Killjoy 'Verse. Early Killjoys, where Gerard Way became Party Poison.
He ran his hand over the gun, holding it in one hand, feeling it’s weight, getting used to the feel of it. Holding it up, aiming it, trying to imagine himself firing it. To wound. To kill. Lowered it again. All the while his mind was thinking over the idea of a new identity. A new name. They already had the name they called themselves, collectively. The Killjoys. The name had presented itself easily, and fit perfectly. Now everyone was waiting for their personal names to do the same.
Standing up, he headed towards the bedrooms, hoping for a brief respite from the clamour of thoughts and voices and images in his head.
It didn’t work out that way.
He’d laid the gun on his bed, Now, here he was staring in the mirror. Hands gripping either side of the sink below it. Carefully, methodically taking in every inch of his face, one so well known, by so many. A vaguely familiar thought popped into this head. I am sick of seeing my face. Had he said that before? A lifetime ago, maybe. He stared at the eyes he’d once circled in black, once smudged with red.
He looked down at his clothes, same ones he’d been wearing when he and his brother first ran from the city. Dark jeans, a dark t-shirt. Sensible, when you’re trying to steal away into the night, when you’re trying to hide.
Raising his eyes to the mirror again. Wearily, “Who the fuck are you?”
Just a man, not a hero.
Yes, they needed to hide their identities, that much was obvious, sensible, even. But they, the Killjoys would not disappear. Would not blend in. Would not hide. They would blaze a fucking Technicolor trail straight through this fucking desert. Outlaws, rebels. The motherfucking enemy against the black and white anonymity of the Blind.
Art is the weapon.
Across the room, rifling through the bag of clothes and belongings he’d barely touched since they got here, finding stuff he hardly remembered owning. Pulled out a couple of items. Perfect.
Kicked off his boots, changed the dark jeans for light ones, the t-shirt also swapped. The boots, he kept. This was feeling right.
Then he started hunting through the cupboards, the drawers, not knowing what he was looking for until it found them. Gun holster, immediately attached to his belt. Then, two things that made him smile. First, a mask, a yellow eye mask, decorated with simple blue circles and black triangles. And second, (couldn’t believe he’d found this), hair dye. Closer inspection, red. Fucking sexy.
Hanging the mask off the top of the mirror, he got to work on his hair. Inspecting it in the mirror, it’d be difficult to work with, being jet black now, but maybe the dye would be strong enough, if not, it’d at least be a start. It was getting kinda long again, but he could certainly work with that.
A while later, and he was finally towel drying his hair, rubbing furiously at it out of impatience. Still slightly damp, he straightened up, flicking his hair up out of his eyes. Fingers still entangled in the top of it he stared, then grinned. Bright red.
Went back to the cupboards again. A couple more things. Blue leather jacket (which, later, would be tooled with his emblem), and brown, fingerless leather gloves. Shrugged on the jacket, pulled on the gloves. Picked up his gun as he went past, it was already feeling like a part of him, fit it snugly in the holster at his thigh. Finally, he retrieved the mask, slipped it on. Looked up at the mirror again. And found a confident grin on this lips. “Who the fuck are you?” He asked, again. There was no hesitation.
Party Poison, leader of The Fabulous Killjoys.