Fic: James Cameron Got It Wrong (2/6)

[ladyfoxxx]

Master Post | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6

***

"I'm in the future?" Frank asks, already knowing the answer, but needing to fucking hear it, goddamnit. He steps closer to the red-haired Gerard. "Gee, what year is it?"

Gerard takes a breath, his hands clenching to fists as he stares at the floor, like he's making a decision. Finally, he looks up to meet Frank's eyes and says, "It's 2019."

"Shit." It's like the floor shifts under Frank's feet and he has to take a step back to steady himself. "It's not," he says. "It can't be. Fuck. Fuck. Gee, we have a show tomorrow - interviews, appearances, I can't just vanish, Brian's gonna fucking kill me."

"Brian." Gerard repeats the name slowly, like it's a forgotten word he's only just remembered.

"Gerard." Frank snaps his fingers in front of Gerard's face. "Gerard, you have to send me back."

"I don't know how."

"What? Can't you just... do the reverse of what you did before?"

"No - you don't, see, I mean, I didn't do anything. Like, you program the tech to send you out and when the set time expires you just..." Gerard scratches his head, fucking his hair up in a red shaggy mess over his forehead. "You just come back."

"But I didn't go in the first place."

"I know, right? It mustn't have been able to tell you apart from Ghou - um, I mean, this Frank. The one who belongs here."

"So he's still back there? In 2005?"

Gerard shrugs, looking helpless. "Probably." He shifts on his feet, scratching the back of his neck. "But hey, he looks like you, and he knows all the songs, so like, he can do the shows and the interviews and shit."

"With the wrong hair and about a billion new tattoos."

"It's not my fault you keep getting new tattoos."

"We're not talking about me, Gerard, shit."

"But we are, sort of." Gerard's brow furrows deep and Frank is suddenly so aware of his bare ass.

He holds the bundle of clothes closer to him. "Let me get dressed, then let's sort this out."

"Oh." Gerard blinks like he's only just noticed that Frank's not wearing pants. "Right, right, sorry." He turns around and starts to walk back to the doorway he emerged from. "You can just-"

He's cut off mid-sentence by a barrage of drums and trumpets coming through some tinny speakers. It takes a moment for Frank to process what he's hearing, by which time Gerard is already swearing.

"Is that Christina Aguilera?"

"Shit. Shit. Yes. Shit. It's the proximity alarm." There's more than a note of panic in his voice.

"Your proximity alarm is Christina Aguilera?"

"Shut up, it was your idea."

"Not my idea."

"Not yet," Gerard corrects him absently, running into the next room. "Get fucking dressed," he shouts back through the doorway, "and fast. We need to run."

Frank's completely confused now, but Gerard is moving faster than Frank's seen him go in his life, so he doesn't question it. He just shoves his legs into the cargos and pulls on the fucking ugly t-shirt. He can hear Gerard next door, doing something that seems to require a fair amount of banging and sliding metal.

The blaring strains of what Frank's pretty certain is "Candyman" shut off abruptly and then the strange, older, red-haired version of Frank's lead singer is back in the room. He's got a gun holster strapped to his thigh now, which holds a gun that looks like the one the other Frank had except it's bright yellow instead of bright green. Frank can't help staring at it. Fuck, everyone's packing these days?

"We gotta run," Gerard says breathlessly picking up a tangle of brown leather from the floor and strapping it around Frank's chest with efficient hands. It's a shoulder holster. He shoves the bright green gun into it and hands Frank the boots he didn’t get a chance to put on. "Now." His voice is breathless and completely serious. He grabs Frank's wrist and rushes for the door.

Frank's momentarily blinded by the sun when they make it outside. It's so fucking bright. When he can finally focus, all he sees is sand - sand for miles, hot under his bare feet - with sparse vegetation and not much else. He snatches a backwards glance, barely getting an eyeful of the old gas station they've just run out of - broken windows and empty shelves, derelict rusted-out pumps - before they turn a corner and there's a Trans Am parked in front of them, a bright streak of colour in the faded, dusty surroundings.

Gerard drops Frank's wrist, running for the driver's door, shouting, "Get in!"

Frank scrambles for the passenger door as Gerard starts the engine and guns it. Frank's ass hits the too-hot leather and the car's in motion before he's even gotten the door closed all the way.

They're speeding toward the horizon over sand and dust, going faster than Frank can calculate without any road markings to guide him. Gerard's face is a mask of concentration and he's driving like a rally driver, switching up gears and gaining speed, checking the rear view mirror every few seconds, whispering, "Come on. Come on."

"Gee?" Frank wants to know what the fuck is going on.

"Not now, not now," Gerard answers, his voice hurried in the way he gets when all his focus is on a song, or an idea, and there just isn't room for anything else. Frank knows that means he shouldn't push, not now, so he presses his palm to the dash and turns his head to look out the back windshield. And that's when he sees it.

"Gee." Frank's voice raises high with panic, because coming up behind them are two motorcycles, glaring white in the bright sunlight, the riders dressed in white from head to toe and wearing masks.

