Wow, it's been a long time since I've posted on this site. Please don't kill me. I promise, I will get back to Caligula in Red at some point, and probably my other fics. But I really wanted to post this, since I'm currently on what is turning out to be a year long Repo! kick.
It is Graverobber/OC because, honestly, Graverobber does things to me. It's just for fun, fantasy fulfillment, and because I want to explore the Repo! world more in depth than what is shown in the movie. So enjoy! Or don't! Love you guys, as always.
It started with weed.
It pains me to write it because I really believe the plant itself is harmless enough. But I swore to be honest with myself, with you. And, if I'm going to be honest, that's where it began – in that mellow green haze of content, in the softly vibrating hour when your problems melt away and you're happy to simply sit and be peaceful, caught up in your own thoughts and imagination.
No one goes to war for pot. It's not exactly something the average smoker gets aggressive about; you can love it deeply, it can be your comfort, your norm, but it's not addictive, it's not tense or troublesome; it's about sharing, community, a feel-good corner of a world overrun by industrial filth. But the thing about it is, once it becomes routine, you cease considering it a drug. Milder by far than alcohol and calmer than a cigarette, pot is a comforting friend… and you start trying to really get high.
Not everyone has the same experience, of course. Most pot smokers know where to draw the line. The old saying is that weed is a "gateway drug," revealing to the user (though I hesitate to employ such a strong word as "user") a hitherto unknown world of connections. The guy you smoked out on Wednesday comes back Friday with his friend, who happens to have a little cocaine in his backpack. Recoiling at first, then moving with interest towards the gleaming white powder, you wonder how different chemical drugs are from natural psychedelics. Taking a pinch, smearing it on your gums and soon coming back for a line or two, you find out.
That was how I started on cocaine, when I was nineteen, but its use wasn't so unordinary. Drugs were fun then. I partied late into the night, never feeling dependent on substance; my weekends swam by in a rush of twisted laughter. During the weekdays, I worked, went to a small college in one of the few still-green places in the state… overall, the same as any ordinary young adult. Partying was never going to ruin my life; I wasn't living in the dark, inner-city parts of the country, in places completely run by companies like GeneCo or CranialX or Starbucks. In those places, where surgery was a fashion statement and the Goth craze that had swept the nation was pounding its life-force into America's bloodstream, the drug market could kill you. In my own suburban corner of the country, I was naïve to just how dark it could be; I was only having fun, after all, as any young person has the inalienable right to.
The problem, my problem, was that the world of dealers is linked, interconnected – your usual pot dealer, out of bud for the week, refers you to his friend who sells both white and green. This new guy offers you Ecstasy, says he knows where to get some Addy, some Oxy, some DMT, some Ritalin, some Zydrate, some Mescaline. Sure, you say, you could get some Mescaline; you hear its natural, comes from a cactus, right? Strong body high, clear head, right?
"Right," says your new friend. "You like that body high?"
"Love it," you say.
"You should try Zydrate; it's great, completely blocks the pain sensors, leaves only pleasure sensors open for a real good time. Here, I'll get you my guy's number…"
And that was how I was first offered the infamous Z.
I never ended up calling the guy, though. I wasn't a complete idiot. I'd heard of Zydrate, of all the things it could do to you; there were very few side-effects to speak of—it couldn't leave you burnt out or crazy like meth or acid and it was relatively clean and pure—but it was very expensive, extremely addictive, and just too good. You didn't want to try a drug that was just too good. You wanted to dislike at least some parts of it, be it the come-down or the possibility of anxiety or the slightly gritty feeling the next day, so you'd be even a tiny bit less inclined to go out and do it again.
With Zydrate there was none of that. Developed by the omnipresent GeneCo for use against the pain of your post-surgical days, it was glowing blue perfection; there was no come-down, no anxiety, no nausea, headaches or appetite loss. The high lasted eight hours and apparently it was intense and amazing, though you were lost to the world for that time, a mindless lump on the couch making soft noises of pleasure. Or, if stimulated appropriately, the high could be frantic and erotic; being that the drug inhibited the synapse of all touch-sensors—besides the pleasure sensors, which were thrown into overdrive—you were literally numb to all touch besides what felt good. And, on Zydrate, what felt good felt very, very good. Of course that translated to increased sex-drive.
