As soon as he heard the voices, Graverobber immediately crouched under the shadow of a headstone. It wouldn't do to get caught by a GeneCop. Oh, getting away was easy enough, despite the threats that they'd shoot him on sight -- he'd had enough practice, by now it was almost a game -- but he worried about losing his supply. He'd filled nearly twenty Zydrate vials already, and nobody, not even Rotti Largo himself, would willingly part with the kind of money that could bring in.
As he crept closer, he realized he was only hearing one voice. Creeping closer still, he saw the silhouette of a woman slumped beside a mausoleum. The hour is a little late to be mourning your dead, lady, he thought to himself. Graverobber was tired, and he still had a couple vials to fill before he could call it a night, and things tended to go much more smoothly if he made it through a trip to the cemetery without encountering anyone still alive.
As if he had spoken aloud, the woman lifted her head, looked around, as if trying to verify that she was still alone with her grief. "Who's there?" she called softly. "I have permission to be here!"
As the woman turned her face towards him, Graverobber sucked in his breath through his teeth. It can't be, he thought. Blind Mag was sitting less then ten yards away from him, her famous face stricken with grief. Graverobber started to retreat, trying to make as little noise as possible. He might have succeeded in escaping, had he not sent some loose gravel skittering across the ground when his boot hit a fallen grave marker.
"I know you're there," Mag called. "I used to be blind, not deaf." When Graverobber remained hidden, she sighed. "I won't hurt you. I'm unarmed. And I won't tell Rotti I saw you, if he asks -- which he won't."
Still, Graverobber stayed where he was. He wasn't afraid of Rotti Largo -- he wasn't even afraid of the GeneCops, not really -- but he wasn't in the habit of doing anything for anybody if he couldn't benefit. And he wasn't stupid, but he failed to see how he could benefit from a midnight visit with Blind Mag.
Mag tried one last time to coax him out from his hiding place. "Please come out. I promise, all I want is some conversation. You don't know how lonely it gets, surrounded by the Largo family." A minute passed, then two, and Mag shook her head sadly. "I must have imagined it," she murmured to herself.
She sounded so forlorn that something inside Graverobber decided maybe it wouldn't hurt. Just a little conversation, she said so herself, and he could still fill his remaining empties before he was due to meet Amber. Sighing to himself, he rose, stretched, and made his way to the mausoleum's entrance.
"Hello," Mag greeted him as he came into view. He had braced himself for fright, revulsion, any one of the negative reactions he was usually met with when meeting someone new -- hell, with meeting anyone, ever. Except for Amber, he reminded himself, thought that was because she was usually either so strung out on Z or jonesing for her next fix so badly that nothing would have bothered her. But Mag's face reflected nothing but sorrow, and a faint glimmer of something else -- Hope? Nah, why would she be hopeful if she's looking at me?
"Evening," Graverobber replied, nodding his head. Nice night for a stroll, ain't it? He grinned, chuckling softly to himself. "Might I say, it's an honor to meet you."
Mag arched an eyebrow. "You're kind," she remarked, "for a grave robber." A flush rose to her cheeks as she hastened to add, "I don't mean to be impolite. It's just that I find one loses such tendencies when surrounded by so much death."
Graverobber smirked. "No offense taken," he replied. "And to be frank, I'm a bit surprised that the voice of GeneCo is at all concerned with courtesy. No offense intended, of course."
The singer waved a hand, nonplussed. "Hanging around the Largos all day, you learn to keep a civil tongue. And seeing the depths of degradation they can sink to, I try to hold onto as much of my humanity as I possibly can."
"That's admirable," Graverobber said aloud, thinking, If fanciful. All anyone had to do was take a look around to know that retaining a grip on humanity was a lost cause.
"Well." Mag hesitated a moment before saying, "I made a promise."
Graverobber nodded as he sat down beside her. Obligation was something he understood all too well. He tried to think of something to say, anything to continue the conversation that the lonely singer had asked for, but his mind was a blank. The two sat in silence for a few minutes before Graverobber noticed the book in Mag's lap. "What are you reading?"
"Hmmm?" She seemed to have forgotten her book; a look of surprise crossed her features when she glanced down. "Oh, this." Her cheeks colored again. "It's just silliness, nothing really." But she didn't stop him when he took the book from her.
