Disclaimer: Don't know, don't own, don't sue.
Author's Note: Thanks to Liza Paradis, the most rad girl in Massachusetts, for some much needed slash roleplay and Haley Keene, for whom the end of Mike's journal entry is dedicated to!

***

"Come on, Mike, hurry up," I yell, motioning for him to follow me with my free hand. The other is curled around the base of the amplifier I'm carrying. It's hard to keep hold of, even for me, so I know it must be difficult for him.

"How about you carry it for me?" he pants, finally catching up.

"Over my dead body," I say and laugh.

"That can be arranged."

"What?" I ask, looking strangely at Mike. "What'd you just say?"

Mike raised his eyebrows. "Nothing."

A hand clamps down on my upper arm. Simultaneously, I know there's something wrong-I drop the amp and push at Mike, "Run!" and lose any chance I had of defending myself.

There's a blinding pain in my shoulder and a rush of blood. Another, another, both in my stomach, but I'm not falling yet. "Run, Mike!" I try to scream again, but he's still standing there, like he didn't hear me, and I realize I didn't scream anything. No one can hear me scream-it's like a bad horror movie. "Run," I choke out, as the knife-it's a knife, I can see it now, glistening darkly with my blood in the light from the streetlamp. "Go!"

He turns and flees, his dark eyes wide with horror, and I turn to face my assailant just as the knife comes down again to bury itself just below my chest.

"Fall!" my attacker hisses, "Why won't you fall, you stubborn son of a bitch?"

I try to swing at him-it's no use, he grabs my arm and pulls me to the ground.

It's a warm June night, but I'm freezing-right after the show, too, and it's always hot after a show. Something's coating my back, now, and I realize it's my own blood, I'm laying in a pool of my own blood. I finally see who it is and choke out his name-but with the handle of the knife, he hits me in the mouth-at least four teeth are gone, now, and blood's pouring out of my mouth.

"That's better," he growls, smacking me in the face again with the handle, low on my jaw because I try to move my head. "Now, you just be quiet and I'll be back in a few minutes..."

He turns and starts to walk off in the direction Mike had run-the direction of the bus, the other guys...

"No!" I try to yell, and it finally comes out after another try. "No!"

"Didn't I tell you to be quiet?" he snarls, spinning around and walking back to me, crouching so that he's almost level. With the last of my strength, I punch out wildly and get him in the jaw-my knuckles hurt like hell, the only thing I can feel, now, and with a rush of satisfaction I watch his head spin around and his free hand fly to his face. I hurt the bastard.

"Nevermind... fuck the kid," he says softly, the knife in his hand, "You'll do to start."

"Gerard!" Mike screamed, tearing open the bus door. His brother looked up from a poker game with Frank and Bob, a smile fading from his face as he collected a pile of chips.

"What?" he asked, standing up, "What's wrong? What happened?"

"Out in the parking lot-Ray, someone attacked him-"

"What?"

"Someone with a knife-they attacked him-I don't-"

"When?"

"Just now!" Why did no one seem to see the gravity of the situation? Did no one realize how much you bled when you got stabbed once, let alone as many times as Ray had?

Gerard surprised him by walking quickly towards the door.

"Did you see who it was?" Frank asked, getting up to join Gerard, Bob following him wordlessly.

"No," Mike said, staring out the window, "He'd be gone now."

Gerard wrenched open the door, running outside-seemingly waiting for Mike to say the assailant was no longer around.

Mike burst out the door behind him, hearing Frank's swearing at his back and Bob's heavy footfalls as the followed. Gerard was already at Ray, who was on the ground in a pool of dark liquid-blood, Mike thought with a sickening jolt in his stomach.

"No," Frank whispered. "No fucking way..."

Gerard dropped to his knees, the dim, orange light from the streetlamp gleaming off of his dark hair.

"Jesus Christ," he said quietly, but they could all hear him, "Jesus, who the fuck... who the fuck would do something like this?"

Mike moved to stand by him, but he rose and said, "Don't look..."

He did anyway and felt his eyes widen. Ray was laying in his own blood, his black tee-shirt-his favorite, the one they'd gotten him for his birthday two years ago that said 'Torosaurous' in green letters-ripped and bloodstained from a knife. His dark eyes were open, staring, almost accusatory in death-because it was obvious he was dead, no one could survive that, not even someone tough like him. Most of the blood on his shirt had come from a long, jagged gash in his throat.

Frank swore loudly. "What the fuck? How could someone do that to Ray? Ray never hurt anybody..."