But the real danger hid in the addiction. Everyone had heard of Z addicts—I'd even known a few of my fellow high school graduates who'd gotten into the drug during college—and no one wanted to become one. The addiction was desperate, frenetic and very, very hard to overcome. Given the expense of the drug, many threw their lives away in its pursuit: turning tricks, stealing, selling more drugs… The cycle was vicious, and it started with Z.
Looking back, it's not hard to see a pattern of irony in my life. I was a relatively good kid, I really was. I smoked pot, drank a little, occasionally did a line or two, and experimented sometimes, but I was steering my world in the right direction—making good grades, keeping in contact with my family (living three states away), thinking about majoring in psychology and becoming a therapist… There was nothing I was doing that would ruin me.
No. What ruined me was what had been ruining this part of the country for the past decade: surgery.
And my irony was that it wasn't even elective.
There are only so many phrases that can make you freeze, make your pulse race and your blood run cold; only so many things a person can say to make you feel as though you are going to pass out, scream and vomit simultaneously.
"There's not much more we can do; it's likely you'll lose your sight by the end of the month" is one of them.
My eyes were failing me. They had been since I was a child, but glasses and contacts had kept the real danger at bay for quite a while. When I passed puberty and my vision continued to deteriorate, however, cause for concern was called to attention. At twenty, I was nearly blind. And, from the doctor's prognosis, it wasn't going to get better anytime soon.
Now, surgery as a fashion statement had been around for years. Almost every celebrity, every musician, actor or diva, had some kind of medically perfected body part, be it a nose, lips, breasts, legs, heart, liver or lungs. And, in the case of Blind Mag—my favorite opera star, the voice of GeneCo, with whom I'd felt a strong connection from a young age given our similar ocular dysfunctions—the perfection was in the eyes.
This isn't to say that I ever wanted to lose the use of my eyes. As I said, hearing the news that I was really, truly going blind was certainly the worst thing that had ever happened to me, up to that point. I was in agony; organs become such valuable, personal, beloved commodities when you realize you might lose them… But actually being blind was unacceptable. There was no reason to live that way. The technology was common, affordable, and, most of all, in vogue. Simply having false eyes would elevate me to a fashion status far above most of the people living in my suburb, especially if they were particularly cool looking.
But the idea of replacing my own flesh with little more than a digital recorder, the idea that my windows to the outside world would soon be exchanged with bits of metal and silicone, was torture. I was inconsolable the week before my surgery, crying in every spare moment of contemplation, tracing the patterns of my tears from my feeble eyes, down my cheeks, to drip away from my jaw line. The world was blurry, foggy, indefinable shapes in shades of grey and black, with flashes of startling pure-white waiting at the corners, sometimes enveloping my entire vision. That was how it would be if I went completely blind, I knew somehow. It would be nothing but grainy white, forever.
I needed CorneaPlus to escape from that fate. But I'd never swapped a real organ for synthetic materials. I wondered what it would feel like, to have artificial nerves meld with real ones, to have my optical cavities hollowed out and then refilled, to see the world in High Definition for the rest of my life. My mother, hushed over the phone, listening to me cry some of my last natural tears and feeling utterly helpless to ease her daughter's suffering, told me not to fret; SurGENS were very good at placating their clients; they made you feel comfortable, safe, and they were brilliant at their jobs. My mother knew. She'd had a lung-and-liver replacement just last year, the consequence of years of heavy drinking and smoking, habits she now had no excuse to discontinue.
My father was dead, but that had happened before I was born. A repo, if you'll believe it. Seven months after my conception he'd run out of money to pay for his recent spine replacement, and one of those monstrous men you only read about in newspapers had come for him. My mother wasn't terribly broken up about it. She was independently wealthy and finished with the man who'd sired me long before his death.
I never had any thoughts about repossessions. I knew my debts would be cleared because I had made sure I could pay them off in five years; besides, any missed payment on my behalf would be easily covered by my mother.
