UPTHRUST THE VOLUME

[hittheredline]

  HIT THE RED LINE.

v. to give something high effort or do it quickly or both; lit. to gun your engine or drive at such high speeds that the MPH reads in the red zone of a speed gauge; "floor it", "give it all you've got"

an independent roleplay sideblog for canon & original characters set in the concept of Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys. heavily headcanon reliant; not comic compliant. plot driven & verse locked (no AUs) follows & asks come from @ru5t !

[CARRD] for full info, character list/short bios below.

Sunny Rabbit

The eponymous "Girl". Zone born, orphaned by Better Living, given family again in the form of the Fabulous Four. She's still trying to work out, who, exactly, she is, if a person even is a something other than a person. It's confusing when her face from childhood is often used as a symbol and yet, if she's on her own, none of her brothers close at hand, no one seems to recognize her anymore...

the Kobra Kid

The youngest of the desert's "princes", public enemy no. 03. A number of years into his second life, as it were, he's in no rush to loose it all again. You'd never know it, with the way he chases everything dangerous enough to give him some kind of thrill. Any kind of thrill. Any kind of feeling.

Zilch

Guard dog of Vivarium, a greenhouse settlement in Zone 02. With no compass of his own, he borrows purpose from defending the only people who have ever treated him with decency after seeing his true nature. If his nonchalance in regards to killing doesn't deter attackers, the smiler that heeds his command does.

Bedlam's Belfry

A self-declared madman woven deep into the information trade and musical scene of zones 03 and 04. He keeps the zones appraised of danger and ahead of patrols, spreading word like he was born for it. When not paving the way for the big concerts or ruining Better Living patrols, he works a lot with El of the L-E-N, a broadcast station and hub of rumor-reports on the odd phenomena of the zones.

Redeye Rush + the Weasel

Scavengers and traders who, along with Vivace (former leader of girl gang the Sugar Babies), run the Wind Stop trading post, a converted gas station in Zone 03. Red is an easygoing mechanic and musician, often the friendly face of the trio at the front of the shop. Weasel is a sharp-tongued weapons modifier gifted at irritating people and procuring rare and/or obscure supplies. They talk big (that is, the Weasel does) but cut incredibly forgiving deals for the desert's less fortunate more often than not. (Listed together because the odds are good if you encounter one then the other is very nearby, if not directly present.)

the Man They Call Merit

Leader of a small crew of motorbabies who've recently popped up protecting the roads to Ashtap and its sister-settlement, Jasper. He's the oldest of his crew by a decade, maybe even two – a rare relic of the old desert, but don't bother trying to ask about it. He's made it this far by knowing when to keep his head down. Whoever he used to be, Merit is all that remains. A reminder, maybe, of what it is he's aiming for by sticking around so long. His little pile of pups are called Jitterbug June, Rumble Strip, Mile #57, and Pot Shot Pedal.

Embalm & Embed

A pair of tech-savvy killjoys who do all things as one. Part of the network that keeps zone 03 as lively as it is, they hail their fleet of paper boys from an old water tower lost somewhere in the wasteland – which, a rumor says, they never come down from. Though, rumors are rumors. "Which is which?" They are both, one name for two of them. If you must distinguish, call the tall one E, the blonde one Em.

GUEST / NPC MUSES

Vivace — The third piece of the Wind Stop. Former leader of all-girl gang The Sugar Babies, she's as vivid as her name suggests, with hair like bubblegum and a pocket full of sweet talk. She's also a shameless fighter, not inclined at all to take shit from anyone (particularly men) who cross her path. Not technically a character of mine, so I don't write her independently, but she might poke her head into threads with her boys (Red & Weasel) now and then.

Regal Riotess — Queen of the Battlegrounds, a sparring and entertainment venue in northern zone 03. A capable rebel in her own right, she's an entertainer at heart, and so devotes most of her time to keeping things fun. Her place is a great one to learn how to fight and try your skills against unfamiliar opponents: everything in good sport. Happy to do radio calls and put her in the background of things! but no solo threads (for now?)

I-Know U-Know, Slightly Supertonic, Cuddle Bug, High Hand, and Toodle-ew — Other members of the network that Bedlam and Embalm & Embed all belong to. They're not a Crew-crew, so they don't all fall under a single banner or answer to any one 'leader', but they regularly call on each other in the process of getting word across the zones. All pieces of the old-school word-of-mouth chain that runs alongside and in tandem with Tech's signal system. Might pop up in threads with Bedlam and/or the twins, none of their own. Also if you wanted to yoink one of their names and make a new kid lmk!

