Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

America: A Timeline

2002—A newly minted 13-to-3 Supreme Court expands their previous ruling that granted CORPORATIONS the same “freedom of speech” rights as citizens to now allow them to run for PUBLIC OFFICE

2004—COMPANIES large and small pull all money from individual political candidates, instead SPENDING TRILLIONS of dollars securing themselves 83% OF ELECTED POSITIONS contested that year including ALL STATE AND NATIONAL CONGRESSIONAL SEATS

2006—In under a year, the new legislatures PRIVATIZE OR TERMINATE EVERY PUBLIC SERVICE, LAND, and UTILITY, transferring those assets to their own businesses and running them for profit

2008—A uprising begins in Newark, New Jersey after new governor Johnson & Johnson bought rights to all ports, closing off water access to citizens unless they pay a new access fee. News stations begin to refer to these rebels as “Killjoys” who stand against American culture.

2010—The Killjoys become a known terrorist group in news media, a household name that carries fear. The midwest has largely seceded to Canada, leaving resources further and fewer for the remaining war effort. Several leaders have emerged from the terrorists who are garnering growing support. They pose a problem.

2014—A series of helium bombs take out the deserts between California and Texas. Neither side knows who dropped them. The deserts are now uninhabitable from radiation and survivors flock to nearby company towns. 

2016—Better Living Industries unveils Battery City, a shiny utopia free of decisions and emotions, and capital of the entire remnants of California. Survivors flock to the city. Complacency is safety. The Helium Wars are over.

2019…

Chapter Text

Before capitalism will go to hell, it will, for the foreseeable future, hang in limbo, dead or about to die from an overdose of itself but still very much around, as nobody will have the power to move its decaying body out of the way. It was never sustainable, but it would suck the blood until it sucked you dry.

The chimes had more energy than the slogging workforce, signaling the shift change. Gerard was so far from this world that he barely heard the dreadful ding. His only cue was the rest of the poor souls stepping away from the factory table. He followed them to the locker room as workers raced for the showers, eager to get in their warm water for the day. The royalty fees for modifying Coca-Cola branded water with a heater were too steep for the average household to afford these days, so their sore muscles ached for the 10 minutes of allotted employee shower time at the end of an intensive shift.

Gerard couldn't waste his precious minutes, and he hurriedly swiped his employee ID badge at the nearest showerhead. As the hot water ran over his grease and sweat-lodged hair, a man at a nearby shower asked the room, "Whatever happened to Cocoa Puffs? I could really go for some of them." Gerard couldn't be bothered to lift his sore arms to guide the water. He let it run freely as it clouded his eyes.

"Their HQ got cut off when Minnesota seceded. They couldn't afford the international customs fees to sell in America no more," shouted a gruff voice over the steam.

"Damn. Really could have used some of them tonight."

Gerard was mentally begging them to shut up. Aside from his pounding headache and the echoing sound of hammers ringing in his ears, they were bordering on anti-capitalist speech—a criminal offense these days. If this work was hard, he could hardly imagine the toll free prison labor would take.

All too soon, the water shut off, and before the steam could settle, Gerard was slamming his locker and racing out the door. He straightened his messenger bag over his shoulder as he ran toward the subway. It was always a race against time to get to the station before surge pricing kicked in. Precious minutes could cost hundreds. Time was a luxury of the rich.

The only still moment of his day was the subway ride. If he could squeeze into a seat, Gerard would spend his hour-long commute huddled in a corner with his sketchbook, drawing the characters and panels he once thought would take him away from this hell.

At home, the TV blared, and blue light flooded the apartment. He'd grown up in a modest home on a quiet street, but after the climax of the Helium Wars, Battery City was the safest investment. At the time, Gerard had thought it would be good for Mikey. His little brother could finish school in a safe place where the radiation was minimal, and the funding was robust. The removal of free public education put a damper on that plan.

Their parents were hard workers, the perfect blue-collar specimen, but even after taking on overtime at every opportunity, affording Mikey's education became dicey. Gerard never planned to follow in his parents' footsteps but dropped his work with comics and relinquished his outspoken activism to take on a factory job for the sake of his brother.

