio of images. The first was a simple registry. Somebody had created a spreadsheet and amassed a list of names and vital stats, tallied neatly in rows and columns. Pete glances down the column of names and sees Sheehan, Sieczowski, Singh, Stubens...and he can’t help it, something leaden turns over in his stomach as he sees Stump, Patrick V. He absorbs the details in a flash; truncated phrases listing Patrick as an agitator, leftist traitor, atheist, and worse. His heart thumps hard when he sees the “Living/Deceased” tick box contains a clear “L” next to Patrick’s name. He looks up at Schecter, hope and suspicion warring in his face. Brian makes a “keep going” gesture towards the tablet, so Pete bends his attention to the other images.
He sees a screenshot of somebody’s powerpoint presentation; snapped furtively from a cellphone held at waist level, given the angle. The hated logo of the Midwest Lakes District is visible on the screen, with a heading that reads “Reinforcing Regime Support; Effects on the General Population of Public Trial and Punishment of Criminal Detainees.” There are actual fucking bullet points. Somebody went to great lengths to discuss how to make public villains out of Americans currently held in jail cells in Columbus, Madison, Detroit, and his beloved Chicago. Make them villains, make them seem dangerous to good public order; and then—
“These are execution plans.” Pete looks at Schecter, appalled. He’s sickened. He’s suspicious. These look official...but they also could be the work of anyone with a knack for bureaucrat-ese and a laptop. He believes what Brian said, that Bob sent these—but how on earth would Bryar have access to the plans of the Midwest District Council? And why trouble himself to snap these photos on the sly and send them to his former manager, former friend? Also, Bryar, to the best of Pete’s knowledge, hadn’t even seen Patrick since the summer of ‘06. Going out on a limb, sending word like this...in Pete’s opinion it doesn’t add up. (He wasn’t letting himself hope. He wasn’t. Not yet.)
“If they’re real, yes.” Schecter runs a hand down his face. He looks tired. “I’m not sure what a real estate agent is doing that lets him see things like this.” Good. This seems off to Brian too, apparently. Pete passes the tablet to Gerard, letting him see Patrick’s name in the list and the sinister itinerary. A small horrified noise escapes the singer, and he passes it to Mikey.
“The Bob I knew had nothing to do with bureaucracy and government. Or law enforcement, either. But none of us are what we were ten years ago, are we?” Brian looks around the room, holding the gaze of both brothers. Gerard nods, eyes thoughtful, as something passes between himself and Schecter. Mikey, subdued now in contrast to his earlier vehemence, looks uneasy as he glances from his brother to his ex-manager. “I know how I’d react if I saw my best friend’s name on a list like this, but. It’s not my reaction that counts, today.” All eyes turn, looking at Pete.
Pete is chaos inside. His face reflects the conflicting currents of his heart and his head. He’s fighting a powerful urge to grab Gerard and shake him—step me to Chicago, right the fuck now—and then...what? Storm Bob’s office? Run down the Loop, screaming Patrick’s name? No. No. Pete has a brittle, unsteady feeling, like he’s in a minefield and a wrongly chosen step will be his last. He drums two fingers against the board next to him, thinking carefully.
“Pretty clearly I can’t take this public,” he begins. “The immediate deaths during the insurrection and the quiet ‘disappearance’ of so many well-known people across the country made it pretty clear how far the new regime would go to gain power. Now we get a tip that maybe some of those who vanished under sketchy circumstances are being held without charge? That some of those thought dead are being kept imprisoned and isolated? We know that even before the Destruction—ever since the protests last summer—all the little federal agencies like ICE and CBP were contributing manpower towards the creation of a national, weaponized, ‘police’ force. They went dormant briefly with the new administration—when we all thought we were out of the woods—but came roaring back as soon as the overthrow began. We’ve seen their fingerprints all over the place even if their existence is still unacknowledged. If I plead for information to either West Coast or Lakes District officials, I’d be lucky if all I got was blacklisted. Or stonewalled like Patrick’s mom was.” Gerard nods back at him, playing with the hem of his jacket.