Jitterbug June, Rumble Strip, Mile #57, and Pot Shot Pedal — Merit's little litter of sandpups. Rumble's the oldest, then June, then Mile. Pedal's the littlest and the only one blood related to Merit, but they're all his kids. They see each other as siblings and behave accordingly, deep affection at war with daily squabbling and all. Every single one of them are mechanics and skilled motorists, though they draw to different parts of it. (Mile's the savviest mechanic; June's the best driver.) They know each other well and are an effective team, great at diverting patrols into empty chases, losing battles, and the various hazards of the zones. Squid is picking up June so actually I will not be writing her but I'll probably throw her name around sometimes because, crew gonna crew. Otherwise they're likely to pop up in Merit's threads, none of their own(?)

[hittheredline]

this keeps showing up on my pin.t.ere.t and it's like. no but also Yes. yknow.

[glasshcldhigh]

Not fast e— oh, now she’s insulted. Wraith pushes up on her elbows, amusement and incredulity warring for dominance in her expression. “Oh, you wanna race, pretty boy? See who’s faster?” She tries to sit up a little more and her head spins, dropping her back down. “Mmmm. Maybe not tonight. And that’s not me conceding, I’d just… wreck anything I got behind the wheel of right now.”

Just trying to sit up has left her winded; she adjusts her timeline by several months. She can feel she’s gone pale, though she’s not sure it’s visible with the light left to them. She lies back down, carefully extinguishes her joint with trembling fingers. It helps with the pain, sure, but not much help with the blood pressure problems. “My money’s still on Alé—on my Camaro,” she warns, her voice only shaking a little.

[hittheredline]

  He's struck a nerve. It brings up a foul little grin, professional annoyance proud of himself for a job well done. Then there's an allowing little nod- “On a road, maybe... the Flats.” Anywhere that double traction's got the chance to really grab hold in a long run. Give it enough ground to chew on, a car like this could probably throw the world behind it with enough enthusiasm. “But that's pup stuff.”

  He's thinking of carving out the valleys. Running the ravine up by the flood gates. Racing nothing, and everything. The wind, maybe. But who asked.

  Kobra nudges her leg with his shoulder. His uncovered eyes have gained an appraising quality (not quite a softness in so strong a word, but maybe a mild gentling.) “You gonna make me ask?” Not really one to pry. Open ended works. She'll tell, or it'll go 'ask what?' and he'll mind his own.

[mtfautoandrophile]

i think it is good to warn people in advance about the circumstances that will cause you to bite them and i think that having given that warning it is good to follow through when the time comes

[mtfautoandrophile]

the rattlesnake is an admirable creature whose virtues we should emulate

[hvndredzones]

Expecting it to fall apart before it hits? The idea has Jitter's nose wrinkling with doubt. She can't think of the last time a storm really called it quits like that before it hit anyone. She doesn't say as much, but she doesn't think she has to.

"He doesn't like it," is her anwser, almost off-hand in tone, something absent and a little airy as she thinks. "Um- if we have to, he'll be alright, yeah. I can keep him in the truck with me if we gotta."

[hittheredline]

  It's hard to say why, if there is any reason so specific as to put to words, but watching her weigh options sets a little ember of pride to glowing in his chest. A few more kernels of confidence might do her good. On the whole, though, she's...

  Another something that escapes. Eloquence never was his strongest gift. He nods instead of speaking. None of his kids are suited to settling. He's not well suited to settling. But needs must.

  “We can lash the beds.” Try to keep all their supplies secured down. “Maybe chain the cars?” That is, connect them to each other — create a heavier unit, keep winds from lifting them, or blowing them away from each other. Rarity, really, but still a real risk he's not confident they should take. Not with the turn of the sand these days. The howl in the wind most nights.

[hittheredline]

thinkin about kobra crashing his bike (or. maybe not Crashing it but at least wiping out rly bad)

[glasshcldhigh]

Maybe not him, specifically, but she knows Basher, and the two of them are cut from the same cloth. Bash could be terribly charming, too—when he wanted something. She has no basis for the idea, but she’s convinced Kobra enjoys the hunt almost as much as Bash does. The way Basher is with Cosmic, and the way the girl talks about Kobra—Wraith could draw parallels between the two until she’s blue in the face. It all makes Kobra terribly easy to like. Nothing she’s heard about The Kobra Kid has disproven any of her conclusions; if anything, it’s only confirmed them.

All of those thoughts are promptly forgotten when his attention turns to Alé. “Mine,” she says proudly, then falters a bit, smile fading. “My dad’s,” she corrects, and then, quieter, “mine now.” Basil’s next, though she’s trying very hard not to think about all of that. She quietly clears her throat, tries to shake off the melancholy that always settles. “I’ve put a lotta work into her, top’a my dad’s. Been nice, havin’ her out here, can really open ‘er up. If Dad hadn’t upgraded the speedometer, I’m sure I’d’a spun it by now.”

[hittheredline]

  “Mm,” he hums, appreciative. “That's th'thing about cars, though.” He taps the hood with a knuckle, nearly regretful. “They're never fast enough.” All that bulk and wind resistance. Couldn't get 'em going without pulling everything out except the engine and you — and at that point, why not just simplify? The engine and you and half the wheels and an eighth of the weight to hold you back. “You wanna run, really run, gotta get a bike.”