No, my anxiety stemmed from the fact that I would no longer be all-natural. In a time when organ failure was considered a legitimate epidemic and the knife became a fashion statement, being purely and totally human was a luxury to which very few had access. I was about to taint the purity of my humanity; part of me was soon to become irrevocably android.
It was terrifying.
I think, from the very first, I associated Zydrate with contentment. Z was the go-to drug for any SurGEN—nothing worked better and nothing sped up your recovery process faster—so they had me floating on it the moment I went into surgery. I walked in with no preconceptions, just incredibly anxious, they sat me down and pressed a Zydrate gun into my arm. Just like that.
From then on, I have very little recollection. Hospitals tended to cocktail their Z with numerous relaxants—morphine was the favorite—especially for surgeries as sensitive as ocular, so I wouldn't move or jolt. But I was more comfortable there in that hospital bed than I had ever been in my life, and when the operation was done and I opened my electric eyes for the first time, I was still high on the drug.
And everything was so beautiful.
I can't explain how wonderful it was to be able to see flawlessly again, how the colors around me shone, each with its own distinct brilliance. I was viewing the world in high definition, its lines crisp and sharp and contrasting, so precise I could trace the threading in the plain pale chair across the room. I discovered quickly that I could zoom in and out from my object of concentration—only slightly, nothing too crazy—and I played with this newfound ability for at least three hours, buzzed on residual Zydrate. It felt akin to bringing objects in and out of focus with regular eyes, but when I watched myself do it in the mirror I was stunned at how cool it looked. I'd gone with electric emerald irises—I'd always wanted green eyes—and the way my pupils expanded like the lens on a camera was thrown into sharp relief by the color.
They were so alien, so beautifully alien. I will never say my eyes aren't beautiful, because they are. I feel no pride in saying that because they aren't really mine. They simply belong to me. The whites are flecked with infinitesimal mirrored shards, making them look even whiter. The irises are electric emerald green with tiny lens lines curving out from the pupils so that they can dilate and constrict. From a distance they really don't look false, just incredibly striking, incredibly bright.
As I was wheeled from the sterile white hospital, a Zydrate gun was slapped into my hand, and a box of a dozen bright blue vials was passed to my mother.
"Every eight hours," said a bored GENtern in a skintight white dress, and I smiled. My temples and eye sockets were beginning to throb, and the idea of slipping into the sweet embrace of that beautiful drug was almost too tempting.
Jump cut three months later. My eyes being mostly healed, besides a slight bruising around them, I no longer needed Zydrate on a regular basis. I just wanted it. It was amazing how subtly and swiftly the addiction came on, actually. I didn't recognize my cravings for what they were, at first—I felt sad, lonely, and physically uncomfortable at all times when I was sober. Z was the only thing that made that go away, and so it became something like a friend.
The only problem was, my prescription had run out. I went again to my doctor, but policy concerning Zydrate was very strict—once you didn't need it, you didn't get it.
"The only way I can refill this," the physician informed me with a nefarious smile, "is if you decide to have another surgery."
I'll admit, the idea was tempting. Surgeries were a bit like tattoos—there was a measure of suffering, but otherwise it was so easy, and so permanent. And as soon as you got it, you wanted more perfection.
But in the end, I vetoed that idea. I wouldn't stoop that low, just to get Z.
But as the days passed, the cravings didn't quit—in fact, they got much worse. My mood began to be affected; I was irritable, snappish, and constantly depressed, holing myself up alone in my apartment for days. I ached terribly, and not just my eyes, which eeked tears of frustration every night. It was with an ecstatic jolt that I remembered, a month after my surgery, what my pot dealer had said about his Zydrate connection.
I ripped apart my home in search of that slip of paper he'd given me with the Z dealer's number, but after a full half hour I started to cry out of disappointment. I'd thrown it away a long time ago, never thinking I'd need it. With shaking hands, I punched my guy's number into my mobile.
If I'd never had that connection, none of it would have happened. I would have ridden out the withdrawal period like the rest of the Z heads, or finally broken down and gone for more surgery. I'd never have gone to the city, the trouble would never have found me, and I'd never have met Graverobber.
Even now, looking back, I'm not sure I'd change anything.