“Also. This whole thing. Bob reaching out like this. There’s a shitload here that doesn’t add up. Are those documents legit, or is he spinning us a line of bullshit in his spare time?” Pete makes a choppy gesture with his hand, expressing his doubts point by point. “I still don’t see why a real estate agent would have access to material like this, be brought in on planning for this. And why reach out to a friend he hasn’t spoken to for years, about a member of a band he never belonged to?” His hand dropped. “I need to know more. This is a bad mix of unknowns.”
“Um. As to why...I’d guess its because he respected Patrick.” Mikey’s voice pipes up, unexpectedly. Pete opens his mouth, about to deny that Patrick’s brief drummer camaraderie with Bryar fifteen years ago was anything near reason enough for this risky and unexpected outreach. Mikey beats him to the punch, holding up a hand. “Hear me out, dude. Bob also just liked him, plain and simple. It started back during Warped when Patrick would fanboy about Bob’s kit. Then they bonded over their both being from Chicago. Patrick loved that Bob had worked for House of Blues, and Bob considered Patrick a fucking genius for all the instruments he could play.” Mikey slouches in his chair, folding his hands across his stomach. “Then later, you know our guys were all kind of stressed after leaving the Paramour in ‘06, and Bob was no exception. Living with Patrick felt like the easiest thing in the world in contrast, for him.”
Given Mikey’s own condition upon leaving that terrible mansion all those years ago, Pete is astonished to hear his friend venture any opinion at all about how anyone else in his band had felt at that time. He blinks. “How do you know this?”
“I watched them start talking to each other in ‘05, man.” Mikey sighs patiently. “And when we started touring for Black Parade, Bob and I’d talk, you know?”
Gerard’s eyebrows climb towards his hairline. “You and Bob would talk?”
“Jesus, Gee.” Mikey sits up a little straighter. “You know, before shit started getting ugly with him at the end of ‘09. There was a time when I actually considered him a friend. But, yeah. I don’t know, Bob felt almost big-brotherly about Patrick. Guess it stuck, or something.”
Gerard looks dubious. Mikey shrugs. Pete massages his temples with one hand, wondering. He remembers that hot summer in Burbank, all those years ago. Bob and Patrick had been an odd pair for roommates, he had thought at the time, but Patrick, affable to a fault, had made it seem effortless. Pete remembers coming over from his own unit in the complex, when the two would host pizza and game night. Epic Halo battles combined with the smells of tomatoes and cheese, as conversation flowed and beer was drunk. Pete remembered Bob as quiet, tidy, and really fucking methodical in whatever he was doing—whether manning the keg or taking notes about the tracks he had laid down with MyChem that day. At the time he had thought, that since the drummer was technically sub-letting his room from Patrick, he was just making an extra effort not to be a dickish roommate. But it kind of annoys Pete to realize now that Bob’s taciturnity leaves a void in his mind about what he actually thought of Patrick. Pete is the first person in line among those who believe Patrick is made of sunshine and music (and Korean barbecue), but he’s frankly not sure whether Bob has ever truly been in the same line he is. That edge of paranoia and worry—part of him ever since the Destruction—buzzes at his brain. Bob could be part of a larger trap.
Pete looks at the others. “This isn’t enough to act upon.” He holds up both hands, palms out, to Gerard, who is making indignant rumbles. “Not by itself,” he adds. He looks up at Brian. “Did you ask Bob for additional info? Did he add anything to clarify this at all?” Brian shakes his head.
“Nothing,” he says. “I asked if he’s seen Patrick with his own eyes, and there’s been no answer. Don’t know if somebody ratted him out for sending this, or if he’s enjoying being mysterious, but I’ve not had a single word further from him.”
“And would we believe anything he actually did send...” Pete mutters. His hand stills on the console. “Okay. I’m obviously not letting this go if there’s even a tiny chance that Patrick’s alive. But I need outside verification of what Bryar sent. I need to be in Chicago.” He looks at the Ways. “I hate to ask, I’m so sorry, but. Is there any chance—maybe after we’ve had a chance to rest and recharge—that you could feel out a passage and step me to wherever Patrick is? You’ve done so much for me already, I already owe you for the rest of my life, but...”
But to his dismay, Gerard slowly shakes his head, looking grim. “I—I don’t think I can, dude. There’s—I’m reaching for the same type of connection between you and him that Meagan had for her sister when I stepped you guys, but. I can’t feel a live link where there should be. Either that means Patrick’s being kept somewhere with no shadows big enough to use, or...”