"I see them," Gerard says, his voice eerily calm over the growling engine, which revs louder as he shifts up a gear. "Switch places with me."

"What?" Frank startles, staring at Gerard.

"Take the wheel," Gerard says, his voice a demand as he scoots forwards in the seat. "I need you to drive. Now, Frank."

The command in his voice startles Frank into movement and he scrambles to slide in behind Gerard. He's pressed flat back against the seat, Gerard's body in front of him. "Get your foot on the pedal," Gerard instructs and Frank feels for the accelerator with his bare foot, pressing in beside Gerard's. The car surges forwards as he bumps the pedal.

Gerard slides out then, and Frank barely manages to grab the wheel before it spins. Then he's driving a fucking Trans Am across a desert, fuck. "Gee? Where am I going?" he shouts, panic leaking into his voice.

Gerard's not looking at him, he's looking out the back window and drawing his yellow gun. "Anywhere, just go fast." He reaches across Frank's chest and when he withdraws his hand, Frank sees he's grabbed the green gun too. Then, like some kind of fucking action film, Gerard slides across the seat, sticking his torso through the passenger window and firing, both guns blazing, toward the motorcyclists behind them.

Frank glances into the rear-view mirror in time to see one of the bikes weave, a spot of red appearing in the bright white of his clothes. Almost like it's in slow motion, he watches the bike pitch sideways and slide across the sand, the rider spilling off and hitting the ground hard. Harder than anyone could survive. Holy fuck.

The sight arrests him a moment too long. When he focuses back on the front windshield there's an anthill coming at them. Frank yanks the wheel sideways, barely missing it.

"Shit. Shit." Frank's hands shake on the wheel, but he forces himself to straighten up, firming his grip tight before he dares to look at the passenger window, shit-scared Gerard won't be there anymore because he fell out of the car.

Gerard's still there, thank Christ, one elbow braced on the window ledge, one knee on the seat, his other leg in the foot well. He's panting, his red hair blowing around his face. "Keep it steady, Frankie," he shouts through the window and Frank grits his teeth and tries, keeping the accelerator floored.

Then Gerard's straightening up and firing out the window again, just like that, and Frank's struggling to keep the car going in a straight line while Gerard starts shooting at the other rider. The other rider who's getting closer and closer. He's weaving up behind them now, in range enough that Frank can make out that the white rubber mask he's wearing looks like it's meant to be Dracula. What the fuck?

The rider's close enough to start taking pot shots at them, raising a white gun in their direction and firing. There's the shriek of metal when it hits the Trans Am, somewhere in the back bumper, and Frank swears, fighting the urge to weave the car.

Gerard starts firing in earnest now, shrieking, "Don't shoot my fucking car!" Anger must improve his aim because a bloom of red appears on the rider's shoulder. He doesn't go down though, he keeps gaining and suddenly Frank can't see him anymore because he's in his blind spot.

"Gerard. Gerard, I can't see him!" Frank's voice comes out more than a little panicked. Gerard dives across the seat, leaning over Frank to shoot out the driver window and Frank gets a noseful of ozone a moment before his ears are assaulted by shots. He keeps his eyes forward, trained on the horizon ahead, past Gerard's shoulder, feeling the kickback through his body every time Gerard fires.

He doesn't see the second rider go down. He doesn't want to. He knows Gerard gets him, because he stops firing and comes back inside the car, slumping in the passenger seat and holstering his gun. There's probably a body and a wrecked motorcycle strewn across the landscape behind them, but Frank doesn't look in the rear-view mirror. He keeps his eyes forward and his foot pressed flat, watching the horizon that never gets closer.

He doesn't know how long he stays like that, just driving, hands tight on the steering wheel, before Gerard's voices pierces through the howl of the wind, the thrum of the engine.

"Frank."

Frank keeps his eyes on the horizon, his hands on the wheel. Just keep going.

"Frank." A gentle hand on Frank's shoulder. "Frank you can stop now. It's okay. They're gone. It's safe. You can stop."

Gerard's shakes him gently. "Frank, come on. Ease off. It's okay."

Frank can't seem to relax his foot from the accelerator. As long as the motor is running, their surroundings whipping past in a blur, he doesn't have to think yet. Just keep going.

"Frank, stop!" Gerard orders, voice hard over the howl of the engine.

Something snaps in Frank and he slams on the brakes. The car careens to a halt, spinning sideways on the dirt and Frank's back smacks into the seat. For a long moment there's nothing but the rumble of the engine idling, then Gerard reaches across and turns the key in the ignition, killing it. Without the noise and the wind Frank can suddenly hear his own breathing, how unsteady it is. He peels his hands off the steering wheel. They feel cramped, stuck in their grip.

"What the fuck was that?" he asks, a growl in his voice, fighting down a clamouring hysteria that's building in his chest, threatening to leak out. He turns his eyes to Gerard's face, streaked with sweat and dust. "What the fuck just happened, Gerard? Where are we?"

Gerard sucks hard on his lower lip, his brow furrowed deep. His voice is almost apologetic when he answers, "California."

