The next morning's sunrise found Kerosene snuggled up in the large, cozy bed Nobel had bought for them in late winter. The influx of sunlight made fire-aesthetic, short twink sat up groggily, with a mess of curly, auburn-haired bedhead. Kerosene stretched and yawned, then stood up. He was dressed in Nobel's cut-off shirt and boxers. As he stumbled into the kitchen, the cold-fusion-powered breakfast counter's light flipped off, and the coffee machine had brewed a fresh pot with a note taped to it:
"Morning, sleepyhead. Eggs, bacon, and oatmeal are in the reheater, and the coffee is fresh. As usual, hangover meds are in the medicine cabinet, and I'm in the old hangar. Feel free to send me a message if you need anything. With love, ~Nobel
Kerosene smiled at the note as he loaded his plate and filled his coffee mug with the words: "Kiss Whoever You Want!" painted on either side. As Kerosene sat at their outdoor balcony table, the gentle breeze carried the melody of that deep-voiced "Sixteen Tons" up to the balcony. Kerosene couldn't help but chuckle. Sure, his boyfriend was a bit quirky, but give him an old machine, be it a car, train, plane, and/or appliance, sure as shit Nobel could gut whatever powered it previous and convert into a nuclear fusion power something-or-other.
He was obsessed with ensuring Old King Crude Cobra lost pallet after pallet of cash hand over fist in the classic restoration department. Nobel made sure to make each item sound and function just like it had once upon a time when a certain Petroleum Corporation produced it. However, it was now powered by 100% safe and reliable nuclear energy. Typically, most folks would say the big company could out-produce the sole proprietor company, but not in this case. Cobra Petroleum wasn't interested in restoring its classic products... until the global market crashed. Then, that massive corporation had to compete, sale for sale, with the nuclear-powered war machine known to Kerosene and a few others as Nobelium "Nobel" Fusion.
He worked night after night for weeks, product after product brought to him by their friend and scrap collector, the Solarpunk Community Legend, Steve "Stingray" Stull. He was an elderly gentleman in his mid-eighties whose orange-colored pupils could blind even the best protective lens wearer. He always appeared in a yellow and red Hawaiian-style shirt, name-brand solar shades, a neck-strapped bucket hat, khaki shorts, and white tennis shoes. His off-road-purposed SUV would haul in a plethora of old tech for Nobel to retrofit and flip. Between the two of them, Stingray Stull and Nobel, the profit they were raking in by cornering the market and black-market had them kicking Cobra Petroleum's ass $2.5 Million Crude-Bills for 100 items delivered to market.
However, unbeknownst to Kerosene, Stingray Stull and Nobel Fusion's connection was far deeper than that of business partners. The firefighter who saved Nobel's 14-year-old life... was Stingray Stull. After that day, Steve, "Stingray", and his wife Phyllis, the Steampunk Icon, took him in and kept him alive. Nuclear Fission Energy is created by channeling nuclear-heated steam into a turbine to create power, so it was easy to hide Nobel as a Steampunker rather than the Atompunk he was.
As Stingray's SUV rolled up to the old hangar, Kerosene, who was dressed fully, ran down to greet him. "Hey! Stingray!" he called out, waving. Stingray smiled a big, sunny grin, "Well, hey there, Kerosene!" Stingray hugged Kerosene. A grease—and dirt-covered Nobel came out of the hangar moments later. "Right on time, Stingray. I'd hug you, but let's not ruin that shirt now." Said Nobel, toweling his hands with a red shop rag. Stingray nodded and went into the hangar, followed by the other two.
Once the hangar door was slid shut, Stingray spoke. "Phyllis secured our booth for the Celebration week. No doubt Cobra's goons will be eyeing us, but ain't squat they can do! I've hired my old fire brigade and their kids to be protection, and boy-howdy, those H2O-Punks aren't to be messed with. Now, 'nuff said about that. Whatcha got for us to sell?" Nobel showed off vintage radios, fridges, all sorts of appliances, toys, and decorations he'd retrofitted and restored. "Will these work?" Asked Nobel. Kerosene could take a single glance and tell that Nobel was exhausted, but he was doing his best not to show it. Stingray scratched his chin, nodding. "Heck yeah, kid! These'll fly out of our booth, well done!" Stingray said as he patted Nobel on the shoulder. Now, let's get 'em loaded up, and I'll see you in the city bright and early, 4 am sharp."
They didn't take long to load the large trailer and send Stingray on his way. As the glow of Stingray's trailer lights vanished over the hill, Kerosene stepped in front of Nobel. "A-Are you sure about this? I mean, it's a corporate event and all..." Kerosene was interrupted by Nobel kissing him. "I'll be fine. Besides, if shit gets dicey, I'll make sure you're safe... I promise. Now! Let's go shower and get ready for lunch." Nobel said, walking hand in hand with Kerosene into their house.
Meanwhile, 50 flatland miles away, parallel to the Airstrip, up on the 70th floor, in Penthouse number 18: A well-groomed middle-aged man in a Royal-Black suit with a golden tie sat looking over his holonotes. With the push of a button, his secretary rushed in. "Good Afternoon, Sir Cobra. How may I be of assistance?" King Crude Cobra let out a long and heavy sigh. "Tell me, Secretary Farrah." Cobra's dark, commanding presence sent chills down her spine. Why is it that my multi-billion dollar corporation can't compete with a mom 'n' pop shop... WHEN IT COMES TO OUR OLD, OUTMODED PRODUCTS!? " demanded Cobra. His tongue was like a hidden dagger complemented by an anger that always felt cold—a deep winter's night, perhaps? It was as if he had glaciers in his veins and a penetrating gaze that broke even the best-trained mercenaries.
Without missing a step, Ms. Farrah Day swiped up on her wrist device. A split-second later, an email came through for Cobra. he promptly opened it and began reading every inch of every file inside. The room was almost silent, other than Crude Oil Cobra muttering to himself as he read. Eventually, he read a review stating, "It's not just almost-brand new, it's better than any of the newer models Cobra Petroleum has released within the last decade! Hats off to Stull's Resto!"
Cobra shut off his holo-desk and slowly turned to Ms. Day. "I want you... to track down this "Stull's Resto" guy, you find him and cut him the biggest check you can. I want what he has... and I want it by yesterday." Cobra said, tossing his checkbook across the long, gold-encrusted hickory office table. Ms. Day picked up the checkbook and began to hurry on her way, but came to a stop at the door. "Sir?" She called out meekly. Cobra looked over to her and nodded. "W-What if they refuse any offer?" Cobra's classical piano record screeched to a halt as Cobra, in a blind fury, crossed the room in the blink of an eye and glared into Ms. Day's soul. "If whoever refuses any amount of cash offer I give them through you... Shoot that son of bitch, or it'll cost you this position." Growled Cobra as he slammed the door behind her.