It sinks in. Or Patrick really did die in that blast and Bob is wrong. Pete’s mind shies from the latter possibility. He decides, suddenly contrarian to his suspicions of a moment ago, that until evidence says otherwise, he’ll operate on the belief that Patrick is alive. “No shadows. Then that’s where I’ll find him. And—okay, I’ll just get there by myself, you know? Traveling normally, that’s still a thing.”
But is it? Pete suspects that, even with his not-inconsiderable resources, he can’t really make it to his hometown by himself. Air travel—never recovered fully from the lockdown—now faces even worse restrictions. And lately, the regime has even begun limiting access to gasoline along the interstates. Easy access to the open road, something Pete—like all Americans—has always taken for granted, is becoming a coveted and rarer opportunity.
Pete needs someone who can help him work around the emerging controls, who knows how to bypass the eyes of the authorities and get him the roughly 2000 miles he needs to travel to Chicago. His mind spins for a moment, reaching blindly for a solution. Then his thoughts turn, unerringly, to the package he received this past morning—seemingly a lifetime ago.
Mikey meanwhile is looking worriedly at Pete, and implores his brother. “Gee, come on, we can’t let Pete blunder around trying to sneak under the radar into the Midwest District. If we take a break and rest, can’t we try to at least get him closer? Maybe to a friend’s or something?”
Gerard scrubs a hand through his hair, making it defy gravity in several improbable directions at once. “Mikes, Mikey. You know tonight’s the attempt to reach Frank, he and his crew need those supplies. I can’t do both, I just—I can’t be everywhere at once.” He turns to Pete. “But I don’t like this at all, Pete. How on earth do you think you can get anywhere?”
Pete’s mouth quirks a little, briefly wondering what on earth Iero is up to. Seems like a lot of his old friends have been busy these last six weeks. But he answers, “I may not be able to pull an act like you two, but, I’ve got a few aces up my sleeve. Like Mikey said—friends.” Pete deliberately doesn’t mention Andy’s name. He knows finding Andy’s going to be a challenge in itself; if he’s right about the cryptic package he received this past morning, the drummer’s not just sitting in his Oregon compound or sipping vegan lattes while supervising the baking at Oracle. And though Pete’s incredibly grateful for what the Ways have done tonight, he realizes he’s actually kind of glad they can’t help him further. Not because he distrusts them—but he’s starting to get an inkling of the scale of what he may have to undertake. He has no right to ask them to endure the uncertainties involved in finding his drummer. And he draws a line at the thought of involving them in the risks and hazards of whatever Andy’s engaged in currently.
Because he’s pretty damned sure that Andy’s already in the thick of things, following his beliefs and fighting the new regime with all his considerable skills. Pete doesn’t want to be a burden to his friend. He sure as hell doesn’t want to get in the way of whatever righteous and clandestine plans Andy has. But this is for Patrick; a bandmate, a brother, a friend. If Pete can find Andy, he knows the drummer will move mountains to help Pete discover the truth about their singer. (And he’s not gonna lie; part of Pete—one he thought mostly consigned to the past along with fistfights and screamed hardcore lyrics—also hopes he can be a part of at least a little of whatever Andy’s doing.)
Gerard looks doubtful. Mikey isn’t reassured, either. “Uh huh. But its still a long fucking way to your hometown, man. Do you even know what your next move is?”
Pete stretches, arms above his head, trying to work the kinks out of his neck. “My next move,” he says thoughtfully, “Is to head back to my house. As far as any of my neighbors know, the Camper-Wentzes spent the night quietly at home, and they’ll expect to see some activity there today if we’re to keep up the charade that my family hasn’t fled for a little longer. Between what you two said,” and here he points to Brian and Gerard, “I’m assuming I have maybe half a week before they work through Warner’s files and decide to move against me or DCD2. So I rest up today, show my face at the local Starbucks, stop at Ash’s to beg an extra couple gallons of gas if I can. Then I can be on the 5 before midnight.”