There was another issue. The corporatocracy was a failure by design, a creed of complacency and a gospel of envy preaching to a captive audience. Its inherent virtue was the sharing of misery. BL/ind had a cure.

Gerard had gotten used to the sight; his parents numb on the couch after a hard day of work. On one hand, he couldn't blame them—the work was like marching toward your own funeral—but on the other hand, he'd sooner let the blood himself than give up what little he had left of his humanity. When they first brought home the generic white blister pack, he begged them not to—fought his way through screaming matches over the smiling face on the counter. They were too desperate to escape. Relief in the form of relinquishing. Complacency in a cure.

Most days, they returned from the daily grind, took a happy little pill, and resigned to the corporate-sponsored news media.

Gerard dropped his keys on the kitchen table. It was no use greeting his parents; they'd been gone for years. These days he didn't have the patience to entertain them.

There was no sign of Mikey. The teen had been resigned to his bedroom for the last month. Gerard could see the undone homework piling up in his brother's unkept backpack, and bile rose in his throat when his first thought was to worry about how much money they were spending on Mikey's education. He steadied himself on the table and took a deep breath. This world had a way of making you conform whether you liked it or not, but Gerard refused. Willed the intrusive thought away from his mind with a long exhale.

It wasn't Mikey's fault.

Mourning always comes.

Gerard opened the door slowly, cheap hinges creaking as warm light bled through the crack. The room was dark, and he couldn't barely make out the impression on the bed that was his baby brother.

"How are you doing?" Gerard asked softly. His weight bobbled between his feet as he struggled to find a comfortable position.

"I'm fine," Mikey insisted. The shoes that hung over the edge of the bed said otherwise.

Gerard teetered hesitantly in the doorway. "You know you don't have to keep it together around me, Mikey. You can talk to me. I won't—"

"I said I'm FINE, Gee."

"I'm sorry," Gerard whispered, though he wasn't sure what for. 

The room was silent. The stiff air clung to Gerard's clothes and weighed his feet into the floor. There was nothing he could do to make it release, and he knew that. Mikey was hurting; he needed to hurt. All Gerard could do for his little brother was support him along the way.

"Have you eaten?"

"Not hungry," Mikey mumbled. The bedsheets rustled as he turned away.

He didn't like seeing Mikey like this, but the fatigue still crept up on Gerard. He could feel his patience wearing thin, and it was an exhaustive effort to keep it down. In the stillness, he inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly.

"Did you at least have lunch at school?" 

"Sure."

It was a fight neither brother had the energy to fight. Gerard would never force Mikey to do anything he didn't want, and they both knew it.

"Okay." The whisper was somewhere between plea and surrender, and the white flag hung in the air as Gerard quietly closed the door.

The hum of the microwave lulled the tired man into a sleepless state somewhere far away from himself. The TV dinner bubbled on the hot plate while the rage stewed in Gerard's stomach. He was always angry these days, and it was starting to become difficult to tell the cause.

The government.

The world.

The war. 

His job.

His brother.

Himself.

The timer's ding was the shrill noise that brought him back to his aching body. The meal was bland, but it was never meant to elicit joy. A city with no emotions has no need for culinary tradition, no wish for rich and vivid comforts. A culture that wants nothing feels nothing at all.

Growing up, Gerard had been handed so many prescriptions to make him feel more, make him feel less, make him feel better, make him feel anything. Then came the drug to make him feel nothing at all. He didn't want it. He never wanted any of it. He hated the intense emotions that felt like clawing himself from the inside out, sadness or euphoria. He recognized his humanity, inhumanity, insanity. It was reality or madness, and Gerard had made his choice long ago. He liked the hurt.

Chapter Text

Capitalism arose before the sun. Another day, another dollar. Each man is valued at what he will bring in the marketplace. Meaning has been drained from work and assigned instead to remuneration.

Every now and then, the numbness would set in. Every repetitive motion at the manufacturing plant would send Gerard's mind further and further away from itself. The ache in his spine from two years of leaning over the factory table was his only tether to the earth. The bell would always ring through the failing speakers, and it was always a chore to climb back into his own body at the end of a shift.