"Bullshit," Frank says, glancing around at the endless sand, littered with debris and scrub, not a building in sight. "California doesn't look like this."

"It does now," Gerard says, and when Frank focuses on him again he can see how huge his eyes are - serious and concerned.

Frank doesn't want to ask. He doesn't want to know, not really, but right now he has to.

"What the fuck happened here, Gerard?"

Gerard shrugs, his mouth pulling to the side as he tells Frank, simply, truthfully, "The end of the world."

***

Gerard drives them back to the derelict gas station. Frank stares out the window the entire way, consciously not looking out for trashed motorcycles and dead bodies dressed in white, but he doesn't see them anyway. Maybe Gerard drives them via a different route, or maybe the bodies are just gone. He doesn't want to know.

He can't focus on anything, the world is a blur rushing past his face and he can't think, can't process. There are no cities anymore. No government to speak of, just a faceless corporation that stepped up to run the show after the bombs fell and wiped out all the infrastructure. Better Living industries, they're called. They were probably well-intentioned until they were corrupted by power, before they tried to sedate the populace, leaving anyone desiring free thought no choice but to run. These are the few facts Gerard rambled out before Frank told him to shut up. He's not ready to hear this yet.

He feels ill. Nauseous. The air around him feels thick and hard to breathe and dust is scratchy at the back of his throat.

He's probably in shock, he realises idly. He can feel Gerard's eyes on him, glancing over every mile or so, concern heavy in his gaze. He can't bring himself to reassure Gerard. Hell, he can't even reassure himself.

They pull up outside the gas station, and the silence when the engine stops is overwhelming. Frank can feel Gerard's eyes on him, can sense the questions he wants to ask, but in the end all he says to Frank is, "You should put your boots on."

Frank does, even though his hands are shaking so hard it's difficult to tie the laces. He follows Gerard into the gas station. It's a wreck. Smashed equipment scatters the floor, tables are overturned, the once-neat boxes containing car parts and tools are lying on their sides, contents spilling broken onto the floor.

"They've been here," Gerard says needlessly. He races into the room he first emerged from and Frank can hear him banging doors open and swearing. "Fuck, fuck."

He emerges, pacing and wringing his hands. "They took it. The tech. All of it. It's gone."

Frank opens his mouth to ask what that means, but the drone of distant engines steals his focus away. He races for the door, peering out, his heart pounding already because he can see motorcycles in the distance. Fuck, it isn't fair. They just got back. He's not ready for this again.

He's about to run back to the car when Gerard presses a calming hand to Frank's shoulder. "It's okay. It's not them. We're safe."

Frank looks Gerard, an eyebrow quirking up. "Safe?" He thinks he needs to re-think his definition of safe, now.

"Relatively safe." Gerard shoots him a weak smile. "That's Mikey and Ray."

Frank grips the doorframe, staring out at the distant riders. He tries to imagine the Mikey and Ray he knows existing in this place. Mikey with his spindly legs and trademark glasses. Ray with his soft smile and fluffy hair. He just can't picture it.

The motorcycles are getting closer and Frank can make out a colourful yellow helmet with rainbow stripes on it, worn by a rider with a red jacket. It's got to be Mikey, no one else is that thin. The other rider looks stockier, wearing a huge round helmet like an astronaut or diver would wear. When they park and dismount Frank can see the set of his shoulders and the way he moves is Ray all over. The back of his jacket sports an American flag. They're both wearing gun holsters carrying weapons. Ray's gun is blue, Mikey's is red.

Frank's not ever going to get used to that.

He's wondering where Bob is, when Ray's helmet comes off. Ray looks noticeably older in the face, messy stubble across his cheeks and chin. His skin is browner, slightly pink with sunburn, and the set of his body looks a little thicker and more solid. His hair is still long, curly and wild - and it's such a comfort to see something so familiar in this alien place Frank has to hold himself back from hugging him. He steps back from the door, slipping deeper into the shadowed diner, feeling even more out of place.

Ray notices there's something amiss at the gas station immediately, jogging up to the door and inside to look around at the trashed kitchen. His face creases with concern and Frank notices the way his hands clench into fists. His voice is deadly soft when he asks, "What happened, Poison?"

"Raided. We got chased off by dracs probably an hour ago. If it wasn't for the proximity alarm they would've gotten us too."

Ray starts for the tech room, but Gerard catches him by the arm. "Don't bother. They got it. All of it."

"Shit," Ray says, clawing a hand through his hair, brow furrowing. "Shit, shit. We traded so much for that. And we didn't even get to use it."

Frank opens his mouth to speak, but Mikey crosses into his frame of vision and Frank loses all the words. Because holy shit.

"Mikeyway?" The nickname slips out like a question, because though Frank can tell it's Mikey, knows it's Mikey, it's such a different Mikey to any Frank's ever seen. For one, he's not wearing glasses, which is enough of a shock, his dark eyes standing out above his high sharp cheekbones. For two, his hair is a shock of bright blonde, long and spiky over his forehead, the back and sides shaved short. He's shucked his helmet and jacket, wearing only a short-sleeved muscle shirt in yellow and black zebra print, showing off upper arms that are still slender but muscled now. There's a dusting of stubble on his upper lip and chin and he looks grown up and manly and fucking hot. He's like the fucking swan at the end of the ugly duckling book.

