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A REPO! the Genetic Opera fanfiction! Three months after the Opera, Graverobber is bored. Amber ruling GeneCo and Shilo disappearing off the face of the earth, is it any wonder a scream in a dark alley drew his attention. Or the Repo Cadet with a complicated history. And chiling news. GRILO
Chapter 1, Black Lacquer
Rating: R; Perhaps higher depending on when my muse takes me there.
Pairings: Grilo eventually.
Summary: Post movie, Graverobber is terribly bored. With Amber ruling GeneCo and Shilo's disappearing act, the last three months have been awful. Until a scream reveals the most interesting person. A Repo Cadet with a complicated history... and troubling news.
Warnings: This is a Dark!Fic, with violence and descriptions of the "nastier" side of life. Consider this piece like any rated R, eventually NC17 movie; there will be swearing and violence and eventually more. Do not read if you are underage!! You've been warned.
Disclaimer: I only own my personal original characters, my plot, my sanity (which is debatable), my stuffed Koala collection and a few signed pictures of Terrance Zdunich. Other than that... don't sue. I am not profiting from this bad boy AT ALL!!! Read, review... and Enjoy!
This takes place Three Months after the Opera. If you have any questions, I'll try and answer to the best of my ability. Expect Chapter two soon. Pictures of the Cadet's outfit and Mask can be found on my profile.
Thanks to my Literary Faerie for helping me out with Graves and my Hooded Figure for staying up to be the first to read! I love you guys!
It was a typical dreary night on Sanitarium Island, the glow of advertisements the only light in a dismal and cynical world. The shift in power in the ruling family of abuse and sin had finally grew to a stable lull. Amber Sweet nee Largo owned GeneCo with her rapist and murderer henchmen at her side.
Not much had changed since the night Rotti Largo breathed his last upon center stage. Blind Mag's music still played in the advertisements offering everything from a sexier X-Ray to the newest fad, glowing tattoos. Colors that shifting scintillatingly beneath the plastic and silicone flesh of the masses. It was if no one cared about the death of the artist known only by her imperfection.
So many Scalpel Sluts had moved on from the soprano's look; no longer did dark hair and light eyes stare out from the mindless, frothy pop culture throng. No... now looking like GeneCo's Favorite and Only Daughter was in fashion. Short bob cuts, vamp bangs, bright colored eyes and leather bustiers. Everywhere you looked, the populace screamed out: Trashy Slut was In.
That's all it took for the world to change so drastically, though to the world as a whole a mere whisper. Three months ago, the great humanitarian Rotti Largo died of a chronic disease. Three months ago, Blind Mag suffered a tragic accident. Three months ago some dead beat Dad was shot and his Little Girl fled into the night.
And we all end up in a tiny pine box...
For the first time in his almost three decades, the legendary Graverobber... was bored.
The Harpy Princess didn't come screeching around alleys anymore like a cat in heat. No, Daddy's Little Succu-slut had the company and probably a few surGENs wrapped around her genetically perfected finger. Why would she waste her time with a back alley Rebel without a Cause? Not that he was complaining, or his eardrums for that matter. But at least Amber brought a bit of entertainment to the back alley behind the Zydrate Support Network.
And then, there was The Kid.
She had stumbled quite amusingly into his web three months ago. Drawing her away with his silver tongue and drawing the attention of every GeneCop within a five block radius. Truly a sucker for the Clean. The Pure. The Rare. And the Kid was all three. Adding to his perfect little Jail Bait on Legs fantasy, her dear old Daddy dressed her up in such a way that he couldn't honestly be held accountable for his actions. Skirts that barely brushed the tops of her thighs, thigh high socks and tight white shirts. The ruffles only adding to the fantastic view. He could go on for hours describing about how those little Fuck Me boots click-clacked and haunted his dreams. The Kid trusted him, and he paraded her into his world crooning about the Love Market he got in, oh so many years ago.
