A/N: This is a two-chapter fic. Chapter One is from GraveRobber's perspective. Chapter Two is from Amber's. I do not own anything in the story - not GraveRobber, not Amber, not Repo. It all belongs to Terrance Zdunich, Darren Smith, and Darren Lynn Bousman.


She usually insists on doing it after she's been shot up with Z. She says it's because it doesn't matter; that she won't be able to feel him either way. It's a below-the-belt shot, but that's Amber's way. She's not the kind to stroke other people's egos. Least of all GraveRobber's.

It used to be pillow talk, dirty talk, for her to tease him, call him less of a man, less of a human. It was filthy and fun. But it's getting more real day-by-day. Each time her eyes change, her face changes, her tits… She's less human than he is by now. Has to be. And he's tired of her bullshit. He wants to prove her wrong.

Under the red glow of the neon lights, she looks beautiful. She's always beautiful; she sees to it. And not in a you-take-my-breath-away-bullshit sort of way. She's that too, but, she's Amber Sweet. That's how she's supposed to be. GraveRobber is immune to her plastic good looks. He's immune to most everyone's plastic good looks.

But Amber's done something different tonight and it's not the silicone implants or the new scars visible on her collarbone. It bothers GraveRobber that he can't place what is so different. It's a stupid guessing game she always makes him play. And at this point, GraveRobber is pretty sure it doesn't matter what she does to herself; he can't remember what she looked like in the first place, anyways.

He studies her from a distance.

She's clearly just come from one of her daddy's charity auctions; she's still dressed to the nines. The hem of her shimmering ball gown touches the dirty ground. Her hair – blue-black like the night sky – is streaked with colors that GraveRobber knows Daddy Largo doesn't approve of. Green as grass used to be. Fluorescent pink. Zydrate blue… It's a rock-show of color, compared to the classical symphony of diamonds and silk she's wearing.

And GraveRobber has always had a thing for rock-and-roll. He stirs, in a way Amber always says he won't or can't or doesn't. The first, white-hot chords of lust rumble in the back of his brain.

"I want to play a game," he says, coming up behind her in the alley. She jumps. No doubt her twin eunuch guards are nearby. Still, she's on her guard. GraveRobber can guess why. A girl like her, in a place like this… It's such a cheesy pickup line, GraveRobber thinks of using it. Instead, he just smiles when Amber looks over her shoulder at him and relaxes. "You like games, don't you, Miss Sweet?"

"Zydrate first; games later," she insists, turning around. She pulls her hair to the side and exposes the back of her neck. "Hit me."

She points to the spot she wants the injection: at the base of her neck, just above the shoulder blades. There will be a scar there come morning; chances are that she wants new vertebrae this time; or maybe a more flexible spinal column. GraveRobber doesn't ask what new surgery she's getting; a client is a client. But he wonders sometimes, like now, what good some of these surgeries even are. He doesn't let his mind wander too far, though. Not with that white flesh all exposed in the dim street light. How could he? Up close, she is beautiful. So many of GraveRobber's clients come to him after fucked up surgeries or half-assed jobs. You get what you pay for in this world and Amber can afford the best.

Instead of the Zydrate gun, GraveRobber places a long finger to the exposed spot. Gently, just enough to make Amber shiver at the touch. his eyes widen. Usually, when she staggers to him, she's just coming off a Zydrate high or drunk enough to ease withdrawals. Tonight, she's sober. Surprisingly sober.

"You felt that," he says.

"Felt what?" she snaps.

There are goosebumps dotting her perfect and porcelain skin. GraveRobber's never noticed them before. They've fucked in this alleyway a hundred times, but always after she's Z-ed up. He licks his teeth and thinks. They never do it before; he wonders why that is.

He wants to play a game with Amber Sweet. Just this once.

"I want to do an experiment," GraveRobber murmurs. Right now, he's stooped just a bit so that his breath is on Amber's exposed skin. More goosebumps. His breath calls them to attention.

"You sick fuck." She lets go of her hair and it swings back into place, tickling GraveRobber's nose and lips. He stands upright when she turns around to face him. "Don't you have someone else you can use as your test dummy?"

GraveRobber doesn't answer her with words. Instead he kisses her, hard on the mouth, and snakes an arm around her waist. The kiss is closed-lipped and bruising and it doesn't end until Amber's hands are pushing against GraveRobber's chest and he's released her from his grasp. They pull away breathless. And for a long, silent moment, they stare at each other. Amber reaches up and prods her own lips with her fingertips.

"You felt that," GraveRobber says smugly at long last.

"Of course I fucking felt that," Amber spits. She winces when her finger presses too hard on her lip. "What the hell kind of game is this?"

"Dealer's choice."

His pun makes him smirk. Something flashes in Amber's eyes – wary curiosity, maybe lust. Her eyes are a violent shade of green. In the red neon of the signs around them, they stand out. They match one of the colored strands in her fancy updo.

"I'm not familiar with that game," she says flatly, when the spark is gone.

"I'll teach you," GraveRobber says. "It's simple."

"If it's dealer's choice, I'll bet it is," Amber says.

GraveRobber sneers and leans against the wall, effectively trapping Amber there.

"The object of the game is to make you feel something," GraveRobber hisses.

"What? You want me to fall in love with you?" Amber's lips quirk to a smile that says loud and clear: As if.

"No," GraveRobber says. If he didn't know any better, he'd swear Amber blushed. "I want you to feel everything I do to you this time around. I want to hear you scream – and mean it. I want to see you writhe and malfunction, since the second you're all Z-ed up, you're just going through the motions like some stoned cyborg. I want to know what actually makes you tick, Miss Sweet."