Mikey turns at his name and stares at Frank. Just stares. No words. And Frank knows suddenly that he and Mikey are having the exact same moment.

"Poison?" Mikey asks finally, his voice a little tremulous.

That gets Ray and Gerard's attention and Frank knows the moment Ray figures it out. He stares at Frank's mohawk for a long moment before walking right up to Frank and shoving the shirtsleeve of his right arm up, revealing bare skin.

"Oh no," he says, turning to Gerard, "oh Jesus Christ, tell me you didn't."

"It wasn't supposed to go this way." Gerard raises his hands, apologetic. "Me and Ghoul were testing the tech - seeing if we could bring stuff back - well, forwards, I guess."

"Mission accomplished," Mikey butts in, his voice as dry as the desert as he stares at Frank.

"Oh jesus." Ray presses a palm to his face and just breathes, slow and deliberate for ten - Frank counts them - breaths. Then he turns back to Frank. "What year is it, where you're from?"

"2005," Frank says. "We're on Taste of Chaos. Last time I saw you, you were on your way to a party with Avenged Sevenfold."

Ray can't seem to close his mouth. He turns back to Gerard. "And where's Ghoul?" He looks like he might already know the answer but he's asking anyway just to torture himself.

"Um, so he's in 2005 on the Taste Of Chaos tour. We think. It was only supposed to be for a couple of hours, but the machine brought back the wrong Frank. I didn’t even know it could do that."

"Which is why we were gonna test it before we tried to use it for anything important. Remember?" Ray's voice gets higher in pitch the louder it gets. And maybe its shock or hysteria, or just relief that he's not the only one who thinks this entire situation is completely fucked, but it tugs Frank's mouth into his first smile of 2019.

"Is that what you call it, testing it?" He giggles, smothering a hand over his face, thinking of his whirlwind seduction by his future self. The laugh dies in his throat as a piece of information clicks into place: Gerard was the one who sent the other Frank back. Gerard was the "friend" on the other end of the earpiece. Fuck, fuck, fuck - how much did he hear? Was he even listening?

Frank stares at the red-haired version of his best friend, losing track of whatever he and Ray are saying about fuel or power wastage as his mind turns over the possibilities. His face starts to burn as he wonders just how far this goes. How much Gerard heard, how much he wanted to hear. Fuck, what if he was beating off to them?

His mind skitters away from the thought. He can't think about that. Not now. He hasn't let himself think about Gerard that way since he got sober. And not even that often before then, except when they were both drunk enough to pretend they didn’t remember it.

When Frank feels like he's got his brain back under contol, he manages to ask the question that's been forming in the back of his mind the last few minutes. "Who's Ghoul?"

"Oh, um, you are." Gerard springs at the change of subject. "The you from now, that is. Fun Ghoul. It's your code name."

"We try to use code names instead of actual ones, there's a lot of listening tech now, if they hear the right names it makes it easier for them to track you down," Ray explains, somehow having retained his incredible patience even in the future.

"Oh right. Fun Ghoul, ha. That's like 'fuck you' in Italian." Frank grins weakly.

"We know," Mikey says with a small smile.

"'Course," Frank says, scratching a hand through his hair while he considers that. That's probably why the other Frank chose it in the first place. Damn. He's years behind these guys, he'll probably never catch up. "So, you're Poison then?" he says to Gerard.

"Party Poison. But yeah. You catch on fast." Gerard grins, just unsure enough that Frank catches a glimpse of the Gerard he knows so well under the leather pants and red hair. It makes his heart squeeze up.

He gets shaken out of his reverie by Ray chiming in, "I go by Jet Star, and then there's Kobra Kid." He nudges Mikey with his elbow. "You get the idea."

Frank does. He also thinks the code names are kind of stupid, but he's not gonna bring that up right now. "So what, you have to use code names all the time? Are they always listening?"

"Probably not, but it was just easier to pick a name and stick with it. You keep changing it up and you tend to use the wrong one at the wrong time," Ray explains, shrugging out of his jacket and tossing it over the side of an overturned table.

"Oh right." Frank nods. It makes sense. "Well, like, sorry in advance if I get it wrong. I think it's gonna take some practice."

"You shouldn't be here long enough for it to be an issue. Right, Poison?" Ray glares at Gerard, but Gerard just bites his lip and he doesn't look away. Fuck, Ray in the future is fierce.

The silent standoff between Ray and Gerard lasts for another thirty seconds. Surprisingly, Mikey is the one to break it.

"So, this place is blown. We should probably get our shit together and move somewhere else before they come back looking for us." He raises his voice slightly, "Don't you think, guys?"

Ray nods slowly. "Yeah. Good point." He stalks into the tech room, without a word to Gerard. Frank can hear him slamming around in there.