Gerard knelt down to look more closely at Ray. "There's a bruise on the left side of his mouth and more blood there than anywhere," he said hollowly. "Someone hit him in the mouth... and in the jaw, there's already a bruise forming."

"Someone-someone needs to call the cops," Bob said, "I'll do it..." and walked away slowly, his head bowed. There was no hurry now.

"Mr. Way?"

Both of the our heads snapped up to watch the woman police officer, a tall Hispanic. "Which one?" Gerard asked, his voice slightly cracked from hours of speechlessness. We'd been in the police station since nine, and it was now four thirty in the morning. Frank had fallen asleep, his head lolling on my shoulder, but I didn't have the heart to wake him.

"Uhm..." She consulted a list. "Michael Way."

"Can my brother come?" I asked, a sinking feeling in my stomach. I knew I was going to be asked about what happened when Ray had been killed.

"Well... there's nothing saying he can't," she said, watching me thoughtfully. "Yes. Follow me." She turned and walked down a stark hall.

Bob and Frank, who was finally awake, were watching us. Gerard stood up first and laid a hand on my shoulder.

"Come on."

I nodded, my eyes downcast, and stood up, following my brother and the police officer into the small room.

There was another cop in there-one who looked like he'd watched one too many episodes of Law and Order, complete with several day's worth of five o'clock shadow and a decrepit Styrofoam cup of coffee in one hand.

"Sit," the female officer said. "I'm officer Sanchez, my partner is detective Riley."

Riley nodded at both of us as we sat cautiously in the metal folding chairs, a Formica table separating us from the officers.

"Alright, Mr. Way-or would you prefer Michael?"

"Mike. Just Mike."

"Alright, then, Mike. We just need to ask you some routine questions... a few extra. You were a material witness in this case. Murder is a capital offense, and this was clearly with malicious intent-first-degree murder. You tell us all you can, and we'll be one step closer to nailing this guy," Sanchez said. "What time was it? Just an estimate will do for now."

"The show ended at eight," I said, quickly and quietly, wanting to get this over as fast as humanly possible. "I stayed behind with Ray to pack up the amps and some other, smaller gear. It was about twenty till nine when we finally got out of the concert hall and into the parking lot."

"Thank you," Sanchez said, writing something down. "Now, I need you to tell me exactly what happened when you left the concert hall."

"I was lagging behind, struggling with an amp, and Ray was up ahead... He shouted for me to hurry up and I finally caught up. I told him he could carry my amp, joking around, and he said he would over his dead body. Then he stopped walking and looked at me funny-and asked what I'd said. I hadn't said anything and I said so-then whoever it was grabbed his arm and he dropped the amp. He shouted for me to run and shoved me-but I didn't. I just... stood there.. and the person s-stabbed him," I stopped, taking a deep breath and speaking again. "He told me to run again and I did-to get the guys... but by the time we all got there, he was already-he was already gone."

"Can you describe the person?"

I took a deep breath again and launched into my description haltingly. "He was big-broad-looking, sort of tall, but not anything different than any number of guys at the show. It was dark out, but I think he had dark hair."

"Do you know why anyone would want to kill Mr. Toro?"

"No. I don't have any idea why anyone would want to kill him."

"Was Mr. Toro involved in any drugs-" Sanchez began.

"No," I said firmly, a little harshly, "Ray was clean."

"Is Mike a suspect?" Gerard asked, speaking finally-I'd been expecting him to speak up long before this.

"Not yet," Riley said, also speaking at last. "As to what this evidence said, it could well be coming, however."

"Can we leave?" Gerard asked, standing up and placing a hand on my shoulder-looking like he would leave whether Sanchez said it was okay or not.

"Yes."

I was right behind my brother as we left the room and behind everyone else as we left the station.

I didn't realize until we were in the car that I had just made myself the main suspect in my friend's murder.

The last four days had been spent in a combination of mad, pent-up energy and tiredness for the guys of My Chemical Romance. Ray's death had affected them all in more ways than they wanted to admit.

None of them had cried since that night-at least, not in front of each other. Gerard had been, at least once every two nights, woken up by low cries from Mike's room on the bus. He would get up and creep across the hall to stand in the doorway of Mike's room, watching his brother sleep, an occasional muffled cry escaping. He knew-just like Frank knew, like Bob knew-that Mike was dreaming about that night. Mike was taking it the hardest of all of them... he had actually seen Ray get killed. That was nothing you could live down, nothing you could force to go away, to forget.

Not for a long time.

And that was why Gerard was going to find who killed his friend-and his brother, the brother he had before the murder. That Mike was dead.