  Not that she'd asked. Between the talk of ghosts and her grimace, though... He's not stupid. He's not blind. He's just not the kind of person to pick it out of a comment or a look and put it on blast.

[glasshcldhigh]

She tips her head to look at him over the rim of her glasses. Her tone over-innocent, “Are you saying you’re not a bad guy?” The tone drops, replaced with a smirk. “Shame.” She could go into fable theory and talk about the role dragons are meant to play, guard dogs and huntsmen and princesses with animal companions, but feels most of it would be lost on him. No, most of the people in the zones didn’t have access to the education she did, even if they were originally from Middle or even Center. Her collection had been minuscule, just a handful of anthologies, but even that was dangerous inside the walls.

She fills her lungs with smoke, eyes sliding closed. Maybe, if she gets good and high, she can forget she has a physical form entirely. That might stop the pain, for a little while at least. “Could be charming,” she agrees, then cracks her eyes open again to grin at him. “Not.” Smoke gets directed to the stars again. “You don’t tick any’a the Prince Charming boxes, babes, and that ain’t a bad thing. ‘Sides, I don’t think our Princess wants a Prince Charming. Lord knows she could find one easy if she did.”

[hittheredline]

  He doesn't think she knows Tech well enough to say something like that. He never thinks anyone knows Tech well enough to say much about her at all, in fact. Not when it comes to the inside of her head. Her wants. Maybe not even her close contacts. There's some odd chance that this self-professed ghost-seer is closer to Tech than he thinks but, given that he can't even seem to find a name in his head for her —the red in her hair might make him think Ivy, if not for the fact he knew she'd been dusted, and she doesn't fit the colors any of the others that he hadn't seen at least once at a distance— – he doubts it.

  “You know so much about me, mm?” Two meetings, counting now, and whichever whispers. He does wonder which she's heard — been a bit since he bothered listening. “Didn't know I made that much of an impression.” Though, speaking of impressions... Kobra pulls up skating his eyes over the car she's been lounging on in earnest. Cars aren't so much his bag, but he's not completely immune to the cut of a nice one. “Didn't know y'were a shiny roller, either. Yours? or borrowed?”

[glasshcldhigh]

A proper laugh escapes. “Oh—’cause’a how we met.” She stretches out—shoulders arms hands fingers, reminiscent of a cat—and settles against the hood again. “Rescued me from a beetle caught in my hair. Or, well, maybe rescued the beetle from me,” she corrects, grinning. “I was still all city-slick then, y’know, hadn’t been out long. Complainin’ bout the fauna, missin’ the mourning doves that used to nest under my childhood bedroom window, so she fuckin’… summons a bird outta thin air.” Okay, maybe not thin air, but it certainly felt that way. “Talks to it, hand t’god, whole-ass conversation.”

She sets her joint in the ashtray waiting at her hip, sets her hands to her lips, the way Tech had showed her. She’s practiced, and after a false start, her own wren call is almost as good as Tech’s. “Y’know. Disney fuckin’ Princess shit.” She shrugs, picks up her joint again. “Name stuck. Mostly ‘cause’a her brother, t’be honest.” She lifts the joint to her lips. “I’d met him once, in the city. Her Loyal Knight. Gotta be a princess t’have one’a those, y’know.”

She gestures to him with her joint, turns her face away to blow out smoke. “An’ you’re no Prince Charming, right, but I already got my own Huntsman. You’re definitely scarier than a bog-standard guard dog, so.” Another gesture. Guard Dragon.

[hittheredline]

  One of Kobra's brows quirks upward. His upbringing hadn't included a lot of princesses or fairy tales or even cartoons outside of the occasional piece of packaging. Vapid mascots on thin cardboard or ripped plastic. Best he'd been able to gather-

  “Thought dragons were the bad guys.” Dog, huntsman, dragon — pair it up with scary and that's quite a picture of him that she's painting up. Not one he'd expect, going off of her demeanor alone. She talks to him easily enough, no double backs or stuttering or gaping, and she pokes at him like she think she's in-the-know of something. Awfully bold, if under the impression that he's genuinely dangerous. Maybe she's got him figured for safe, so long as she's wearing desert colors. It's not too far from the truth. “I could be charming,” he argues, “an' as it happens 'prince' is already in my list'a titles.”

[hvndredzones]

Sunny, special as she is, doesn't get the usual grousing and griping that comes with taking up too much of the bed. Instead, Ghoul bumps his knees to hers as he gets in, trying to gently urge her over without making her move. He'd like his ass to stay on the bed, but if he hangs off, he hangs off. Bitty gets special privileges and that's facts.

When he's in with her, he yanks the tattered quilt back up so it's a semblance of over them. Through unspoken invitation, she's offered the opportunity to crowd in close. She's still small enough to hold, even if she's bigger'n he is now.

"I gotta kick somebody's ass?" Instead of something like what happened or do you wanna talk about it.