Its hard to stay vague, but he feels he’s doing well until he sees Mikey’s expression. “Route 5. Not eastbound 10?” Like his brother, Mikey stubbornly refused to pick up the Angeleno habit of referring to freeways with a “the” preceding the route number. A Jerseyan’s unwillingness to concede anything road-related to California, Pete suspects. But yeah, his stomach sinks a little as he watches the gears turn in Mikey’s head. Surprisingly, though, the bassist’s expression clears, and he nods. “Good choice, dude. If you can find him.”
Pete nods back. He feels oddly transparent, if Mikey can so easily guess he’s pursuing Andy, and hazards a glance towards Schecter. But Brian is engaged in a low-voiced aside with Gerard, and fails to notice Mikey’s deduction. Good. Pete’s glad to have seen the producer, learned the information he has tonight, but Brian remains an acquaintance at best and Pete feels better knowing that his next few steps aren’t going to be common knowledge. He listens, as Brian finishes whatever he’s saying to Gerard with a clap on the singer’s shoulder, and a wry, “Tell the little bastard I say good luck, alright?”
Gerard looks surprised, and pleased, nodding his head. He and Brian exchange a complicated handclasp that Gerard flubs rather spectacularly. The singer laughs a little at himself while Schecter shakes his head, looking amused. The producer stands, and the other three follow suit quickly as he looks at his phone briefly. “Not that I haven’t enjoyed seeing you all, but I’ve got to get back to my own place. People will be asking questions if I’m not in my home office when business hours start.” He opens the booth door and they file out after him, through the silent studios and offices once again. Before they emerge into the reception area again, Brian pauses.
“Wentz.” He looks coolly at Pete. “You never were here. We’ve never talked. Whatever your next move is, you don’t involve me in it.” Pete meets his eyes, a bit ruffled.
“Wouldn’t think of it,” he responds, in an identical tone. He straightens a little, happy that he that he has an inch or so on Schecter as he stares back.
Something flicks across Brian’s eyes, briefly. Pete nearly misses the fleeting vulnerable expression as the producer speaks. “Look. We both have kids. You know what happens if West Coast or Lakes authorities link us together.” Brian’s shoulders slump a little, and his arms are held crossed tight against his ribs, braced against the world.
Pete softens, at this. “I do. Believe me, I get it. There’s no fucking way I’m putting anybody’s children in danger.” He shakes his head ruefully. “Jesus. Listen to us. Fifteen years ago, there’s no way I’d’ve believed I’d ever have a conversation like this. But—I’m not gonna forget what you did tonight. Thanks, man. Thank you so much.” Pete isn’t inclined to try anything fancy like what Gerard exchanged with Brian. Instead, he simply reaches out, hand extended. Schecter takes it with no hesitation. Pete pumps his hand earnestly. If Brian hadn’t reached out to share his information with the Ways...”I owe you one. And if it turns out Bob’s right and this leads me to Patrick—then you can call on me in the future for anything. Absolutely anything.”
Brian looks faintly surprised, and a little melancholy. But he simply nods, and continues to lead them back to the front desk and its loathsome banner. Unlocking the glass doors, he gestures them through. Gerard leads the way, and as Pete passes through the door Brian murmurs quietly, “I hope you get him back.”
Mikey follows Pete, and slows enough to meet his ex-manager’s eyes. “Guess I owe you another apology...” The bassist pushes his hair out of his eyes, looking uncomfortable. “I shouldn’t have accused you without knowing what was going on.”
Brian shakes his head. “Dude. I get it. It looked bad. It’s a fucked up world and you were walking into an unknown situation. This isn’t anything like last time.” Mikey opens his mouth, brow furrowed, but Brian continues, “Its forgotten.” He gives the younger Way a small smile.
Its Mikey’s turn to look surprised, and his frequently impassive face now wears a cautiously relieved expression. He turns and joins the others, leaving Pete to ponder what “the last time” had meant. Brian sketches a rough salute, as the trio clusters in the lobby near the alcove where Schecter had first startled them. Gerard, standing in the center, smiles a little. “See you soon, man.”
Gerard’s hands come up, one on the shoulder of each bassist. He steps back a pace. Brian’s eyes widen as the shadows from the alcove seem to shift and stretch inquisitively. In the space of a heartbeat they reach out, and flood over the three men as a wave engulfs a rock. In a silent instant, they’re gone.