The least he could do was avenge them both.

He would always go back to his room, once his brother had sank back into a fitful but silent sleep, his eyes rolling in the horrible dreams Gerard knew he was suffering.

He would lay there, awake, fully clothed, his tie loosened and his shoes kicked off, and Mike's words at the police station would play back through his head.

He was big-broad-looking, sort of tall, but not anything different than any number of guys at the show. It was dark out, but I think he had dark hair...

Gerard had run through every person he knew, anyone who might have a grudge against Ray, and each time he did, he came up with nothing. Whoever had killed Ray had been careful-very careful, inconveniently so. There was no clue other than a spattering of blood that wasn't Ray's-Ray's was type A, this blood was O.

And hell if Gerard knew anything about his friend's blood types.

But he didn't want to believe it was one of his friends, someone he had trusted, someone he loved like a brother. But he was sure it was... every fan had been cleared out by then and none could have gotten past the barbed-wire fence that surrounded the parking lot.

He was big-broad-looking, sort of tall, but not anything different than any number of guys at the show. It was dark out, but I think he had dark hair...

He ran this through his head.

Tall...broad...dark hair...

Something suddenly clicked into place and Gerard shot up, his face alight with excitement-excitement and horror.

He didn't want it to be him...

But it was.

He knew it.

His hands were clenched on the steering wheel, his knuckles white against the steering wheel. A Browning 9 millimeter semiautomatic pistol lay on the seat next to him. He didn't want to use it and it wasn't registered, but to hell with the law. There was no way he was going in there unarmed.

The glowing clock read 2:36 and he reached up to rub his eyes tiredly.

Damn him...

He betrayed me...

He betrayed all of us.

He'll pay.

The thoughts ran through his head, chasing after one another, but one always seemed to hover in the front of his mind.

He'll pay.

It left him awake, alert, angry. Thinking about what he did made it easier to stay awake, to harbor reasons why he was going to pay, to harbor reasons to hate him.

He'll pay.

He pulled the car into the driveway of the apartment that he-and everyone else-was staying in. Everyone else on the tour.

Gerard's dark eyes blazed with hatred and contempt but he managed to tone it down as he walked quickly up the steps of the building, placing the gun in the pocket of his leather jacket. He knew his room number-on the ground floor, away from everyone else.

Before he knocked, he pulled out the gun and cocked the silencer-just in case. Just in case of what? You know what you're going to do.

He knocked and a wide-awake Bert McCracken opened the door.

He'll pay, Gerard thought viciously one more time, but his voice and eyes betrayed no anger.

"Bert."

"Gerard?" Bert asked, watching him carefully. If he was boozed up or high, he didn't act like it.

Yet.

"Yeah." Gerard made up his mind on a split-second decision. "I missed you," he said softly, masking his voice. "I just... wanted to come say... that I'm sorry."

Bert smiled slightly, warily, but Gerard could sense that he was beginning to warm himself up. "Yeah," he said, "But... Gee, it's like... two thirty..."

Gerard had a lie coming. "I figured no one would see me. Everyone thinks I hate you, man. I don't."

Bert smiled now, a full smile. "Good. I wondered... for a long time. I thought you hated me."

"How could I hate you?" Gerard shivered unintentionally-damn, it was cold in this place. His own words repulsed him. How could I hate you, Bert? Well, let's see, you murdered one of my best friends, to start.

"Come inside."

Gerard nodded and stuck one hand in his coat pocket, curling around the gun, following the other man into his apartment.

As soon as the door clicked shut, Bert turned around slowly, a Beretta held loosely in his hand, a smile slowly spreading across his face.

"You always were a good liar, Gerard," he purred, walking towards him. "But you never once managed to fool me."

Gerard whipped out his own gun and a fleeting look of mixed anger and shock crossed Bert's features.

"Managed to fool you with this, didn't I?"

"Put it down," Bert snapped. "You don't know how to use it."

Click. Gerard cocked the gun.

"Wanna bet?"

Bert's eyes widened in anger and surprise but were replaced with a sneer. "You wouldn't have the nerve to shoot me."

"Not yet." Gerard watched him, no longer bothering to mask his disgust and anger. "I want you to answer some questions. First: Why'd you kill him?"

Bert smirked. "You hadn't figured it out?"

Gerard's face darkened. "What are you talking about?"

His sneer became more pronounced. "You hadn't figured out the truth about your big straightedge friend?"

"Say what you fucking mean!" Gerard snarled, not knowing making it worse.