It never changed.

The run to the tram station was always a panting panic, the long ride home was always slow and quiet, the walk to the apartment was dark and damp, and as soon as he opened the door, he was greeted by the blaring sound and the eerie blue glow cast by the news.

Mikey's homework was still piling up in his backpack, forgotten on the floor. The dishes Gerard had been too tired to do were stacking up in the sink. Nothing ever changed, not by itself.

Gerard took a deep breath to remember himself before approaching Mikey's door. To his surprise, the door slowly fell open when he knocked. The light was on, and Gerard wasn't sure how to react. When was the last time he'd seen his brother out of the dark? Even more, Mikey was sitting up, staring out the window.

"How are you today?" Gerard asked, struggling to hide the apprehension in his voice. He would welcome change, especially when it came to Mikey healing, but he couldn't bring himself to expect it. The back of the teen's head refused to turn as Gerard approached, sitting next to his brother on the bed. "Mikey?"

"I feel good," Mikey responded, but his cadence was dead in the water, and his gaze didn't shift from the window.

Gerard followed Mikey's line of sight, but it didn't reach far, blocked by a billboard that had been long forgotten. The white canvas was water stained and sloughing off at parts. A vast tear hung a strand over the apartment complex's roof across the street. It wasn't uncommon in this neighborhood to have sponsored living arrangements. The ads helped keep rent lower—or at least, so they said. Nevertheless, there was that stupid smiling face that seemed to follow him everywhere. Suddenly Gerard was frantic.

"Mikey, what happened?"

"I'm okay now."

Shaky breaths began to rattle Gerard's chest as he pieced together the site. Mikey didn't look okay. He looked ready to cry, like the tears were stuck in his eyes, but he couldn't let them out. He looked like he was in pain. Yet his face was valid of emotion.

The patience Gerard had built up in recent years crumbled as he stormed out of the room. Before he could catch up with his actions, he ripped the plug out of the socket, and the TV flashed a white screen and a threatening warning before going dark.

"If you do that, we'll get charged for going ad-free." The words felt like they'd be said rooms away or never at all.

"Did you drug my little brother?!" Gerard yelled. It wasn't worth his energy to get mad. No matter what he did, his parents would feel nothing. They were incapable of reacting in any meaningful way.

"Of course not." The response was dead before it fell from his mother's lips.

Gerard took a step back. His thoughts were becoming jumbled. He was both dredging full force forward and questioning every step. A cacophony of anger and panic played through his head on repeat. He covered his mouth with a shaking hand as he breathed deeply, eyes desperately searching the room for an answer. On the coffee table before him laid the evidence: a plain white blister pack, which he snatched up immediately.

Gerard mustered the calmest voice he could, but the anger bubbled in his throat. "Did you give Mikey one of these pills?"

"Yes."

"Why?" The response was automatic as the man leaned in, waving the dreaded pills in his hand. His colorful anger failed to paint a single emotion onto his mother's face.

"He was sad."

The blister pack hit the coffee table with a loud snap where he'd thrown it down. "His fucking friend died! He's supposed to be sad."
"He doesn't have to be."

Gerard turned his back to hide the tears welling in his eyes. He couldn't speak anymore lest the sob pour out of his throat. He rushed to his room for a moment of reprieve, but he felt restless. He couldn't even pace for two seconds without itching. So he forced his way into the back of his closet, where there was an old black sweatshirt. It had been shredded at the bottom of the sleeve and shoulder, small holes littering the side that had been caught in the dryer years ago. Gerard hadn't touched it in years, but he found himself pulling it over his head as he stumbled back into the living room. Without looking, he swiped his jacket and keys off the kitchen table and rushed to the exit as he struggled to pull leather over the bulky sweatshirt.

Gerard said nothing as he left. His dad was plugging in the TV again before he'd even made it out the door. It didn't matter if he cried or pleaded. Yelling was no different than whispering. Emotions elicit no response from a brick wall.

The night was damp and cold, and Gerard found himself hiding in the hood of his sweatshirt as he passed down the empty streets. No such thing as nightlife in a company town. Why would any piece of the machine make a life for itself outside of work?

