You could say it all started because of the organ failure epidemic, though many refused to believe so. The casualties were devastating: half of the earth's population was wiped out by this deadly internal plague. When the direct cause was never discovered, Gene Co. took over, and their biotech organs were mass produced around the globe. The same "reasonable" payment plan was offered to millions of suffering patients. Each contract signed meant another life saved, and each life saved meant a debt to be payed. Somewhere in the fine print it should have mentioned that Gene Co. intended to bleed every last cent out of their buyers before sending in the Repo Men to take back what they rightfully owned. Repossession was a bitch. Towards the end of 2056, Gene Co.'s CEO, Rotti Largo, suffered a most untimely death following a series of strange events at the annual Genetic Opera. Shortly after, the company was inherited by his young daughter, Amber Sweet. The shift in power was monumental, and the world held its breath in anticipation of what changes Miss Sweet might bring to the genetic legacy.
After four years of stagnancy, it was clear that no salvation would come from Miss Sweet, or any Gene Co. associates for that matter. The world was in limbo, those who refused surgery were sure to die of their ailments, and those who signed the crimson contract lived until death was forced upon them. But who was going to fight? The ungodly smell of death permeated the alleyways of the industrialized city like a sickness. It was a warning; a harsh reminder to all of what awaited those who failed to keep their heads above water while humanity sank to the depths. Corpses paved the streets of the city's lower quarters; cadavers without so much as a headstone to grant them the dignity entitled to the deceased. These corpses were the foundation on which the ignorant gold bleeders and surgery-addicted upper class people built their empire, always climbing upward out of fear that the filth below might swallow them. Even so, the sky itself had become tainted; blackened by hellish factory smoke and the ever-present cover of clouds that bore lightning, but not rain. Even at midday the sun failed to pierce through the ominous murk overhead, and the city was enveloped in darkness. Perhaps it was better this way-for the shadows better masked the corrupt creatures still clinging to life on the concrete below.
Not everyone was completely dissatisfied by the condition of existence. A little zydrate could do wonders for the soul, especially when complimented by some late night sex. Graverobber did his best to keep a steady supply of both. Prowling in the back streets and among the headstones of the city cemeteries, he supplied vagrants and knife-addicted street gangs with cheap drugs. There was no such thing as a "respectable" way to make a living. Ever since repossession was legalized, Graverobber didn't give a shit about the law. On an evening like any other while the sleepless society roared about him, Graverobber pushed his way through the mid-city crowds irritably. He had just lost over a months earnings after making a bet with a client, claiming he could get his hands on a shipment of zydrate guns being stored in a warehouse by the harbor. As it turned out, another group of necromerchants had already been planning to make off with the load, and didn't take too kindly to Graverobber's interference with their plans. They had outnumbered him 17 to 1, and though Graverobber was no daisy when it came to fighting, taking on that many was suicide.
That bastard had to have known, he thought to himself, turning down an alley to evade the crowds. "Get me that shipment, and the money's yours", bullshit. I'll give him a zydrate gun all right, I'll shove the damn thing into the middle of his forhead!
Graverobber hadn't the patience to pilfer any more coffins that night, and instead meandered through the empty streets of the Cold District. The Cold District used the largest marketplace in the city: home to florists, clock-makers, carpenters, painters, collectors, and all manner of simple people with simple antiques to offer. It was their fate to become obsolete, technology was always advancing and changing while they stayed the same. Their shops were buried by the industry of genetic engineering, and so henceforth have rotted, out of sight and out of mind of the trend-hungry people of the modern day. Graverobber kicked a small stone in front of him as he walked, trying to imagine what the streets might have looked like when they were still full of people who cared about something more than numbness and a scalpels kiss. A soft sound penetrated the air, a feeble cough that was barely audible even in the silence. Graverobber stopped in his tracks, and raising his eyes from the ground, he saw a wretched thing curled up against the side of a crumbled building. It showed no sign of breathing, or even moving at all really. Well, waste not want not... He thought, heading over to the corpse to extract the zydrate. He knelt down next to it and lifted the hood off its limp head. The face of a young woman surprised him, and Grave Robber recoiled, seeing that there was, in fact, still color in her face. The girl coughed and winced painfully, but her eyes remained shut. Around her, a few needles and pill bottles lay scattered on the ground, evidence of an intentional overdose. The Graverobber began to back away, preparing to turn his back. I'm no red cross, this isn't my responsibility, He told himself. Anyone else would walk away. So, he turned his back on the dying woman and began to walk. It was a mystery why Graverobber turned back to look at her the second time. He had never felt particularly inclined to save a life; his business was with the dead. Still, something inside him was urging him to go back. Something about the girl's face and the innocence of her expression reminded him of another occasion, in a graveyard. Shilo... He remembered. It seemed so long ago that the Graverobber had encountered young Shilo Wallace, back when the Genetic opera was still running, back before Amber Sweet was the owner of Gene Co.
A new sound echoed through the silent ruins, a harsher sound, a sound that meant "run" to everyone who heard it. A repo man. Grave Robber darted into one of the abandoned shops across the road, ducking out of sight. If that girl was who the Repo Man wanted, he couldn't do anything about it now. The girl shifted slightly in the heap of rubble that surrounded her, and a look of agony spread across her face as she sat up. Her eyes opened slightly as the masked assassin in black drew nearer. With the last bit of strength she had, the girl grasped at one of the surgical glass tubes laying about that was still filled with zydrate. She pressed the needle to her skin and it broke through, the anesthetic numbing her brain in preparation for what she knew was to come. The Repo Man knelt down next to her, drawing out his crude surgical knife. The helpless girl unbuttoned her shirt slightly, giving him easy access to the beating property inside her chest that he was there to retrieve. The Repo Man paused for a moment and looked at his victim. She started to lose consciousness and her eyes glazed over. It seemed that now she, too, would become one of the nameless bodies without a headstone that would rot and be forgotten. But some strange twist of fate took place that night, an event that shocked even the Graverobber who was watching from the shadows. The Repo Man stood up and stepped away from the frail body which lay readily before him. Then, without so much as a drop of blood spilled, he turned and walked away into the night.