[cw: Death, grief, gender questioning, light descriptions of head wounds, mild transphobic self-doubt, implied child endangerment, blood, injury (bullet wounds), genderfeels]

Death can lead you to reevaluate life. It leads you to ask yourself questions you should have thought of sooner. “Do we really need a tour bus?” is a good place to start. But you can always get more personal. “Did Joanie know how I feel about her?” is a painful one, especially when she’s right there with you, crushed beneath the frame. But when you’re really reaching down for reasons to live, when the ref is giving the ten count and a big luchador ghost is encouraging you to get your shoulders off the mat, you tend to ask the really important questions.

“Did I really enjoy being a guy?”

The answer the bassist gave was no. It probably would have been a closed casket anyway, but this wasn’t the body, this wasn’t the name. Those weren’t what she wanted to be buried under.

The luchador was something new, of course. But anything that was offering a second chance at life was worth considering, no matter how horrifying it was. Señor Medianoches reached down a hand and the bassist caught it, being pulled out of the wreckage. Death had come, but it didn’t stick.

The bassist would carry on the torch. The band was silenced, and it was now a solo gig. Like Panic! At the Disco. she would become the embodiment of their friend’s hopes and dreams and goals.

Of course, that’s easier said than done. That was a month ago. What Joy had actually done in that time was sulk. she hadn’t even gone to the services. she’d gone through the haze and contacted all the relatives she knew, but when it came time to leave the house, she couldn’t. Turning up to Joanie’s funeral looking like this felt wrong somehow. The black suit didn’t fit, and it wasn’t just about the size of it.

So now she was laying in bed, singing to sad songs. Joanie’s songs. Well. Not all of them were sad, this one was called Joy. And it was written about them. Not Joy now, but Joanie and the man Joy used to be, the two of them. But every song is sad when you’re alone. She wanted to be Joanie’s joy once again, but that was gone. If only she had been the one to crawl out of the bus. Joanie would have handled the death of her friends with more dignity than sitting in her underwear and crying.

Mr Midnight was stir crazy. Ghosts can get bored, who knew? There was the cling of a round bell going off, the sound of boots hitting a canvas covered mat of plywood. Could a bell sound insistent?

“Fine,” Joy said, sliding out of bed with all the drama it warranted. “I’ll go out.”

She was almost to the door when the mirror stopped her. Oh what a face. A face that always seemed to belong to someone else; until they died they hadn’t really considered why. But the geist felt a promise had been made, so Joy forced herself to the shower. It was hard, but one good shave did wonders. Not just to the face, but the whole body.

When she got out of the shower, it didn’t feel right to go out wearing her old clothes. She’d barely been wearing them, since that failure to go to the funeral. There were Joanie’s things, though…

So many of them. They’d been living together, near the end. She always felt so comfortable around…

“Wait,” Joy said, looking at the dresser they used to share with Joanie, the numbers starting to add up. “Am I an idiot?”

Bey túuno’.

Joy wasn’t sure what that meant, but it sounded like an affirmative. Her shoulders slumped, and what little resolve she’d had faltered. This was another place where having a man who laughed at the face of death in your soul comes in handy. He wouldn’t take no for an answer. The hammer struck the bell again. It meant it.

Gathering up a few things of Joanie’s, Joy started to get dressed. When she slid the panties on, she felt a tingle, and suddenly got a little embarrassed. She looked over to the geist, which stood there with arms crossed. Joy stared insistently, and more from their bond than anything else, Mr. Midnight got the intent. That sugar skull mask was hard to read, but Joy certainly got the impression of rolled eyes. He turned around, and Joy finished dressing. It was an outfit they’d loved seeing on Joanie. A Star Riders shirt with the collar cut wide, hanging off one shoulder. A skirt that felt a little shorter than expected. Torn tights with fishnets over them. There wasn’t much point in wearing a bra, but Joy had an athletic bra on anyway. Seeing herself in the mirror was thrilling.

You learn a bit about makeup when you’re doing it yourself for stage work. Joy dolled herself up, and for a moment it was like Joanie was still with her. What would she say about this? Joy looked over to the poster, where Joanie smiled out. She was giving a wink and holding out her hand. Would she think her bassist looked good, wearing her clothes and Jewelry?

ki'ichpam ch'úupal.

Joanie wasn’t here, but Señor Medianoches was. And the ghost was supportive. Guess not every dusty skeleton is bad. “Alright,” Joy said, gently dabbing at her eye with a napkin to keep from smudging that fresh makeup. “Alright, I’ll go out.”