"Ray," Bert said, savoring every word, slowly, "Brought cocaine from me. And he didn't pay. You see what happens to people who don't pay me?"

Gerard's mind just shut down.

"No."

Ray?

Cocaine?

Ray did coke...

What the hell?

"No..."

"Yeah." Bert said, smiling now. "Your buddy bought some coke and didn't pay up."

"And you killed him?" Gerard asked incredulously.

"Of course not," Bert snapped, the smile fading, and he began to pace. "Toro threatened to go to the police once he realized what he'd done..."

"What do you mean, realized what he'd done?" Gerard asked sharply.

"Use what little brain you have, Gerard!" Bert said loudly, turning to stare at him. "Remember that first night of the tour? How all your bandmates got wasted-all of them but dear, straightedge Gerard Way," he mocked. "It didn't take much to convince Ray to try a line. He'd be too proud to admit he did it and, as you know-you did this, remember-it only takes on line to be addicted. He refused to pay me for what he insisted was only once-but then he was doing more and more, trying to get the same high, like they always told us in school. He owed me about three hundred dollars."

Gerard's face was white and furious, his voice shaking with cold anger as he spat, "So you tricked him into doing cocaine-knew it would force him to need more?"

"Don't say cocaine, Gerard," Bert said, in that same slow, pleased voice. "It was crack... and you know what crack does-that was your thing, wasn't it? And you know what crack does. Crack kills, Gee..."

Gerard knew what he was talking about. Crack cocaine would kill you if you didn't get more and more. Ray's body had become addicted to the drug-and it would have shut down without it.

"So Ray threatened to go to the police?"

"Yeah. Your buddy told me he was going to go to the police after that show-and that's when I made up my mind. I was gonna kill him before he could turn me in."

Gerard's face twisted into a snarl.

"And you killed him. He should have turned you in, you sick bastard," he said softly, raising the gun. His voice shook, but his hand was steady as he aimed the gun straight at Bert.

"Put the gun down, Gerard!" Bert snarled, fear clear in his eyes.

"You know what, Bert?" Gerard asked, taking a step towards him, the gun still pointed directly at Bert. "I'm going to give you the same chance you gave Ray."

Bert took a hasty step backwards, fumbling with the gun. There was a loud click and Gerard knew he had to do it now-

"None," he whispered and pulled the trigger.

There was a muted pop and Gerard watched his onetime friend-onetime best friend, now a stranger, now a murderer, now dead-stagger backwards and collapse against the wall, the bullet hole in his chest neat but blood spattered against the wall behind him.

"You got what you deserved," Gerard told him, as his eyes misted over and his mouth formed soundless words. "You killed my friend and my brother."

He paid.

Gerard walked out of the apartment and never looked back.

USED SINGER DEAD

ALLEGED DRUG CONNECTIONS

Robert McCracken, known as Bert McCracken, aged twenty seven, was found dead in his apartment on June 23rd, 2005. "Mr. McCracken was found with several drugs in his system, including acid, marijuana and cocaine. Cause of death was a bullet to the main left heart artery," officer Maria Sanchez said to our reporter. "We are currently dealing with the murder of Mr. Raymond Toro-Ortiz, a member of the popular rock group My Chemical Romance. We have an anonymous tip that Mr. McCracken was involved directly in that murder." There was no further comment on the Toro case. They are considering closing the McCracken case.

12-19-05

Ray's dead, Bert's dead. The Used is over-Quinn and Branden are in a band called the Collapsing Lungs and they're opening for us in our February Orlando show. Jeph's a member of the My Chemical Romance tour, now, he's the fill-in bass and records us live on camera.

We've got a new lead guitarist. Gerard and Frank seem to like him well enough, but Bob-hell, you know Bob, he doesn't give out whether he likes someone or not. But Jamie's like him, so I think they like each other okay.

Gerard hasn't come out and told us all that he killed Bert, but he told us that Bert killed Ray and why. We figured out the rest-wasn't a lot of figuring to do.

Right now we're in Missouri in some little city called Springfield. This is a pretty little place, country, but I'm pretty sure we've got some fans out there.

Gerard's yelling at Jamie for doing something stupid again-sounds like he was riding on top of the bus. That's Jamie for you, pulling some stupid-ass trick.

Wouldn't be any fun without him.

I can hear the TV going-sounds like Bob and Frank are watching Lord of the Rings. Sounds like the battle of Moria.

God, I'm a nerd.

Gerard's still yelling, but now he's telling me to hurry the fuck up because he needs help with the equipment.

What a surprise.

I'll write more later.

- Mike Way