And just when things were looking up, Rotti Fucking Largo had to over complicate things. Kidnap the Kid's Mother, he says. Make the Kid harvest the corpse's Z, he says. But did the greasy little bastard mention his daughter was gonna ransack his stash and leave him trussed up to the ceiling? Hell no. Things went so quickly from looking up, to looking upside down, Graverobber thought his head was spinning.
Enter that definitive click-clack... and suddenly the view from up there was perfect.
Ever the lothario, he began to woo the little sprite, calling her beautiful and making comments about how she had to 'smack it', all the while impure thoughts dancing about in his naughty lil' Graverobbing mind. At the time he thought it funny, that even upside down the Kid could channel his blood to defy gravity itself. How she didn't notice his decidedly growing problem was anybody's guess...
And just when he thought he was not only going to get down, but possibly get some... the Kid notices who she harvested from. Promptly scampering off and leaving him hung up, horny, and helpless.
Sometimes, I wonder.... why I even Bother...
That was the last time he saw her up close. True; everyone saw the Opera. But she wasn't his Kid there. No, she was the Sick Girl. And her Monster of a Father... He watched and shook his head as his Maggie-bird took flight, after singing about an arrow in her wing she caught three through her spine.
With a shake of his head, Graverobber wiped a stray tear from his eye. He loved her once, oh so long ago. When he was young and naive. When he was like the Kid...
And now... after all that, everyone who made his life interesting was dead or gone. He was no longer the Man known as Graverobber. No, he was the Legend known as Graverobber. Because to still be a man you needed to have people who know you, who care.
All he was now was vapor, and myth.
With a shake of his multi-colored hair, Graverobber freed himself of his inner turmoil. Leaning against the wall outside of the Support meeting, he crossed his arms over a broad chest. Ankles linked, smirk in place. A default mask to hide behind and draw in the curious, the foolish or the enslaved. The early crowd of working kids had come and gone already. He was waiting for the next surge. The kids who were either too stupid to know what they were getting into, dumb enough to be dared into bugging the God of Glow or the downright desperate.
His Zaddicts, his children came and went as usual. Cookie cutter soldiers lining up for their piece of Shangri-La. He knew his regulars and their habits, which is why when she didn't show up Graverobber became concerned. Blue was a fascinating little tart. So aptly nicknamed for her bright spikey blue hair and sunny disposition. He thought we was exceptionally clever the day he bestowed upon her that moniker. They had talked once or twice before, when her namesake bright glow made her open up. The streets had turned her into another faceless prostitute, aged her beyond her years. Thirteen going on forty, eyes older than dirt and just as dead. To her clients she was nothing but to Graverobber, the little slip of a thing was a bright spot in his day. She had a singing voice like a songbird, almost like Hers used to be.
Graverobber felt the smirk slide across his features as the spunky little Azure Zaddict strutted towards him. He opened his mouth, a snarky comment primed and at the ready, a rib at her tardiness when a gut-wrenching scream cut like a knife through his Chapel of Vice.
He couldn't help himself. Deep down inside he was still very much the hero and living proof curiosity hadn't truly killed this Tom Cat yet. He was almost grateful for the shriek, it put his thoughts into order and out of their melancholy reverie. But it was all about appearances and since he was still on his cement and sin stage, the show must go on. Playing off his curiosity as a game was simple enough. Pushing back the brown duster, he withdrew a vial of Z with a seductive air. Back and forth he twirled it through his fingers, contact juggling the vibrant Glow with ease. Calmly he began to move through the crowd, intent on the source of this disruption.
Parting the sea of addicts was easy. Following the sounds of choked screaming even more so. Barely an alley over, almost right on top of him and his, a young man pleaded for his life. Underneath the fluorescent lights crouched a Repo Cadet, wrist deep in a young man's chest, deftly removing his lungs. Another one of his regulars. He would never hear another of Mack's jokes now.