[hittheredline]

  She budges over, but only enough that they're both on the bed. The whole point is not to be alone, and she's not about to be anywhere other than as close to him as she can manage without making it weird. She balls up, not as small as she can manage but skating close to it. Small enough be as small as she feels, anyway.

  Yes. No. You already did. They got you first. Sunny doesn't even know how to answer Ghoul's question, if only because he doesn't really know what he's asking. Looking to blame one of her friends, or maybe even Kobra. Something that he could get his hands around. Or blow up. It's oddly reassuring. He probably would blow up her nightmares, if that were somehow possible.

  “....Bad dream,” she lands eventually. No other way to say it.

[glasshcldhigh]

His theft earns a whine of protest, but little else, barely a reach after him. “Asshole,” she mutters fondly when he returns the joint, and she promptly returns it to her lips, trying to hide the grin growing there. A roll of her eyes at his question, smile growing beyond her ability to hide. “Who’s t’say they ain’t got arms’n’legs under the bedsheets, huh?” Her laughter is accompanied with smoke, and she directs the rest of it away from him.

“Nah,” she sighs, gaze sliding to the stars again. “Don’t need grass t’see ghosts. ‘S just a side effect’a cheatin’ Death, I think. He ain’t fond’a lettin’ go, y’know?” The pain is fading, at least, but she doesn’t think she’ll ever really be free of the ache in her bones. Still a little distant, she murmurs distractedly, “Can’t outrun ‘im forever. An’ third time’s th’charm, right?”

Mm. No. Not a thought she wants to dwell on—or even acknowledge further. She squeezes her eyes shut, shakes her head. Her attention returns to Kobra, an affectionate smile growing. “You remind me’a my man, yanno. Genuinely scary, genuinely dangerous, ‘d always rather be on your good side. But.” She catches her tongue between her teeth, giggling. Voice lowered conspiratorially, “I saw th’way you looked at Princess. ‘S the same way Bash looks at me when he thinks no one’s lookin’. You got a hard exterior, but there’s a sweet and gooey center you’re hiding, jus’ like him.” She lifts the joint back to her lips, then pauses. Snickering, “Maybe… maybe don’t tell Bash I described him like that, though.”

[hittheredline]

  Tech's got such a way of picking people up. He should know it. Maybe better than most. Still, somehow they always surprise him, the people that pull up around her — the number of them more than anything else. He's meant to be the notorious name, one of the so-called calling faces of the zones, if such a thing exists. And yet.

  Fatalistic's a new beat, anyway. Kobra taps his fingers in a ripple across his helmet.

  “Why'd'you call her 'Princess'?” The only incongruity that bothers him enough to give in and give voice to. It doesn't strike him as a dig, exactly. Nor as any sort of knowing. Without either of those for context, though, he's not sure where it possible could have come from. She's a lot of things, his pretty little bird, it's just... evocative of a princess wouldn't exactly top his list. Or even make the list, really.

[glasshcldhigh]

@hittheredline * Kobra 70 : Fallout - 57 listens

Wraith had traded a good number of carbons and more besides, but she should have enough marijuana to get her through a couple months—as long as she doesn’t get significantly worse. If Phantom’s as good as his word, she might have her meds on hand before she runs out. It’s still too painful to hope.

She’s lying on Alé’s hood, watching the light bleed from the sky, lazily blowing smoke at the stars as they wink into existence. She’d meant to go inside the club she’s parked in front of, to drink and dance and more, as needed, but she’s just… tired. So she stays outside and smokes, hoping to chase away the ache in her bones, unwilling to go back to the Tavern and Basher’s quiet concern just yet.

She recognizes the bike when it pulls up, had a chance to give it a look-over after that dustup at the Tavern. “Dragon,” she greets with a wave. She looks at the joint held between her fingers, then to him. “I’d offer you one, but they’re like, genuinely medicinal. Dunno how much I can spare, y’know?” She laughs, lifting it to her lips. “I’m in so much fuckin’ pain.” She inhales deeply, tips her head to look at him. “You look like you got ghosts chasin’ you, babes. All good? I mean,” she waves as she exhales the smoke, offering an out from her question. “Secrets y’give an’ secrets y’keep an’ whatnot. We all got ghosts. Some’f us just closer to ‘em’n others.” Her faint amusement fades, eyes going dull as she mumbles to herself, “Some’f us closer to becomin’ ‘em.”

[hittheredline]

  Outside the club is an interesting choice of lurk. Too busy for peace. Too lonely for noise. The voice catches him out a little as he pulls his helmet off: his hand briefly touches his gun. The life he's led has made him used to surprise equating attack, but his eyes settle on the barely-moving shape and... she is familiar, though it takes him a moment of staring to place why.

  She's luckier than most — that's twice now she's caught him without his shades on, and he makes no move to alter it. He sets the helmet on the hood and his elbow on the helmet, leaning down to give her a look with a single brow arched high.