Gerard takes a step towards his brother, his voice a low whisper, a question, "Kobra?"

"Don't." Mikey shakes his head, looking at Gerard, something in his expression that probably only Gerard can read. "Later." Mikey glances at Frank and then back at Gerard. "Not now." Gerard nods and lets him go. Mikey picks up an abandoned crate and starts picking through the debris, grabbing things that may or may not be useful, working from a criteria Frank can't fathom.

Frank watches him for a moment, allowing the thoughts he's been holding at bay to coalesce in his mind before asking Gerard, "The tech that they took - that was the machine that brought me here, wasn't it? That's what's gone?"

He already knows the answer, it's all over Gerard's face, his brow furrowed in apology. "Yeah."

Frank swears under his breath, scuffing a foot at the concrete floor. He could be stuck here. Forever. He might never get those years back. The best years of his life, his older self had told him.

Warm fingers closing around his distract him from those thoughts. He looks up from the dusty concrete to find Gerard's eyes on his, looking as earnest as he's ever seen him. "We'll get you back to 2005, I promise. I swear we'll figure it out."

All signs point to it being a difficult, if not impossible task, but in that moment - with Gerard's hands warm in his, his eyes looking at Frank, wide and imploring - Frank totally believes him.

Just like he's always believed everything Gerard's ever said to him when he looks like he really means it.

***

If Frank was wearing a watch he could have timed it, but by his own estimates it's less than fifteen minutes before they're on the road again. With the discussions out of the way, the guys move fast, zeroing in on supplies and equipment they need without hesitation, packing up and moving stuff out of the gas station faster than the quickest festival crew.

Frank can't figure out what's important and what's junk so he tries to stay out of the foot traffic. He gets stuck staring at a pile of messy sleeping bags and a couple of lumpy pillows in the corner of the main room, near some windows blacked out with a jumble of old plastic bags and cardboard.

Scribbled on the wall by the sleeping bags is a tangle of sketches in marker, lines tracking over cracks in the concrete. Aliens, zombies, vampires, trees - they're the kind of doodles Gerard tends to do when he's bored or can't sleep. There's a battered comic book, some empty cans anda close-to-empty bottle of water on the floor nearby. That's when it finally clicks for Frank.

"You guys live here?" His voice peaks high in disbelief.

"Not anymore," Mikey answers in a droll tone, bending down to toss the sleeping bags over his shoulder and picking up the comic book with care,almost reverence. Frank can't figure out why - it's not even one of Mikey's preferred trades, he's never really liked Superman.

The reason becomes clear moments later when he helps Mikey carry the bedding to the Trans Am. Mikey lays the comic in the corner of the trunk with three others, all looking battered. Mikey skates a finger down the cover before carefully laying the sleeping bags over the top of the pile. Of course. Comics would be hard to come by these days; the guys are hanging on to any they can find.

Only a few days ago - well, a few days ago to Frank, fourteen years ago to everyone else - Frank, Mikey and Gerard had ducked off before sound check to visit a local comic store. They'd bought a few stacks each. Frank can remember picking over the titles, trying not to double up with ones he already had. By the afternoon the comics were scattered over the floor of the bus, being stepped on, forgotten, as everyone's attention by then had switched to some horror movie marathon on the big TV.

Frank hasn't seen a TV in this future, yet, and the only music he's heard was that proximity alarm.

Fuck.

Music. The thought springs into Frank's head as he watches Mikey and Ray put the last few bottles of water and tins of food into the trunk, with the scattering of electronics, car parts, batteries and scant few clothes. There's no music in there. No CD's or vinyl and certainly no guitars or instruments.

Frank thinks of the calluses he felt on the other Frank's - no, Fun Ghoul's - hands, hanging on tight to what he'd said about how he was still playing. Just not as often as he'd like to. He wouldn't have lied about that. Would he?

"Is that everything, like - everything you've got?" Frank finds himself asking, even though he's not sure he wants the answer.

"Too much shit weighs you down," Ray explains, already reaching for his oversized helmet. "Are you thinking of that diner, Poison?" Ray directs the question at Gerard, who's propping the smashed glass door to the gas station open with a large rock. He's got a can of spray paint in his hand, shaking it.

"Yeah. Diner," Gerard calls back, popping the cap off the can and spraying a diagonal line across the door in blood red paint. He doesn't add anything else to it, which is pretty sparse artwork for Gerard. He just caps the can and jogs toward the Trans Am. Frank looks at the door, his brow furrowing.

"What's with the door?" he asks.

"Door propped open means it's unoccupied, 'case any other runners find it and need a place to crash." Mikey's voice is a little muffled from his helmet, even though the visor is up. He kicks the stand on his bike up, starting the engine.

"Red paint's a warning." Gerard has to raise his voice over the growl of Mikey's bike engine. "Means it's been raided. Take it if you need it, but watch yourself." Gerard doesn't wait for any more questions, just climbs into the Trans Am, gunning the engine. Ray's bike rumbles to life as well and Frank belatedly realises he's the only one not ready to go. He hoofs it to the Trans Am, climbs into the passenger seat and barely gets the door closed before the car starts rolling forward.

