Disclaimer: Repo! The Genetic Opera is copyright to Terrance Zdunich, Darren Smith, Darren Lynn Bousman, and Lionsgate. I own nothing but my crazy imagination.
So, yeah, it's a lot shorter than I usually write. I apologize for that. It's kind of... well, a one-shot drabble thing. I might make it into a longer story depending on the general interest and my motivation. Hope you like my little exploration of how Graverobber might have gotten started.
He couldn't believe what he was about to do.
He stepped into the graveyard with slow, tentative steps, the weight of his debt heavy on his shoulders. All he'd needed were new lungs to cure the tuberculosis. The payment plan was supposed to make it easier to pay for the surgery. Nothing was ever easy when it came to GeneCo contracts—he'd learned that the hard way. Nevertheless, even if he'd known that then, he still would have signed the paper. Everyone did. No one wanted to die sooner rather than later.
He only had fourteen days left before they'd send a repo man to take his new lungs.
Whispers around the streets had told of a fortune to be made in the graveyards. All you needed was a few syringes and some empty vials, and you could get enough blue gold to pay off all your debts. Each coffin was practically a credit dispenser, or so they said. He ducked down behind a mausoleum and skirted the white marble edges until he reached the door, and he slipped inside quietly. Stealing from the graveyard was a risky endeavor. The underground cemeteries were crawling with GENcops, and there were cameras and swirling search lights everywhere.
"Just this once…" he thought, as he took off his brown leather satchel and placed it on the stone floor, "…I just need enough to pay off my debt…"
He pulled a syringe from the satchel with a shaky hand. Sweat beaded on his forehead and matted the underside of his hair and at the nape of his neck. He licked his lips unconsciously. He pulled on a pair of gloves so he wouldn't leave any fingerprints and pushed on the stone lid covering the coffin. The cold stone slab was heavier than it looked. He grunted and strained and managed to topple the slab onto the floor, laying bare the coffin within.
He pulled himself up onto the raised edge of the sarcophagus and dropped into the open top, pulling the coffin lid open roughly. He had little time to waste. He stumbled back slightly as the overwhelming smell of rotten flesh overtook him, but he recovered quickly. He couldn't afford repulsion until the job was done. He covered his nose with his shirt as though it might block the smell and leaned in carefully. The street dealers hadn't thought twice about telling the secrets of the trade to a scrawny-looking poor kid begging hand-outs on the corner. Most of them were too hooked on their own product to think clearly anyways. He found it all very disgusting, and swore that no matter how deep in the trade he got he would never sink that low.
The needle slid into the almost collapsed nasal cavity with little resistance, and he almost shuddered when the needle hit something softer just beyond it. Almost. He pulled back on the plunger and glowing blue liquid filled the empty vial inside of the syringe. The eerily neon glow lit his face like a flashlight, and he stared at it in awe. It was beautiful, the most pure and brilliant shade of blue he'd ever seen. He carefully tucked the glowing vial into his satchel and pulled out another empty one to repeat the process. It wasn't as hard as he'd expected, and he wasn't even disgusted by the sight and scent of the dead.
He'd realized then that it was just business—just cold, hard, cruel business.
And he was just a graverobber.