The leather clad hands quickly deposited the organ into a Cyrobag, which was then slung over a hunched shoulder. Standing up, the Cadet cut an interesting figure. About five foot nine, clad in a leather Highwaymen's coat with the collar pulled up high. Peering over the impressive neckline was a black Venetian mask, an intricate pattern embossed and curving around dark eyes. A tricorn hat sat atop spikey dark hair, brushing the cheekbones in a careless way. Picking up a long metal quarterstaff, the Cadet turned towards the Zydrate King, head tilting to the side as if confused.
As with any resident of the underbelly of the city, the sight of the Cadet was enough to make Graverobber turn tail and bolt. Dimly aware of the scalpel sluts around him stopping dead in their tracks before quickly and silently disappearing. He felt something within him stir, not quite sure what to attribute it to, a strange yet familiar flush of heat starting in his chest and fanning out to lurk beneath white grease paint. Knowing they'd be back once the blood of the new corpse had cooled, Graverobber drew himself up and nodded towards the Cadet.
He was... relatively sure he wasn't going to be killed tonight...
With an almost disappointed shake of the head, the Cadet watched the cockroaches scatter. Hefting the bag to a more comfortable position, he took a few steps back, slowly leaned into the wall using the staff as a prop. With a still bloody hand, he gestured at the corpse with flair, as if daring the criminal to ply his trade of offering it up on a silver platter. His choice.
It was a challenge. And you don't become a God if you let such things pass you by. With his classic smirk, Graverobber tugged off his toolkit, brushing his hair back with a humorless chuckle.
"Not ready yet. It needs ta cure."
A soft amused chuckle and another amused shake of the head his only answer.
Pushing off the wall with his shitkickers and using the staff as an unnecessary cane, the Cadet strolls up to him, long coat billowing. Standing shoulder to shoulder, facing opposite directions the Cadet turns, shadowed and in profile. In a voice barely above a whisper, lilting yet gruff but clearly amused, he purrs.
"Sometimes I wonder why you even Bother...."
Graverobber freezes at the phrase, that damned phrase that haunted his very dreams to a click-clack heartbeat. Drawing himself up to his full height, he looks down at the relatively short Cadet, eyes cold and hand finally stilling it's dance with the gleaming drug.
"Who does it concern whether or not I bother with something?"
Sliding the vial back into his holster and crosses his arms over his chest, clearly in defiance.
Another soft chuckle rends the air, a bit of a smile visible from underneath the high collar. Trying to see anything more than that was impossible, for the Cadet's visage was painted in darkness. Leaning all of his weight onto the staff, he draped one hand over the other, a sensual and comfortable pose. Yet once more, a growled out whisper from the GeneCo employee.
"A New Friend...? No... That's not quite right..."
He tilted his head towards the back of the alley, opposite of the criminal's harem of zombie harlots.
"You really that curious.... then by all means."
In a move almost too graceful for words, he turns, slowly walking deeper into the heart of the city itself, whistling a familiar tune...
That's Blind Mag's song...
Graverobber glanced back at the Zaddicts. He knew full well that if he left his wayward children alone for now, he'd be able to find most of them later. When he was finished with... whatever he was getting himself into. Frankly, the Cadet was too curious not to follow. Since the Kid had up and vanished after the Opera and Queen Amber's Reign of Terror, there was nothing for him to do again. Nothing but get up, harvest Z and shoot up plastic dolls.
Too proud to let the Cadet think him a coward, Graverobber adjusted the strap of his toolkit and followed the killer into the darkness.
The pace was relatively sedate, a stroll that would not look all too unfamiliar on the Zydrate King himself. If it weren't for the GeneCo patches proclaiming loud and clear his allegiances, it was downright eerie. The saunter was easy to keep in time with, the walk of a man with no fear.
Past the body dump, the Cadet slowed as a passing dump truck rounded the corner. Planting the corner of his staff into a crack in the pavement, he braced himself and tensed. With the sensual grace of a dancer, he leapt onto the back of the body bus, linking his arm and staff to balance him. The move was practiced, well-executed, and for an extremely brief moment rather sexy in it's overall power. That moment short lived when he realized the Cadet wasn't even bothering to wait for his companion.