"So my guy got back to me about the Z." It was two agonizing days after my initial phone call, and I was sitting in my dealer's cozy living room with a pipe in one hand and a lighter in the other. I'd taken to coming over to his house frequently, to smoke bowls with him and hang out. I'm sure he assumed it was because I wanted to get closer to him, but my real motivation was in the Zydrate connection, which hadn't returned his calls when he made them.
Having said that, it's not as if I didn't like the guy. His name was Spencer, and he was really quite funny. He was nouveau-punk—that is to say, Goth-punk—and his dyed black hair was painstakingly sculpted each day into a tall, spikey Mohawk. He was thin and tall and not bad looking, if you liked long beaky noses and thin lips (complete with labret piercing).
Thing was, he was obviously interested in me. I did not return the infatuation, but he seemed to think I did, and his hands would linger too long when they touched me, or his words would drip insinuation. It got irritating—I was testy anyway—because it was never going to happen. He did not have much going for him, honestly, having fallen into that pit of indolence so common in drug dealers. Most of his day consisted of sitting around his house playing Virtual Reality and smoking weed. And sculpting his Mohawk.
"Oh yeah?" I couldn't keep the excitement out of my voice.
"Yeah, but… see I have to go to him. He doesn't have transport this far out of the city."
I assumed he was talking about the nearest metropolis, a sprawling ashen mess of neon lights and wrought iron, only about an hour's drive from where we were sitting. An hour seemed like nothing after the week I'd endured without Z.
"Oh," I said lightly. "Are you okay with that?"
"Yeah…" He scratched his head, seeming slightly abashed. "But… see, I don't have a ride that far in to the city."
"Okay…" I said, quickly growing irrationally irritated. "I have a car. I can come with you."
"I guess…" Spencer scratched his neck, looking out the window with an ounce of hesitation. "He doesn't want you to, though. He's kind of a… private guy. Real careful about newcomers. I don't know any details, and the less you question things, the better. He's kind of big time, has this huge clientele base in the city. But I guess… I mean, I guess you have to. You're the one with the car, like you said… He won't be too mad… " He turned on me, serious. "Be chill. No questions. Okay?"
"No questions," I repeated. "Got it. Who is this guy, anyway?"
"We call him Graverobber. Again, don't ask."
My excitement over having finally found Zydrate absolutely trumped any trepidation I should have been feeling. As we loaded into my vehicle and sped down the highways, I didn't even think about Graverobber.
I checked myself in the mirror of the gas station bathroom on the edge of the city, wanting to make a good impression in case it earned me a long time direct connection. Or, perhaps, a discount, which I knew from experience some drug dealers would give to girls they thought were pretty enough. My hair, pale blond, was curled in fashionable ringlets and loosely pinned behind my ears, leaving only my bangs straightened. My electric eyes, rimmed in heavy black, looked huge above pale lips and a small nose ring—also, according to fashion. I was dressed in a low cut, short sleeved black corset with a short ruffled skirt to match, fishnets, and knee high combat boots. The effect was the ever popular nouveau-Victorian Goth, a classic in my time but a sturdy one. I'd be accepted anywhere from seedy bars to high class Opera houses.
Graverobber's apartment was only a five minute drive from the gas station, along dirty, rain-slicked streets in what was probably the shittiest part of town. I parked my car behind a beat up van with two missing wheels, and in front of a Dumpster carelessly left on the sidewalk. Spencer attempted to grab my ass as we walked to the door, but I elbowed him and, laughing, he buzzed number 702.
The inside of the apartment building was even shabbier than its exterior, practically falling apart in many areas. Water dripped from the high ceilings, and a pile of collapsed, filthy cardboard boxes had been dumped in the middle of the floor, next to what I assumed had once been the stair railing. Graffiti lined the walls, and I wondered very seriously, as we entered the ancient elevator, if this place wasn't just inhabited by squatters.
We waited for quite a while after Spencer knocked on number 702, which turned out to be the penthouse. I fingered the peeling wallpaper—faded gray floral spirals—and bounced up and down, eager beyond words at the thought of the 21st Century Cure waiting behind that door.
