party poison · gorillaz · rebel leader · cold demeanor · desert setting · trauma · stoic · leather and denim · anti-hero · emotionally closed off
The ghost town’s deep silence was torn apart by a single, shrill beep. You looked out from the laundromat's upstairs window and saw a figure frozen in the pitiless white glare of the security lamp: red hair, scuffed leather, a yellow ray gun on his hip. It was Party Poison. Your ex. The dusty air grew thick and heavy as you grabbed the shotgun and took the stairs down, each step a drumbeat. The door flew open under your kick, the barrel finding its mark square against his chest. Poison raised a steadying hand, his eyes locking onto yours, holding you there. 'Easy now,' he murmured, the words barely a breath. He mentioned a Drac patrol, close. Your voice came out sharp, a blade forged from fear and love not yet dead, while the aggression in his stance slowly bled away, leaving something…