Graverobber quickened his pace to leap onto the truck himself, cursing internally at his momentary distraction. He was better than that, he was better than this Nathan Wallace cheap sustitute. Catching onto the handle was easy, he used it to pull himself up when a wicked thought crossed his evil little mind. He then showed off by letting go and leaning calmly against the cold metal vehicle. Casting a sideways glance at the Cadet, his face screwed up in a combination of a smirk and a scowl. Unable to figure out his companion, or the strange thought process he invoked.
The Cadet kept his head tilted downward to cover the exposed portion of his face. At the evident grandstanding, he suppressed a snort of amusement, instead choosing to give a small nod, pleased that the hardened dealer followed.
The trip was relatively short, and almost painfully quiet. All the while he scanned the streets, rooftops and fire escapes to be wary of anyone following them. Once inside the graveyard proper, he leapt off the truck, pushing off with his staff as his coat once more billowed out in a non-existant breeze.
He landed with a surprisingly soft thump, not wasting even a moment to regain his bearings. Instead he headed towards a crypt. One that Graverobber knew all to well, the stone proclaiming the name Wallace as loudly as his mind mere minutes before.
Graverobber let himself drop to the ground, looking around curiously at the strange and oh so familiar surroundings. As if in a dream, he followed the Cadet, the clammy fingers of dread tracing up his spine. Feeling more and more ill at ease as they approached the tomb.
Without so much as a backwards glance, the Cadet walks up, opening the sanctified mausoleum, stepping in and to the side so he could follow. The ghostly portrait of Marni Wallace clearly backlit by a torch of some kind. Even more than before, in the soft muted glow of the flames, the combination of hat and collar and mask kept his face hidden.
All but dark, almost black eyes peering out from beneath the carved eyeholes.
It was too much, Graverobber paused in the doorway, his ghosts and failures screaming in his mind. He glared up at the Cadet not angry about how at home he seemed here but annoyed at the sheer audacity that this Casketfiller had entering His territory.
"You don't belong in there."
Another tilt of the head and soft chuckle. The now standard response, it seemed. He kept the door wide open, invitation plain and clearly not going to waste breath on voicing it once more. Another softly growled whisper.
"I belong here more than you know. Follow Me."
The Cadet leaned against the wall once more and waved him in with a flourish and a bow. A familiar.... flourish and bow...
A distrustful scowl sketched across his painted features, as he continued to stare at the Cadet. With a none to pleased sigh, he entered, following closely behind. Apparently he had come across this murderer before. Because that was His Bow. His little Flourish... So many things of his this back alley Ripper Doc seemed to know...
With care, the Cadet shut the door to the tomb, locking it from the inside. Wandering over to the dead woman's portrait, he pushes it aside to reveal a long stone passageway. Quarterstaff in the right, he picks up the torch with the left and begins the long trek, confident the dealer will eventually follow.
Graverobber sweeps into the tunnel, following at a safe distance in case the need arose for a quick escape. He had been through this tunnel only once before, but his feet followed the path with a startling clarity.
I'm out of Zydrate... oh, it's like a nightlight...
At the end of the tunnel, the Cadet pushed open the wall, casting a fleeting glance to an empty bird cage. Leaving the wall propped open, he turns and heads to the fireplace, pace determined, measured and even. Reaching up to a small statue with a twist, another passageway opens up, a holographic fire casting an ambient glow towards the front door. Turning around, he looks out from under the hat, catching the criminal's eye. The look in those dark eyes was clear as day; obviously telling him to shut the walls on his way in.
And so, Graverobber followed onward, too far in at this point to turn around, far too curious to not see it through to the end. He walked into the foyer, closing the wall with a soft click. Walking as quietly as possible, he sneaks across the main room, ducking through the fireplace and pulling it closed behind him.
He had let this stranger lead him into the Lion's Den...