  “F'I were you I'd worry less about what y'can spare and more about what y'can handle.” He almost doesn't, for whatever that's worth, but. Kobra plucks the joint out of her fingers quick as a strike and straightens up, away. He doesn't steal a hit, just eyes it critically, turning it over like he's going to see something unusual about it. Like he knew enough to know if something was off just by looking at it. “Never met a grass that made me see ghosts.” Then he's back to leaning in conversationally, propped on his helmet as he returns her joint. “They got arms an' legs? or is this more of a bedsheets kinda thing?”

[glasshcldhigh]

She hates crying. It’s gross and exhausting and gives her a headache. It’s even worse now, since she’s already weak and dehydrated from the day, too afraid to break into her water when her stomach is this unsettled. She’s trying to stop the tears, but none of the tricks she knows are working, and there’s no hope of calming down enough for them to stop on their own.

Dot can hear them talking, though her focus is on trying to walk over listening to what they’re saying. Only a handful of steps managed, and she’s already slowing down. The frustration doesn’t make the tears situation any better. She only half-listens to Jet as he approaches, though the today catches her attention. So he’s not usually like this? She can only hope.

Jet’s hand closes on her shoulder, and she inhales sharply—not quite a gasp, but close. She wipes fruitlessly at her cheeks and gently dips out of his hold, though she doesn’t try to continue on. She just really doesn’t like being restrained. She tries to keep her face angled away from him, though she’s sure it’s obvious she’s still crying.

She’s not certain she wants to sit in a car with Kobra for any amount of time. But her ankle hurts, and only gets worse with each step, so she reluctantly nods and turns back. She does believe the market is the best place to start her search, and she really wants her papa right now. She doesn’t have a plan for if she doesn’t find him—she’s sure orphans are plenty common in the zones, but she can’t bear the thought of joining their ranks.

She’s a lot more scared than she’s letting on; the shock is doing a good job of holding off the worst of it, even if it is making her sick. Being in the zones, no matter how terrifying, is better than what was waiting for her in the city, but it’s starting to sink in just how in over her head she is. Dottie refuses to let any of those thoughts take hold, or she’ll really start sobbing, not the shaking breath and helpless tears she’s dealing with now. Wailing like a baby in front of Kobra is barely a sliver more preferable to returning to the city.

[hittheredline]

  There's a bit of awkward silence to endure, now. None of them are particularly gifted with displays of vulnerability. Not this kind. Not even after years of looking after Sunny — if anything, she had molded to their ways of handling the violence of life, not the other way around. It's some kind of tragedy, really. A bitter injustice that she'd lost so much so young, and had to twist herself around it however she could. To keep growing anyway. And it's a victory. Twisting herself around it however she could, and growing anyway.

  The young, Jet thinks, are good at that. Growing anyway. Him and his? They'd get outpaced, some day. Maybe even someday soon. Until then he keeps feet on the ground, his steps slow so he doesn't leave her behind.

  “Hardest part's over,” he tries to comfort. “Now you just gotta stick t'yer guns.”

  Kobra's not in any particular rush as he retraces their approach. His hands wander through his pockets and, repeatedly, to the gun strapped to his leg, the holster keeping it there, the buckle where it attaches to his belt. Checking and rechecking. Feeling it ought to be in his hand, though it's hard to know why. Just that it feels that way. So powerfully it's almost an itch, a point of pain in his palm. He's pressing the thumb of his other hand into it by the time he reaches the jeep.

  He hits the seat heavy and slams the door after himself, shaking the whole car. At someone else's advice (he can't remember whose, though the list for guessing is short) he starts counting. Wait it out. A glint catches his eye, though, and before he's to seven he gets caught in a staring contest with the shine off his shades in the rear view mirror. The crack in the glass runs across his face. Dirt lines every edge. He snarls something that might be a curse and shoves at it, so that he can't see himself. Only the desert behind. Key to ignition. The jeep grumbles to life.

  The dust plume approaches.

[hittheredline]

THE DI(E)NER + motel

The now-iconic imagery from the videos shows the boys within -and presumably living out of- an old, abandoned Diner. This created some of the more iconic staples of the danger days aesthetics and became such an infamous thought that a lot fanwork includes or prominently features the Diner, to different degrees. It’s hard to divorce the idea of it from the Danger Days lore, even though the Four Aces Movie Ranch –the filming set where the video was made– has been featured in countless other movies, music videos, tv commercials, and celebrity photo shoots. (Believe me, I can spot this thing a thousand miles off, now.) As a common sight, it becomes a common thought of the zones, and I say all of this because: while it's become an infamous piece of imagery in an OOC sense, I don't think it's well known within the universe's setting that the boys and Sunny live in a diner, much less this specific one..