When it finally creaked open, I turned to the figure at the threshold, surprised at how strong and pleasant my initial reaction to him was. He cut quite an impressive figure, I thought. He was a bit taller than average—though not as tall as the string bean with the Mohawk behind me—and he had broad shoulders and long fingers. His dark hair was very long and straight, streaked through with shots of dull blues and greens to frame his face, and pulled back at his forehead. His skin was stark white, and the black around his eyes matched the darkness of his lipstick. He was dressed casually, in an open-necked white poet shirt tucked into dark pants, which, in turn, were tucked into high buckled combat boots. Around his neck was a loose blue tie, and up his arms were thick black gloves.
"Graves," Spencer greeted with a smile, and the man accepted his handshake, but his dark eyes were turned to me, curiosity and suspicion swimming there in equal measure.
"What the hell is this?" he rumbled in low baritone, smooth and dangerous as he gestured at me. Spencer shrugged, eyes cast steadfastly to the floor.
"This is Kaye," he said. "She's chill, really. You can trust her. We're good friends."
Graverobber stared at me, deeply suspicious and a little angry, for a very long moment. Finally, his mouth twitched at the corner and he shrugged. He gestured us inside without a word, holding the door open as I went through and maintaining unwavering eye contact, his lips curved slightly. As I passed, he bowed his head and gestured with a hand in the manner of a gentleman, but that smirk cast a tone of irony over the whole picture. I arched an eyebrow, smiling, and zoomed in on his face by constricting my pupils. He was pretty hot, actually. My heart was kind of thumping.
The place was dim and cluttered. Cigarette smoke and incense hung in the air, and all around the room were piles of pillows, blankets and clothes. Posters, some torn nearly in half, adorned the walls. Many were ads for old movies - Pulp Fiction, Blade Runner, The Shining - and one of them advertised Zydrate, an ironic nod toward his business.
The man closed the door softly, and I turned to face him as I stood next to Spencer, noting that he was still examining me, though his expression had turned to mild amusement.
"You looking for the Glow?" were the first words Graverobber said to me. I nodded, and he chuckled softly. I felt he was sizing me up as much as he was checking me out, and it made me strangely apprehensive, probably because I was doing the same thing to him.
"You're not the usual client, Kaye," he told me. "Don't see much of the little rich girl variety. Like Amber fucking Sweet." I wanted to vomit when he said the name, and I got a little indignant.
"Didn't she get her face ripped off?" I asked bitterly. "I'm definitely not that fucked up." Graverobber chuckled through closed lips.
"Cute," he said, and finally his eyes left me as he began to pace toward the shelves lining the walls of the room. "I happen to know Miss Sweet. You're right. She's never been cute."
He bent down and withdrew an iron key from a long chain around his neck, slipping it into a lock on the door of one of the cabinets. When he pulled it open, the blue glow from the inside had my mouth veritably watering. I stared at the rows upon rows of little glass vials hungrily, my pupils zooming in on them slightly, which Graverobber noted with amusement.
"How long's it been for you?" he asked.
"A week," I told him, unable to rip my eyes away as he picked up a Z gun from the shelf and selected a vial, which he held up to his eyes. He let out a low whistle.
"That's as deep as the pit gets," he said, meaning the withdrawal. He slid the vial into the gun slowly, twisting it into place. "First hit's on me." He gestured to a large pile of cushions in one of the corners, clearly inviting me to sit there, and I walked across the room to do so, shivering with silent anticipation. He followed, only turning back once to Spencer.
"Hey. Run down to the store and pick up some cigs." he asked, tossing the other man a large bill. "Keep the rest." Spencer opened his mouth, perhaps to argue, but Graverobber clapped him on the shoulder with a significant look. "Thanks, man." Nodding, glancing quickly between me and the Z dealer, he left without another word. I raised my eyebrows once the door had closed, now alone with him and feeling butterflies mount in my stomach.
He stepped towards me slowly, eyes on my pale legs, with something in them that seemed rapacious. It frightened me, in a surprisingly pleasurable way, like an electric zing through my body. Graverobber knelt down in front of me, Zydrate gun raised in one hand, and, smiling, placed a hand on my knee to begin to pry my legs apart.