The stairs before them wound down into the lab. The true heart of the Wallace household, the Alpha and Omega of their lives. He headed deeper into the basement, dropping the Cyrobag onto the operating table with a soft thump. With his back to Graverobber, he takes off the tricorn hat, promptly hanging it on a hook once used in a butcher's freezer. Then the gloves are shed, revealing small pale hands that slowly begin to unbutton the thick leather coat. Shrugging out of the heavy uniform, a petite form is revealed. Clad in combat boots, black BDUs, a skin tight black short sleeved shirt. What could be a kidney belt wrapped around a small waist, but whatever was under it had a corset tied back. He couldn't help his eyes from drinking their fill, confused and yet drawn to the small young Repo Man. Turning around, with a mirror image of his own smirk, the Cadet finally speaks above a whisper, voice clearly no longer able to pass as masculine.
"What's the matter, Graves? You look like you've seen a Ghost?"
Reaching up to untie the mask, the light glints off a familiar cameo around her slender pale neck.
Graverobber couldn't believe it; for his eyes had to be lying to him. A cruel joke, perhaps. There was no way he was truly seeing what was in front of him. No way it was Her.
His Kid... His... Shilo.
His voice failed him, emotion choking his very speech away. He stuffed his hands in his pockets to keep from reaching out, afraid to disrupt the mirage in front of him. A pipe dream sprung from his desperate mind. As so it seems, the Mad God now reigned.
Shilo grinned, reaching up and ruffling her now cheek length hair. Sharp little black nails giving her scalp a much needed scritch. The neckline of her shirt was nigh indecent to his eyes, a deep V of creamy flesh mocking him, a line of shadowed curve teasing his very soul.
"Bills. They were going to take my house, so I did the one thing I knew I could. Dad always let me read his books and well..."
With a gallant shrug, she turned towards the sink, switching it on with the back of her hand. Shilo bent over, oblvious as to the view she provided, combat fatigues molding to her curves like a siren's song. As she scrubbed the blood from her skin, his mind raged like a storm. Barely hearing her, save a soft static in the back of his mind.
"I had to give you a heads up but I didn't know how else to get you to listen..."
A half formed smirk twisted his features, trying to cover how beautiful he found her and nearly failing. His eyes roved like his hands wanted so desperately to, tracing the curves that he knew she didn't possess three scant months ago. His mouth parched, turning his words into a breathy purr.
"Lil' Repo Kid?"
His conscious warred within him, images flooding his mind. He was sure now, that this was her Father's lab. Her... lab now. A thrill chased up his spine, at that thought. Images of her bent over Daddy's work table, his hands bruising her hips as her little kitten claws scrapped uselessly at the metal... he could almost imagine the sound of her screams. His eyes rolled back into his head a bit, suddenly tuning back in to the real world around him.
You're beautiful. It's easy...
Shilo had turned from the sink, hanging up her coat in a tiled alcove. Her gloves then followed, each attached to hooks in the ceiling. She was ever so oblivious to his train of thought, or growing problem. Graverobber shifted a bit, content to let his coat hide his body's traitorous reaction.
"Well with Dad gone, who else is going to take over the family business?"
A playful smirk curled up her lips and she turned on the spray, her pixie cut hair sticking up in a frazzled mess; his thoughts then shifting to showers and steam. Hands grasping for a purchase on the slippery tile. His sharp teeth clamping down onto her neck, his own nails carving down her spine.
Once more he shook his head, attempting to clear the cobwebs. The Kid shouldn't be able to illicit these thoughts and yet....
"Like I said, I figured I'd give you a warning... Your ex is hunting down people in your line of work... I wasn't supposed to take that kid's lungs."
She looks up, staring him straight in the eye as she pulls a transparency from within the folds of her coat. Slinking over, hips rolling from side to side as if still unused to the new width and shape, she pressed the cold plastic to his fevered skin. A familiar visage staring up at him. Suddenly the color drained from his face, a rock plummeting into his stomach.
"I was supposed to take yours."
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