I’m sure the very dedicated among the desert’s obsessed type have attempted to find out where their most lauded go whenever they’re not out and around terrorizing Better Living or crashing into their preferred hangouts, and some have probably even succeeded. The Diner isn’t a complete mystery or secret. I just don’t think it’s total common knowledge, either. Call it an open secret, maybe, or maybe more of a rumor that most people don’t actually believe. (Their Fabulous heroes live in a dusty old diner surrounded by nothing but dirt? Yeah right.) Regardless, if everyone knew they’d never have a moment’s peace, and I think that’s what the Diner is to them. Somewhere they can have peace. Constrict down just to themselves, each other, and not have to worry about the rest of the desert and its expectations of them.

Tucked up and away to the north of the city, in some lucky stretch between ridges that leaves the surrounding area nice and flat an open - they can see anyone coming up on them well ahead of time. From any direction. While also keeping the hills close enough that, should they need to flee, there’s an option with that advanced warning of the open space. A few other places nearby, settlements and the like, for them to turn to, but also just places in the hills. Hiding holes and secret stores, careful caches. Spare guns and some canned food, if nothing else managed to get into it.

As for the diner itself: this layout is loosely based on, but modified from, the layout of the four aces filming set. (In this case, I have removed the ‘gas station’ part of the set, and lightly altered the layout and number of rooms within the motel section of the build.) This is the 'canon' version of it, as applies to @hvndredzones & I's version of things. Feel free to adopt/ignore as usual !

Isolated even in its own time, the Diner was one of those clever ‘last stop for __ miles’ kind of places. Somewhere you ended up, rather than somewhere you aimed to be. Positioned strategically between bigger destinations, so anyone on an overnight drive might find themselves pulling over just to get out and stretch their legs, grab some coffee… but wouldn’t you know it? Why not just spend the night. And of course the diner served breakfast in the mornings, before you set out again. That means now, after the end of all things, it’s truly isolated. Most of what connected it to the world, including the road, is all long gone, worn away by the bombs or the fires or who knows.

The boys found it by chance, in a time when they had nothing else. Almost like destiny, they went stumbling on something built just the way they needed it. The way people had needed it in the past, even if their circumstances were a bit less dire than being ejected from the only protection to be found in the desert— They quickly tore through the diner’s old stores. Mostly dusty old utensils, many of them broken and/or tarnished. Some ancient canned goods they were just desperate enough to risk. The food in them was unrecognizable, but it didn’t kill any of them, so. It worked out.

Those first few nights they kept themselves to the diner's floor, piling together in the booths, cradling Bitty close to their sides, trying their best to look after her. Eventually, they spread out a little. Cleaned out the old motel rooms - some of the mattresses were even salvageable, though terribly sandy. They rid the dark corner of rats and bugs, found ways to let in the light during the day, air out the rooms. (Lucky for them, there’s not a lot of moisture where the diner is situated, so mold and mildew growth was pretty much null. The benefits of a dry environment.)

The carpet is ancient and ugly, the walls cracked, plaster falling away in places, and for anyone thinking on it no, the bathrooms don’t have functional plumbing, but it’s shelter. Shelter, and space for them to spread out. Create little hiding holes of their own, rooms to collect treasures in, if they so choose.

As connected properties, the diner and motel share a sort of parking lot courtyard. The only way in is through the front of the motel’s drive, with a sturdy, sharp ended fence discouraging anyone from trying to climb in through the back. The boys have taken to partially blocking the entrance with a concrete barrier. In a pinch, the AM (as well as Kobra’s bike) can scrape around it to get in and out fast, but it keeps the entrance too small for larger, bulkier BLI (or other) vehicles. Jet meanwhile keeps his jeep parked near the side entrance of the diner, for a different quick escape route that can’t be boxed in.

A back door through the kitchen of the diner means that one can go from the diner to the motel rooms without ever setting foot around the outside of the building; the crew all know this, obviously, but it’s less readily shown to others.

The diner itself has become a sort of communal space. There’s a small stage set into its back wall, outfitted with an array of gathered equipment that largely belongs to Sunny. She’s got an interest in music, and has spent several years of her young life writing and practicing, improving her musical skill, and is set in some ways to become one of the desert’s next iconic performers (like Mad Gear, or Solstice.) If she could get up the confidence to take up a stage of her own.

The booths are more often just seats these days, the tables places to collect and spread out any projects, though now and again they all still pile up together in the largest booth, the one near the front that wraps around, to all sleep together.

On the rare occasion that they bring someone to the Diner, whether for consulting, or some other reason, visitors are generally confined to the diner itself, and the main floor at that. This is not a hard rule it’s just a general approach to the situation — this is their home, and of the spaces available the diner is the least personal to any of them. The most trafficked. It’s still like bringing someone into your living room, a bit awkward and exposing sometimes, but far less of a compromising position than letting someone see, for instance,

The Motel. Since settling in and spreaing out, the old motel has transformed into what are more or less their bedrooms. The office (top right of the following image) remains fairly neutral ground, given that it serves them no real purpose now, but the claimed rooms are decidedly private spaces.