They travel over the endless sand, and Frank can't figure out how the hell Gerard and the guys know where they're going. There's no landmarks to speak of, just sand and rocks and fucking cacti. He frowns at the horizon, feeling completely out of his depth. He's too slow, too stupid for this place.

Under the choppy rush of the wind he can hear a ringing, a rustling. He frowns harder, leaning toward the source. It's coming from the speaker mounted in the door. It's the radio. It's static.

Frank's never been fond of the sound of static. It's probably stupid, but he can't help feeling like the sound damages his ears somehow. Even if it is just paranoia - why take the risk? He's a musician, he needs his ears. He's reaching for the car stereo without thinking, about to turn it off when Gerard's fingers catch his wrist, fast but gentle.

"Don't."

"It's just static." Frank can feel his face creasing with confusion.

"It's not always just static," Gerard says, tearing his gaze from the windshield long enough to pin Frank with a look. "There's a guy, does transmissions sometimes. Got an amazing music collection... by today's standard's anyway."

So there is still music in this place. Frank's feels a sudden longing to hear it.

"He do them often?" Frank's hand still hovers by the knob. Static is really annoying, okay?

"Once in a while. He doesn't really keep to a schedule, just kind of have to keep it tuned in," Gerard explains, turning his attention back to the road.

Frank lets his hand drop to his lap. Gerard lets go of his wrist, putting his hand back on the wheel.

"Must be pretty good if it's worth listening to static the rest of the time."

"Oh, it is." Gerard seems pretty sure about that.

***

The diner is just as old and wrecked as the gas station had been. Frank notices that the door is propped open too, but there's no sign of red paint.

There's something else on the door though, a poster. Frank gets close enough to read the words "WANTED" and "EXTERMINATE" across the page, crimson on white.

In his peripheral vision he can see Ray come up behind him. His sigh sounds resigned and his voice is wry. "Nice to see we're still loved."

There are four faces on the poster - their faces - Gerard's, Mikey's, Ray's... and Frank's. There's a red cross over each of their black and white pictures, like a target. Like they're already officially dead and whatever comes next is just a formality. Frank stares, his stomach churning.

A loud ripping startles Frank out of his doomed reverie. When he blinks his eyes open, the wall in front of him is bare, the poster now dangling from Gerard's hand, torn at the edges.

"We should get our shit inside," is all Gerard says, with a light touch on Frank's shoulder to get him moving.

Four faces. Four.

They get a load of stuff into the diner before Frank can't sit on the question anymore. He puts down the crate he's carrying down on the table of a booth and turns around slowly. He waits for Mikey to get back from the car so they're all in the room when he finally says the words aloud.

"Where's Bob?"

Gerard's face falls and Ray visibly flinches. Mikey - moving very slow and deliberate - carefully puts down his load, turns around and walks right back out of the diner. Like he can't even listen.

It's not a good sign.

Frank tears his eyes from the now empty doorway to focus on Gerard, who is speechless for the first time in Frank's memory. He opens his mouth like he wants to say something, taking a breath to fuel the words, but nothing comes out.

It's Ray who speaks first. "We were in LA." He's bent over the crate he just carried in, his hands tight on the handles, his eyes locked to the contents like he can't look up. "We were recording the fourth studio album, the follow up to Black Parade."

Frank's heard of the Black Parade already. It's the one Gerard's started to talk about just recently - his Gerard, in 2005 - doodling skeletal marching band leaders into the corners of his notebooks.

"We were nearly done mastering, so fucking close to the finish line, doing press and a couple of shows and everything but... something just wasn't right. The album just wasn't... there." Ray shifts, peeling his hands off the handles of the crate and stretching his fingers out, not looking up from his hands as he continues. "I think we could all feel it. We put all these rules in place - no concept, no costumes, just strip it all back. A straight up rock record - but it was like ripping the soul out of it. So we took a break, and then Poison, uh, Gee - came back with a new song, something right out of left field, fucking off the wall crazy."

Ray finally looks up from his hands. "And brilliant. It totally changed the game. We knew we had to rewrite the record then. Turf it all and start over from scratch - a whole new album. And we were psyched, all of us." Ray shrugs uncomfortably. "Except Bob."

"Except Bob?" Frank repeats, his voice sounding young to his own ears.

Ray rubs a hand over his face, smearing dust across his forehead. "He said he just couldn't do it. Not another album back to back. Couldn't do it all over again and let what we'd done go to waste."

Ray sighs, turning away to pick at the contents of the crate like he can't look at Frank and say it. "He left the band."

"He left?" Frank fights back a wince. Apparently shock turns him into an echo machine.

"He wasn't angry. He was more... resigned." Ray shrugs, looking helpless. "You took it pretty hard."