I stopped him, frowning, and he looked up at me as soon as he met resistance, a question in his eyes, as though it wasn't normal for every girl not to immediately spread her legs.
"That, uh," I said, laughing uncomfortably, "isn't part of the deal." A look of confusion stole over his features, but was cleared rather rapidly. He laughed then, suddenly, louder and more genuine than I'd heard him before, his hand patting my knee.
"Cute," he said again. "Real adorable." He shook his head and winked. "Don't worry, Doll. I'm not deflowering any roses today." I opened my mouth to protest being called a "rose," but, before I could, he pushed my knees apart forcefully, holding one leg down with the flat palm of his hand. We both stilled, the energy between us undeniable.
"An artery runs along here," he said in a low voice, running a gloved finger down my upper inner thigh. I could hear my pulse in my ears—I wasn't sure whether I loved this or hated it. He could see my underwear, I was certain of it, and his body was so close I could feel the warmth radiating from him. He swept the tip of his finger back up the line of the artery. "Best place to inject." He looked up to me, locking gaze as his palm rested casually against my inner thigh. "Ready?" I was breathless, so I simply nodded. His grin was wolfish.
He placed the gun against my thigh, but I only felt the tip of the needle for a moment before it broke through my skin, so quickly that the drug was numbing the pain as it happened. I shivered as a wave of glorious numbness swept over me, through my legs, my groin, my stomach, arms and finally head. Laying back on the pile of pillows—which seemed absolutely luxurious—I moaned, unaware of anything besides the high.
Graverobber shifted after a moment, sliding to sit beside me. I turned towards him foggily, watched his bright white grin flash.
"Thanks," I mumbled, or tried to. My mouth wasn't working very well. He only chuckled in reply.
"Don't thank me, kid," he said. He was so close, so warm. "Thank those electric eyes of yours."
"Thank you, electric eyes," I mumbled, but it probably came out more like "Thnn-knn-elemennn…" I licked my lips, frowning, and carefully enunciated my next words. "I'm… not a flower… you know…"
He laughed breathily through his nose.
"Sure you are," he said, and I was aware of him leaning over me. My eyes fluttered, trying and failing to take in all of him at once. I settled on watching the cuff of his jacket, his hand still holding the Zydrate gun. "You really like this…" His voice was a deep bass growl.
"Who… doesn't..." I moaned vaguely.
"No one who's tried," he chuckled. "Therein lies the danger."
"So why don't you join me?"
"Do you know what the word danger means?"
"Why?" I giggled. "Can't you be dangerous, Graves?" I reached up limply and pulled him towards me. He allowed me, however warily, planting his knee right next to my hip as he knelt over me.
"Is that a challenge?" One of his long fingers swept over the line of my throat, making me shiver.
"So show me."
He chuckled and pulled his hand away.
"Maybe later." That deep voice... I wanted him. And apparently Zydrate made me a bit slutty.
"Ah, come on…"
"Nah, your friend is back. I'll show you later." Sure enough, I heard footsteps at the door. But I hardly cared. Let Spencer watch.
"Is that a promise?"
He simply smirked at me, and rose to his feet. He turned around to face Spencer, who had just walked through the door, smoking one of the cigarettes from the pack in his hand. I laughed and moaned simultaneously, bringing a wonderfully tingling hand to my eyes to shut out the scene. Graverobber paced over to Spencer and they began discussing the matter of money, in mild, easy tones. I'd already given Spencer my part of the money, so the bills were exchanged for a small white box of ten Zydrate vials while I laid on the cushions, unwilling and unable to move.
"You want a hit?" Spencer asked as they paced over to me. Graverobber shook his head.
"I have a meeting this afternoon," he explained, but didn't elaborate. "Feel free to crash though. I'll be back in a couple hours."
"Thanks, Graves," Spencer said, shaking his hand again. I watched blearily as the dealer threw on a long brown trenchcoat, stole one look back at me, and left.
Spencer immediately made himself comfortable beside me and shot up, then leaned back. I thought vaguely that sex sounded nice, even with him, but I couldn't will my arms out of entropy to initiate anything. After a while, we both fell asleep.