"Why do you care?" Amber rolls her eyes.

"I don't," GraveRobber says. "It's just a game."

He looks up at the flickering sign over their heads. It says No Vacancy, but the second "n" is dead. He's lying, just a little, but he's not making some sweeping romantic gesture, looking out for Amber Sweet's pleasure. She gets plenty of that from her Zydrate high. If he can make her hum like a well-tuned guitar, he'll be able to play her with expert fingers. That's what he tells himself.

"This is an ego thing," says Amber. "You know, I don't actually think you fuck corpses."

"Thanks," GraveRobber says, looking back at her. It is an ego thing, maybe a little. Maybe a lot.

"If I thought that, I wouldn't let that—" She grabs the crux of GraveRobber's pants. Her hand grasps too-tightly and GraveRobber clenches his jaw, exposing a vein in his neck. He suppresses a groan. It hurts, but it hurts the way a nibble on the neck, nails scratching down your back might. "—come anywhere near me."

"Especially when you've paid ten grand for your new parts," GraveRobber says tightly.

Amber squeezes harder. "Learn the value of money. I never pay less than fifty grand for a surgery."

GraveRobber's teeth grind holes in each other from clenching. It hurts worse now. Not in a good way, either. Amber releases him.

"You felt that," she says gleefully.

GraveRobber lets out a held breath. He doubles over and Amber slinks away from him.

"I didn't do any lasting damage," she says. "I'm gonna need all of that for your little "game". We are still playing, right? Or are you having some problems?"

When GraveRobber turns and looks at her, Amber's pouting. His eyes narrow.

"Oh, we're still playing," he growls. He stands against better judgment and crosses over to her. He grabs the satin sash dangling from around of Amber's middle and he reels her in. "You're just gonna pay for that."

"Cash or credit," she purrs.

"If I thought you had cash on you, I woulda taken it already."

"If I thought that, I wouldn't have worn these," says Amber.

She reaches up and fingers the diamonds she's wearing delicately. GraveRobber touches them – her fingers and the diamonds both – with one hand. He's a scavenger, after all, a GraveRobber. He didn't get the name just for taking Zydrate for corpses. He used to pawn jewelry, gold fillings, whatever he could pilfer from the dead. He likes pretty things. Maybe that's why he keeps Amber around, despite the taunting.

Last time, she'd pushed a button.

"Can't get it up, tonight, GraveRobber? Shame about that. One of my surGENs could fix you up in no time…" Amber cooed. "I could play dead for you if it'll help…"

So what if it is an ego thing. Sometimes, GraveRobber remembers how much he hates Amber Sweet. It's easy to forget when she sucks him off or thrusts enough money to get by for a full month into his open palms.

For a moment, he considers ripping the diamonds from her neck and taking them as payment. Throw the Zydrate at her. Leave. Those diamonds are worth a small fortune. They've gotta be. He could pawn them and retire to a nice side of town. Change his name and get by for years and years.

"You like them," says Amber. It's not a question; GraveRobber tries to dim his eyes, quell his excitement. "They were my mother."

"Your mother's," he echoes – corrects. It's the first piece of personal information Amber has ever volunteered to him. He wonders why she said it. Why now.

"No," Amber says. "They were my mother. You can do that, turn a body into diamonds; keep it out of reach from grave-robbing thugs like you."

GraveRobber can't help himself; he smirks and chuckles, then asks, "How does your mother feel about you fucking grave-robbing thugs like me for drugs?"

He didn't realize Amber wasn't teasing until she starts crying. She felt that. She bites her lip and swats GraveRobber's hand away. Oh, yes, she felt that quite deeply.

Sometimes GraveRobber hates her. Really hates her. But sometimes, he remembers that Amber Sweet is human under all those surgical scars and he can't quite bring himself to.

"I don't like this game," she says, ducking under his arm and wiping her eyes clear. "There are hundreds of other dealers in the city I can get a hit from."

"Amber…"

She freezes. He doesn't call her by her first name ever. Not her chosen first name, not her birth first name. When she whirls around and slaps him, GraveRobber isn't surprised. When she wraps her arms around his neck in an embrace, though, he is. Neither of them apologizes. Instead, GraveRobber strokes her hair as Amber cries into his filthy shirt, turning cemetery dirt into mud. The tears stun him too much for him to do anything else.

So the bitch can cry, he thinks. The bitch can feel.

"You wouldn't really go to another dealer," he says, when her cries are little, sniffly things. It's almost a question. Not quite. He cups her perfectly pointed chin in one rough-hewn hand.

"Maybe I would," she says – she still has her pride. "I've done it before."

GraveRobber lets go of her and looks at her skeptically.

"Before me? I thought I was your first-"

"You were," she says. Then she shakes her head. "But don't be an idiot. Sometimes, when I'm illing, you aren't around. I take what I can get. It's human nature."

"And here I thought I was special."

He's being sarcastic again; a sign that things are normal between them. Or as normal as things between an heiress and drug dealer get. He reaches into his belt and pulls out a vial of Zydrate.

"Pay me tomorrow," he says reaching for the gun. "Don't bring your mother next time."

She laughs and pulls the vial from his hands. It's a broken sound, but a laugh nonetheless. Her one arm is still slung over his shoulders and she rises up on her toes a little to plant a lingering kiss on his lips. This one doesn't bruise, it's tender and slow. When they break away, he sees Amber slide the Zydrate vial into her cleavage.

"These are diamonds now. My mother is dead," Amber says quietly. "I'm sure she doesn't mind if I fuck you right here, right now."