"Fucking right I did. He left? He... he leaves?" Frank's having trouble breathing, his chest is all hot and tight, but he's not sure if it's upset or anger. He can't think about Bob leaving, not ever. He was part of what fixed them, what brought them back from the brink. "And you let him?" He fires the question at Ray before turning to glare at Gerard. "You just let him go?" Looks like anger is easier.

"Frank-" Gerard starts to speak and loses the words again, his mouth moving silently for a moment. Then his face creases up, frowning down at his hands, as he tells Frank the rest. "The first pig bomb fell the next day. LA was chaos, we were lucky even the four of us were together when it happened. Everything was messed up, falling apart, but as soon as we were back on our feet we went looking for him, I swear." Gerard's eyes are pleading with Frank to understand. To just get it.

"So what. He's dead?"

"We don't know that." Ray's tone makes it sound like an old argument. "Just because we haven't found him doesn't mean he's dead. A lot of people went missing back then, and they still turn up. He could be out there, under the radar, just like us." Everything about Ray's manner says he's wishing it to be true.

Everything about his manner says he doesn't believe it, though.

"Sure, he'll turn up. We'll rip the mask off a dead drac and see his face, underneath." Mikey's voice rings across the room, dripping sarcasm. Frank glances over to see him leaning in the doorway, all sharp lines and angles, before he stomps inside.

"Shut up, Kobra." Gerard snaps, glaring at Mikey in a way Frank hasn't seen since the days when he'd get hopped up on pills and get uncharacteristically aggressive at anyone who got near enough. "If that ever happens - if - Bob would have been dead long before one of us blasted him. We'd just be putting him out of his misery."

Mikey stops, meeting Gerard's eyes, challenge in every line of him. "You believe that, then why'd you stop pulling off the masks?"

Gerard doesn't have an answer.

Mikey barely twitches an eyebrow in response. "Thought so."

Frank suddenly wishes he hadn't asked.

***

Frank can't sleep. It's no surprise. He usually can't sleep the first night he's in a new situation - first night on tour, first night off tour, first night in a new timezone.

This is all of the above and more. Nothing is familiar here - the diner they're hiding out in smells like gasoline, rust and mould, and there are none of the usual sounds to lull him to sleep: the bus engine or even the hum of a hotel room air conditioner. There are only unfamiliar insect calls that sound eerie to his own ears.

Even his own band mates are unfamiliar - harder, brighter, older and edged with a brittle sharpness from living on the run.

The floor is hard under his shoulder blades, even through the sleeping bag. His neck aches, his back aches, and his stomach feels twisted up from whatever the fuck that crap in the can pretending to be food was that they ate a few hours ago was. Plus, he's pretty sure he's sunburned. He shouldn't have even bothered laying down.

After turning over to his other side for the umpteenth time, he gives up on trying and gets up, sliding silently from the tiny storeroom so as not to wake Ray, who seems to have no problem sleeping anywhere - even on the hard floor with his leg caught under a low shelf, his head resting on his balled up jacket.

Frank slips outside, through the back door that's standing ajar. The night air is cooler than he expected, but the sand is still warm under his bare feet. He tried to sleep with his boots on, the guys had encouraged it - they all do it, in case they have to run - but Frank pulled his off in a fit of desperation about half an hour ago. Not that it helped, here he is - still awake. His fingers itch for a cigarette, but apparently they're hard to come by in 2019.

Apparently a lot of things are hard to come by in 2019. Food. Fuel. Water. It makes his life in 2005 look positively luxurious by comparison.

He takes a few steps out onto the warm sand, not sure where he's going, just needing to move. When he catches sight of the Trans Am, he strolls up to it, sliding his fingers over the curve of the bumper, tracing words and patterns painted onto the metal. It's such a Gerard thing to do, to cover a vehicle in art. Frank walks the length of the passenger side, running his fingers over colours and lines.

It's not until he gets to the front door that he sees he's not alone. Gerard is stretched out on the hood on his back, hands clasped loosely behind his head. He's already looking at Frank; he must have heard him coming. "Hey," he says softly.

"Hey." Frank says back, voice low, feet sticking in the sand, not sure if he should keep approaching or go back inside. Maybe Gerard was looking for a moment alone. The moonlight has a weird greenish-blueish tinge to it and it's making Gerard's hair look insane, nearly purple.

Gerard slides a hand out to his side, patting the bonnet in invitation. The hood with a giant fucking spider painted across it.

"Had to be a spider, didn't it?" Frank eyes what he can see of the design

"Eight legs to the wall." Gerard offers Frank a tiny smile, patting the metal again.

Frank pushes down his irrational phobia and takes the invitation, pushing his ass up onto the car to lay back beside Gerard. The night sky stretches out above them, dark blue and dotted with tiny bright points of stars. That, at least, is unchanged, and there's comfort in its familiarity. They lie side by side in silence for a long moment, the metal still slightly warm under Frank's shoulders.

"Can't sleep?" Gerard asks, eventually, breaking the silence.

"No. It's like first night of tour, you know?"

"Yeah. I know." Gerard's voice drops low, and Frank knows he gets it. It's impossible to tour with someone and not get to know their sleeping habits - and sleeping problems.