Alone in the lobby, Brian shakes his head a little. Ways, he thinks. Carefully locking the doors to his company, he turns and punches the button to open the elevator.
***
Eating is an ordeal. Balancing the battered metal tray on his lap precariously, Patrick tries not to jostle it with his right hand, which has begun to throb in a sickly fashion along with its swelling. The Advil wore off at least two guard changes ago, and its almost impossible to eat neatly with his left hand (he hasn’t seen a utensil since he came to this place) while keeping things stable. He works away without enthusiasm on the meatloaf-esque rectangle and dollop of potato-like puree on the tray, and tries to distract himself.
He runs through scales in his head. He envisions the score he’s working on for the follow-up film to Let Science Speak, and ponders adding vocals to it when he’s free. (When, he tells himself firmly. Not if.) He recites lyrics in his head—from his own band, from portions of Bowie’s and Prince’s discog, and even snippets from Tom Waits that seem apropos to the situation at hand.
It’s bizarre. Most of Patrick’s time in this facility has been a struggle between ignoring his pain and combating waves of terror about his future. But he’s been surprised at how frequently even that is overwhelmed by smothering boredom. His entire world consists of whitewashed breezeblock walls, fluorescent lights, his bunk shelf and the disgusting little steel sink/toilet unit in the corner. That’s it. No TV, no computer, no books for diversion. He’s dressed in a plain orange jumpsuit. Patrick’s personal items and the clothes he was wearing his on last day of freedom are long gone. The only diversions he has are the things his mind can come up with. Despite his reputation in his band for being the introvert, the one to get lost in the world inside his own head the most easily, Patrick is dismayed to find that it’s hard to focus. He’s already lost track of the days he’s been held here.
Patrick snorts to himself, a little. Of course, the previous year had kind of been good training for this... The bored fretfulness that had struck him so badly in the early months of quarantine lockdown had provided a lesson in how to cope with involuntary confinement...although his comfortable home, among his family, electronically connected with friends and his band, was obviously a far more pleasant environment in which to cope. Right now, its all too easy to slip from one helpless worry to another; about ‘Lisa, his boys, about Andy, Joe, and Pete. But that creates its own special hell-
The sound of locks disengaging echoes hollowly through the room; Patrick startles. The green steel door swings back, and a pair of men enter the room. Hard faced, dressed in black—both are armed. The first one, however, is carrying an armful of metal links. Shaken out, they prove familiar—handcuffs and leg shackles, held together with lengths of steel chain. The other guard gestures sharply to Patrick. “Up.” His voice is cold.
Patrick forgets the food on his tray, and presses himself back as far as he can on his narrow bunk. He remembers the feel of cold metal on his wrists, steel scraping the flesh of his ankles raw as he was marched days ago from his first cell to this new location, in similar restraints. He misses that previous jail cell right now; ridiculous nostalgia. The warmer air it had; the muted hum of other prisoners’ low- voiced comments that drifted through the old-fashioned barred door; and best of all, a narrow slit of window that had let him view a tiny portion of the L, and what looked like the Chicago river itself beyond. It had been weirdly comforting to know he was still in his city by his Lake; in familiar territory and close to family and friends.
Now, though. Alone and weakened, he examines the faces of each guard warily. “Why? Where--”
The guard who had spoke unholsters his pistol. He’s not pointing it at Patrick, not quite, but his meaning is clear. “Up. Hold out your wrists. Be still.”
Patrick has no wish to add to his list of injuries. He abandons his tray on his bunk, and stands, spine crackling with stiffness. The second guard comes forward, and secures the cuffs. The singer tries not to cry out as they are tightened brutally over the throbbing flesh of his right wrist. His ankles are quickly locked in similar fashion. As the silent guard stands back, the first one gestures with his pistol towards the door. “Walk.” His comrade opens the green door once again, revealing the featureless hallway beyond.
Patrick stumbles forward, using the shuffling steps forced upon him by the shackles. “What’s happening? Where-”
Apparently he’s a slow learner; he receives a jab, short and painful, to his kidney. “Shut up. Somebody wants to ask you a few questions.” And Patrick bites down on whatever he was about to say, fear blooming in his chest. At the last prison, he listened to the hushed rumors. He gleaned hints of what took place when these people started “asking” you things. And now it was his turn…