There are eight rooms in total, with five of them, of course, being claimed as these bedrooms, while another two have been allocated to other purposes.

Close to the diner, the first room remains empty as a buffer of sorts, a sapcer from the rest of the desert. The second is Party's chosen landing pad, then Ghoul's.

Party's room is largely undecorated because idk what to put in there. Squid @/hvndredzones did Ghoul's!

Across the way, Kobra's room is the farthest back, Sunny is -of course- bundled up in the middle, with Jet on the other side, then the office serves as the buffer.

I decorated all of these because apparently no amount of "I'm not writing Jet" is. actually going to stop me from having opinons and. y'know. writing him. so.

One of the motel rooms, close to the back corner (on the right here, with the cot in it), serves as a sort of guest room. It’s not exceptionally well outfitted, more of a desperate measures sort of situation, but it’s better than being stuck out in the middle of nowhere with no shelter for the night. It doesn’t see a lot of use. They’re not a lighthouse, not a charitable bunch exactly, just a few boy doing their best and trying their hardest to keep the family they’ve put together for themselves safe and as comfortable as could be said to be possible in the apocalypse.

The sims build fairly accurate represents the layout of these spaces, and some of the decorating nature reflects the general aesthetics and choices the crew have made, but it’s worth noting the sims will only let you do so much. The wear and tear is hard to replicate - she’s a run down old place. The windows are heavily scratched and the carpets absolutely, horrifically tragic. The tiles in the diner are dull and, in some places, cracked. Worn down by use in the diner’s own time, then by the wars and the wind and the years spent empty after that. It seems structurally sound, which is rather impressive all things considered, but definitely shows both its age and all the abuse withstood over the years.

[hittheredline]

thoughts empty man in my head saying Things about people pulling on his necklace (and shirt collars. and other such adjacent things you can probably figure out this is walking toward.)

[glasshcldhigh]

She glowers at Kobra for a moment, before turning her attention to Jet. “No,” she answers, then pauses, considering. “Would I know?” she asks with an uncertain frown. “If I’ve been drugged? I’ve never willingly or knowingly taken anything, but who even knows what Duke had them put in my food.”

Accusatory eyes, colorless as the midday sky, slide back over to Kobra. “You remind me of him,” she says. Strong as she’s trying to seem, her voice shakes. “Angry and vicious. Delights in hurting people who displease him, even just by existing. Uses his connections and privilege to get away with—everything.” She is speaking from terrified experience. “So yeah. I’m scared of you. I’m hoping you’re just in a bad mood, that you’ve just got some shit to work out. Because if I did all of this to get away from Duke, just to end up under the power of another man just like him, I’ll kill myself.” There is a terrible honesty to her words; not your average teenage hyperbole.

Dot turns her face away from both of them, fights back tears. If she starts crying, she’s not sure she’ll be able to stop. She takes a few deep, measured breaths against the urge to hyperventilate. When she speaks again, it’s quieter, without the earlier edge. “There’s a group, in Neon. They don’t advertise, as such, but if you grease the right palms, you can find them. For a… very pretty penny, they’ll smuggle you out of the city. I’d been stealing from Duke for two years, prepping for exactly this, I had the money. I paid the fee. They got me out.”

Her breathing grows too rapid again; she squeezes her eyes shut, focuses on her breathing again for a few beats. Deep breath through her nose, shaky exhale through her mouth. At least Walton had bothered to ask. “When—” Too high, too scared; she clears her throat, gives a little shake of her head, tries again. “When we got out of range of the city, the one I was with tried to take my bag. … More. I k—” Her voice chokes off. Her jaw clenches, fighting against the impending meltdown. Rapidly, as if she’s unsure she’ll get the words out in time, “I killed him. I’ve thrown up like five times about it today.” She might be on the verge of number six, presses a hand over her mouth in an attempt to self-regulate.

They’re not going to help her find her dad, she realizes. Just interrogate her until she says something wrong, to give the scary one the excuse he needs to kill her. She’s not going out like that. “I’m sorry for disrupting your plans,” she forces out, somewhere between a squeak and a sob. She turns away from them, picks a direction, and starts off. It’s harder than she expected with her ankle, limping heavily through the sand. She can’t hold back the shock or tears she’s been fighting against all day any longer, just tries to keep quiet as she cries.

[hittheredline]

  “You'd know,” Jet assures. If she'd been drugged, she would know. Chipping was another, far worse matter, with a whole different set of worries and criteria, and nothing's impossible, but Jet's pretty sure Kobra's paranoia has got the better part of him under lock and key, right now. There's no reason to expect it now, from as chance of an encounter as things got. He could see where the train of thought came from, the sheer improbability of it, but there's a line where improbable becomes justifiably suspect, and as far as Jet's concerned, they haven't crossed it.

  It's just another batshit fucking day in the desert.