"Holy Bible," Graverobber read aloud. He shot a sideways glance at Mag. "You worship the Old God?"
Mag quickly snatched the Bible back. "I told you, it's nothing."
Graverobber held up one hand, palm out. "I'm sorry. I wasn't trying to be rude. I've just never met anyone who still believes, well --"
"In religion, not GeneCo? In God over Rotti Largo and his surGENs?"
"In a word, yes. I mean, I can't remember the last time I even saw a church that wasn't in ruins. I must have still been a kid when the last of them was demolished." Graverobber couldn't remember ever even seeing a Bible before.
Mag raised her shoulders in a shrug, lowered them. "GeneCo may have some hold on me -- they gave me my eyes, and those weren't free. And when I'm dead, they'll harvest my organs, same as everybody else. But my soul --" She shrugged again. "My soul is mine forever." She looked down at the book in her hands. "Well, mine and God's," she amended.
"The Old God," Graverobber said, something akin to wonder creeping into his voice. "Read -- I mean, would you please read me something?"
Mag smiled and nodded, opening the book. Holding it under the moonlight, she turned the pages until she found what she was looking for. "For we are saved by hope: but hope that is seen is not hope: for what a man seeth, why doth he yet hope for? But if we hope for that we see not, then do we with patience wait for it." She closed the book, wiped an tear from the corner of her financed eye.
I made Blind Mag cry. Graverobber felt something sink in the pit of his stomach -- his soul? "I'm sorry, I --"
"Have apologized to me more often than you're used to, I'd be willing to bet," the singer interrupted with a sad smile. "We're in a cemetery, Graverobber," she pointed out. "There are tears in its very foundation."
Graverobber acknowledged her truth with a tilt of his head. "I've said more to you in the past ten minutes than I've said more to anyone in a long time," he admitted after a long pause, "apologies or not. Usually it's just, bi -- uh, pay me."
"You deal street Zydrate." It wasn't a question, but Graverobber was surprised to hear the words spoken with no condescension at all. Mag was simply stating a fact. "Is that what brings you here tonight?"
It was Graverobber's turn to shrug. "It's a living," he answered, skirting the question. "And it's simple economics: in every market, a submarket grows. Supply and demand. The Gospel according to Rotti Largo," he added, his voice turning sarcastic.
Mag studied him for a minute or two, and it briefly occurred to Graverobber that he'd never felt more naked. Not even with Amber. He didn't think he cared much for it. Better to keep up a guard, some sort of defense; better to have acquaintances instead of friends. The better to stay alive with, my dear. he reasoned.
"Why, though?" she finally asked. "Why Zydrate? When you could have just as easily found employment within GeneCo?"
Graverobber leaned closer, grinning conspiratorially. "The truth?" he whispered. "It's a really good living."
Blind Mag surprised him by letting out a giggle -- decidedly very unlike her public image. "You're funny, Graverobber."
"Blind Mag, coming from you, that's quite a compliment."
She smiled kindly. "As I intended."
He was still leaning close, their foreheads practically touching. Hell, he could feel her breath on his face with her every exhalation. And it's been so long since I've kissed a woman. His dalliances with Amber were little more than part of a business arrangement, a means of her working off her debt in trade, and he wasn't so stupid that he'd fuck up a business deal with any amount of romance. It's Blind Mag, for fuck's sake. The one person, the one woman, to look at him without any outward revulsion, without any bitterness or disdain, without any judgment visible upon her GeneCo-perfected face. Graverobber took a deep breath, closed his eyes --
They leapt apart as the singer's wrist transmitter beeped. "Mag, it's Rotti," came a voice from the speaker, as a holographic image of Rotti Largo's head appeared above the singer's wrist. "You have five more minutes. Your driver is waiting."
"That's my cue to leave," Graverobber said, gathering his kit. He rose to his feet. "Blind Mag," he said, tipping an imaginary hat, "it's been a pleasure." He started to pick his way through the tombstones, but when he heard Mag speak again, he paused, turning slightly towards her.
"Graverobber --"
"Jason," he interrupted. "My name is Jason Fell."
Mag nodded once. "Alright, Jason. Thank you. For the conversation."
He nodded in response, grinning once again. "It was good for me, too."