He reaches his hand across the dusty metal that lies between their bodies, interlinking his fingers with Gerard's, giving them a squeeze. Gerard squeezes back.

Frank's eyes dance across the sky, tracing the constellations he's known all his life. He tries to keep his mind blank, to just breathe, and be calm. Just concentrate on the feel of Gerard's hand in his.

It's not enough to quiet his brain. He has to know. "Tell me about the end of the world."

"Frank, don't-" Gerard says it softly, no real fight in it.

"Please. I think." Frank rolls his head to the side, finding Gerard's eyes on him, huge and concerned. "I think I need to hear it."

Gerard sighs, his face pinching up in a way that makes the lines around his eyes deepen. The lines Frank's not used to seeing. Still, the expression itself is achingly familiar and Frank's overlaying it in his mind with long black hair and smudged makeup. It's a comfort.

"Are you sure you want to know?" Gerard's fingers flex around Frank's, squeezing harder. "It might be easier if-"

"I don't care about easy, Gerard." Frank sits up, the metal squeaking under his ass. Suddenly, it's important that he be in on this. "You guys lived it, not me. If I can't take just hearing about it I shouldn't even be here."

Gerard pushes up to sitting as well, but slower. "Well you shouldn't be here, really. Not yet." Gerard fakes a smile and Frank knows a deflection when he sees one. He won't let Gerard sidetrack him.

"But I am right now. And I will be again one day. Because I survive it, right? The end of the world? So I should try and be prepared. So you should tell me." He raises an eyebrow, holding Gerard's stare until he looks away. He's quiet for a long moment, but when he meets Frank's eyes again his expression is determined.

"Fine. What do you want to know?"

Frank doesn't want to know, he has to know. "What happened to Jersey?"

Frank sees Gerard's resolute mask slip. He falters a moment, before finding the words. "We don't... We don't know."

"You don't know? " Frank repeats dumbly.

"Information travels differently now, when it travels at all. Jersey's a long way for word-of-mouth and we can't trust anything that comes from Better Living."

"Why? What are Better Living saying?"

Gerard winces, looking away.

"What are they saying?" Frank repeats, his chest feeling tight. "Gerard?" He presses, not really sure if he wants the answer but needing it.

Gerard meets Frank's eyes, finally. "They're saying it's dusted."

"Dusted?"

Gerard ploughs a hand through his scarlet hair. "Gone. Ghosted. But they're saying that about everywhere. They're saying it about here."

"Here is gone, Gee."

"No it's not. We're still here. We're still alive. And so are others. Under the radar. It could be like that in Jersey. It could be better than here. We just... we just don't know."

"How can you not know?" Frank's voice is rising. "It happened ten years ago. Haven't you tried to find out? To go there? What about your parents?"

Gerard doesn't respond, but Frank doesn't need him to, he just keeps going, all the feelings he's been fighting down all day exploding out of him. "You moved to California? You let Bob leave the band? What the fuck happened to you? Forget where you came from? Don't you give a shit about Jersey anymore?"

Every word is angrier than the last, but it's easier to get angry than to think about Jersey looking anything like this abomination calling itself California. Everything past the turnpike flattened, the ground baked into dust. His neighbourhood, his house, his family, all gone.

If Frank took this tone with Gerard in 2005 he'd bite back, raise his volume too, until they were both shouting at each other like teenagers taking revenge on their parents with loud music. This Gerard doesn't. He just waits, letting Frank blow all the words out, not feeding him back with anything until Frank's all out.

Only then does Gerard respond, quiet and calm. "You think we didn't try? You think we didn't do everything we could think of to get back there? You think you would've done that?"

Gerard's right, of course. Of course they tried. Frank wouldn't have let them not.

Frank can see the apology in Gerard's eyes that says they never made it back to Jersey. That they still don't know what happened out there. Maybe they'll never know.

Frank can't breathe out. It's like all the air is trapped in his lungs, in his chest. He can feel his lower lip trembling, his face threatening to crumple and he tries, he tries so fucking hard to fight it, not to pussy out like some fucking cry baby, but it hits him so hard, hard like a fucking freight train, all of it, not just Jersey but this. This future. How much they're all going to lose. How little time he has left before he loses it. It's too much. It's all just too fucking much.

The breath he's holding rushes out of his mouth on a choked noise. He can't hold it together, not while he's in the middle of a desert that used to be California and not while Gerard's looking at him like that, like he gets it completely, like he knows what Frank's feeling and how much it hurts him to see it. Then Gerard's arms are wrapping around Frank, tugging him into a hug so tight Frank's face is crushed into Gerard's neck.

Gerard whispers "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," on repeat, one hand cupping warm at the back of Frank's head as the other strokes down Frank's shaking back. Frank's fingers clutch uselessly at Gerard's t-shirt, holding on, needing the contact. Thankful for it.

Frank tilts his head up to take a breath, staring unseeing over Gerard's shoulder out into the black desert, blinking uselessly at the tears that keep coming.

So much is coming, and there's nothing he can do to stop it.


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