The Sunshine in My Veins (Peterick) ➳ Book 1

Six

Pete had launched himself at the nearest Killjoy. The butt of his gun embedded in the redhead's robotic skull. A shower of sparks rained over Pete, but that did not deter him from his next target: the curly haired brunette.

A scream left his lips as two gun shots rang out. The searing pain in his left shoulder forced him to his knees, unable to defend himself.

"God damn," he hissed.

With the pain still radiating, Pete looked up and was stunned to see Patrick with a large revolver clasped firmly between his outstretched hands. He was the only man standing.

Pete didn't hesitate to climb to his feet and stagger towards the fallen bodies: Megan, Joe, Andy, Brendon, Ryan, Bronx. He took in a shuddery breath. The one person he could love was dead.

"What the hell was that?" Pete asked as he ran his fingers through Bronx's hair. "Why the hell do they want you?"

"I-I don't know."

"Bullshit," Pete hissed. He angrily stood up, his sight set on Patrick.

And Patrick took it. He took every single verbal bullet Pete shot hit him. Pete had every right to be mad. His companion, his son, were lying on the ground dead. No miracle would bring them back.

Pete soon realised this. He ceased his attack on the only man in sight and began gathering the items of his fallen comrades.

"We'll bury them," he instructed as he lifted a stun gun from the ground.

"We should get out of here," Patrick suggested. "Those robots probably have trackers and they've been here an awful long time."

Pete didn't want to leave. His entire world had crashed around him and he was contemplating on taking Patrick's revolver and blowing his brains out. But where would that leave Patrick?

The man responsible for his son's death may just be the person who could end whatever was started. Pete couldn't give up.

"Fine. But you listen closely. In no way, shape, or form do I like you. In fact, I hate you. We both know those bozos over there want you for Blurryface—whoever the hell that is—meaning someone's after you. Now you're going to end this, and I'm going to help, and after this is all over I never want to see your pathetic face again. It's your fault my son is dead, and I'll never forget that."

Patrick nodded. "I understand."

Because he did. Patrick knew that Blurryface wanted him. Patrick knew that he was responsible for the death of Bronx as well as the others. Patrick knew there was only one way this could end.

Taking what was given to him, Patrick mutely followed Pete. He kept his distance. He didn't talk, didn't smile, he didn't do anything but walk with his head turned down, and his mind spinning from an overload of thoughts. Pete was right of course. Well, mostly right. Patrick had an idea as to why Blurryface would need him, but it didn't make sense.

"Joe said you knew how to hot-wire a car," Pete said as the found an abandoned Mazda on the side of the road.

"I c-can't do it, but I can t-tell you how," Patrick replied timidly.

"Well, get talking, Lunchbox."

Pete opened up the bottom of the dashboard, revealing all the wires under the steering wheel. Sure, he'd hot-wired a few cars in his teen years, but he wanted to see exactly what Patrick was made out of. If this man was even worth his time.

The car roared to life less than ten minutes later, much to Pete's delight. He almost gave Patrick a hug, but he was quick to remember he hated Patrick. He also wasn't in the mood to give off mixed signals.

"If you'd like I can bandage up your arm when we settle for the night," Patrick offered, his voice breaking through the silence that filled the crevasses of the car. They had been burning rubber and time as Pete took to going at least eighty on the abandoned roads. Chicago loomed in the distance.

Pete took a glance at the man next to him. "Sure."

"I can do a run, too."

"Whatever."

"I'm sorry about Bronx."

Pete had nothing to say to that. It was easier to ignore that it had happened rather than accept the reality of it all. In Pete's mind there was nothing but denial. To him Bronx was reading in the backseat, hiding with Megan, sleeping quietly. So instead of trying to accept useless apologies and hand out pointless words of forgiveness, Pete presses his foot on the accelerator and launched their car in the direction of the skyscrapers.

*

"Ow. What the fuck, man. That hurts," Pete whined.

"Stop being a baby," Patrick commanded. "I told you it was going to hurt. You said you didn't care. Now hush, I need to concentrate."

Tongue between his teeth, Patrick pressed the needle through Pete's skin and tugged gently. He repeated the process a few more times before securing a knot and cutting off the excess thread.

"I'm going to put some gauze and wrap over it, so don't move."

Pete nodded at the hardness of Patrick's tone. When did Patrick get an attitude or a sense of authority?

Once Pete's arm had been wrapped, Patrick gathered his raiding supplies and took off into the night, eager to be away from Pete's presence. Pete sat on the chair for a few minutes, unable to process just how alone he was. Then one by one the thoughts crept into his mind: Joe is dead, Megan is dead, Bronx is dead.

Pete got out a worn journal and began to write.

We found Joe's friend today. The kid with the brain of a computer. He had managed to scour up some other companions in the few hours the two were separated. And for the first time in months I let myself think we'd be okay.

Patrick calls them robots; they address themselves as Killjoys. Both names are appropriate. These Killjoys attacked us when we were vulnerable, and they did not attack fairly.

Deaths: Ryan Ross, Brendon Urie, Joe Trohman, Andy Hurley, Megan Camper, Bronx Wentz

A single tear landed on the paper. Then the book was shut and tossed back into the bag without a second glance.