  Oh good. Lecture hour from the twelve year old. A whole schpiel just for him, and the best part is even with her impassioned little speech and her halting confession after, she's not nearly as afraid as she should be. Not nearly upset enough. Doesn't have a single fucking clue how dangerous they are, how fast things go to shit. The number of ways to kill or be killed, and what waits. What happens when you are. Th—

  “Kid,” says Jet again, but this time not aimed at their young third party.

  Kobra bristles, a curl to his mouth that suggests he plans to bite, but as Jet rises up and stops him from advancing, catches his arm... It quiets, a little. The static screeching so loudly that Jet can practically hear it, it settles. The twist of Kobra's head as he meet Jet's hard stare is almost... confused. He exhales sharply.

  “Okay?” asks Jet, still holding Kobra's arm. Kobra pulls away from him, the set of his mouth stiff. He gestures after her.

  “Better get her. Before she twists the other one.” He holds out his hand, expectant- “I'll get th'car.” Okay enough. He'll follow Jet's lead, but that doesn't make him any less wasted on playing apologetic for the would-be ratlet he's just driven to tears.

  Jet drops the keys into Kobra's waiting palm. They divide, opposite directions.

  He almost skips into a light jog, but a quick mental measure of things and Jet realizes there's no point. The height he's got on her alone would catch him up even if she weren't walking a bad leg. Better, too- this way it's a lot less like he's chasing and more like he's catching up.

  “Hey,” he calls after her, “Ignore Kobra, honey. It ain't his call an' he's a paranoid fuckin' prick today. Anyway I said we'd take you to market.” He outpaces her faster than he expects to. Barely takes him a moment to be close enough to catch her shoulder; he does. Doing a lot of that today, catching. Fuck's sake. “C'mon. I mean if you're really determined I'll leave ya for it but it's about.. a million of those steps the other way.” He jerks a thumb vaguely in the direction they'll need to go. His voice softens. “It's a hard walk, goin' it alone.”

[deadasadisco]

This is the best part of meeting up with other runners in the sand; neither North nor Coyote were big on killjoy history, so this is the best way to learn the legends of the desert. The other part is finding company; much as she loves the travel, she hates doing it alone. Killjoys die so violently most of the time, and Drives like this can make her outright sick if she has to pass them on her own. It’s a sensitivity neither North nor Coyote had. Coyote does her best to help, but Strike is, by and large, on her own to figure out how to cope.

Wandering off had never been in the cards, even before Bedlam’s warning. “’Kay,” she echoes softly, glancing back at the shadow of the rig. She toys with the beads around her wrist—North had always called them protection beads, and half of Strike’s collection used to be around North’s wrist. It keeps her spirit close; Strike’s certain she’s felt North’s protection on more than one occasion.

Strike draws her knees up, resting her chin on them. “What— what else do you know about Nova?” She asks quietly. “An’ the Charlatans?” Especially the ones that died here. Maybe, if she can make an appropriate offering, the nightmares won’t plague her tonight.

[hittheredline]

  “More?” with a light laugh. He idles on the thought for a moment, fishing around in the forest of fables that have long taken over every corner of what might be called his mind. “Hard t'say too much about Nova,” he admits. “She must'a changed names, or burned hot'n'fast. Me, I'm not even sure it really was three exxies. That first one for sure, and the second I think so. Seems likely, there's nothin' else that would've got 'im— Nova definitely took him down hard enough that the rumor started anyway. An' I figure... that might be enough that even if he didn't die in the zones, Better Living cut their losses, so it's good as Nova's anyways. But that third...?” He sucks his teeth. “Nobody's ever got a name for that one, or even a how, y'know? I think it got all muddy after they got her. 'Fought three' into killed 'em all, or somethin' like.” Two exxies is still a feat worth remembering. With Nova's ashes long scattered, too, there's no reason to go cutting her down; he tends to stick with the three whether it's true or not.

  “Now the Charlatans....” There's a look in his eyes, catching light by the coals and glittering, like he knows something he shouldn't say but had every intention of doing it anyway. “Heard it was messy business, Nova's takeover. Before her... well. Can't call yer crew 'Charlatans' without bein' some sort of trouble, right? An' it goes they used t'make trouble for everybody, didn't matter which side of the wall you were from. Mostly made their noise snatchin' up everything they could get their hands on, though they had to take a crew down now and then for real, else nobody'd let 'em get away with it, y'know? So they're not heroes, the Charlatans. Cuttin' their way through. All 'til Nova rolls on 'em. Couldn't even tell ya who she took that throne from, all I know is they say she had the whole crew turned in a day.

  ‘After that, th' Charlatans turn motorbabe. Held the main avenue for a year at least. Cracked the wall. The city sent an exxie and the exxie went down - for a second there everybody thought they were gonna be the answer.” But it wasn't to be. He sighs a little ruefully. Anyone can fall any day, that's just how the desert goes. “Still. Changed some'f the way things were goin'. First crew t'really full swing like that. Most only sort of... nudge, once they got a way of doin' what they do.”