The sign for the hardware store buzzed and flickered at the end of the road—the low neon hum like a siren song pulling him in. Sleighbells startled Gerard as he opened the door. The last thing he wanted was to have his presence announced. A cashier looked up from the desk at him but showed no interest. Gerard tried to smile and gave an awkward wave by his hip, but ultimately it meant nothing. The whole town had gone to shit, and it was damn near impossible to find someone who wasn't drugged out on those pills. The cure to everything. The feeling of nothing.

Gerard couldn't stop the hesitation that came with every step. The question, "What am I doing here?" repeated endlessly in his head as he peered over the short store shelves to keep tabs on the cashier. He could feel the steely stare of the security cameras boring into his back. He chanced a look up at the monitor and made eye contact with himself in the screen. Panic filled him, and his eyes left the screen as he immediately turned, as if shielding his visage with his covered back. The leather jacket was heavy, and the large hood of the sweatshirt shielded the curve of his jaw. Still, the idea of being recognized was enough to make Gerard drop to a knee as he struggled to catch his breath. Greasy hair fell into his face as he stared at the city tile floor, willing it to stop shaking beneath him.

The urge to laugh settled into Gerard's stomach. He hadn't even done anything wrong yet, and he was already having a panic attack. He wanted to cry. He had every sense to leave. Nothing had happened, he was innocent, and he was safe. Gerard could simply walk away and go on about his life, yet he was glued to the floor in fear of what he hadn't done, and the more he panicked, the more he unraveled, and the crime called to him.

The colorful cans he'd come for were in arms reach. So he began fiddling with his shoelaces—unwinding them and adjusting the tension. He pulled them too tight. The pain was grounding. It reminded him why he was angry. No amount of giving up hope could have prepared him to see Mikey's eyes as lifeless as a ghost. So he swiped the can with the red cap and tucked it into his sweatshirt, and the adrenaline coursing through his veins carried him out of the store, giving the cashier the same show of an awkward wave as when he entered.

By the time he came home, the TV had been turned down to a low hum in an empty room. There was never silence when the ads were mandatory. The blue light exhausted him. He could feel the dark circles forming under his eyes as he miserably shrugged off his coat. He shoved the side of his face into the wall as he hung it up, relishing in the cold touch and the smell of cheap paint. His face had grown hot against the brisk night wind.

By the time Gerard's mind faded back into reality, he wasn't sure how long he'd stood there dissociating with his cheek smushed into the wall. It had been late enough by the time he got home. No matter how much dread filled the pit of his stomach, he would have to board the train again in a few hours and head back to the manufacturing line. He began to stumble toward his room to catch what few precious hours of sleep he could manage.

It was the warm glow of lamp light reaching out from under Mikey's door that pulled Gerard away from his path to bed. He was tired, but Gerard forced himself to muster the energy to appear alert as he quietly opened the door. Mikey was doubled over on the bed; head clutched in his trembling hands.

"Mikey? You okay?" It was a dumb question from a tired mouth. Gerard could feel the snail's pace his mind was moving to process the situation.
Mikey whimpered without looking up, "It hurts, Gee."

A couple more rotations of the gears in his head and Gerard finally understood that Mikey was talking about the withdrawals. The worst of the worst because they were designed that way. Pain that makes you so desperate you take another to subside it. Then you never stop.

Seeing his brother in this much pain filled Gerard with murderous intent. He could have screamed, but he swallowed it down. He wanted to speak comfort to Mikey, but the thought withered away until there was nothing left but a graveyard in his mouth, filled with the soft words that died on his lips.

Gerard said nothing as he approached Mikey's bed and sat beside him, pulling his little brother's head into his lap. Gee began running his fingers through Mikey's hair, scratching his scalp as if his fingernails could lift the pain buried deep in his head. Gerard stared out the window.

If Mikey had been in his right mind, he might have followed his brother's gaze. He may have even noticed the lack of surprise on Gerard's face as he glared at the billboard, vandalized in red paint. The smiling face had two large Xs drawn through its eyes, and scrawled above the company logo were the words, "An eye for an eye makes the whole world BL/ind."