"Flynn, baby," the girl cooed, rolling onto his chest and splaying her hands there. Her legs eased open. "I've been a good girl. Won't you give me a kiss?"
He smiled, an easy, well-practiced, smarmy grin. "Oh, fine, since you insist." His hands went behind her back and he kissed her mouth. She tasted like a potent combination of Zydrate and vodka. It was intoxicating! He'd done this before—with her, even, and still he found it exciting, adventurous. Sleeping with her, skulking around. Thieving jewels by day and hearts by night! Imagine! Sometimes it went the other way, like this day, when he tumbled and rolled around in her bed with her.
"How's that?" he asked, then boasted, "Pretty fantastic, am I right?"
In answer, Amber's fingers hooked in his hair and hauled his head up for a more intensive exploration, her tongue darting about rather nimbly for someone who was more than halfway to drunkenness. He made a sound, felt his body react, ran his hands up from her stomach to her breasts. She arched into his touch, kneeling on him. It wasn't perfectly comfortable, but he wasn't going to complain; he had an heiress's breasts in his hands and her tongue in his mouth. If he complained, he would be an absolute numskull. He turned them around so she was beneath him, and he removed her leather jacket. Underneath... a sparkly bra, pushing her breasts up and together cozily. He basked in the gleaming sequins, dropping his head to rest in her cleavage.
"Ahhh," he said happily.
She smacked and shoved at him. "You're heavy, you oaf! Off!"
He obeyed, springing up and standing on her bed with his hands on his hips. He grinned down at her, with her hair mussed and her chest pretty well exposed, her skirt pushed up. "Wow. I could get used to a sight like this."
"Flynn," she said.
"Yep. I'm used to it."
Amber kicked his feet out from under him, pounced, and they tussled together like animals, and if she was an animal, she'd be a puma, using teeth and nails to her advantage, mauling him, tearing at his clothes and devouring him with kisses. At the same time, she would slink and purr and be suave. The duality of her primal nature and her practiced, seductive airs was fascinating to watch and fun to experience. He gave back, tore at her clothes, and experienced her body in ways most men could only dream of.
It was the life. Every guy wanted it, wanted her, and Flynn actually had achieved it—somehow. He was always fuzzy on the details, how he'd finagled his way into her bed and into his thieving occupation. Still, with her sleeping afterward, the surgery scars exposed, he couldn't help but feel... empty.
The next evening, he broke in and stole several of Sweet's necklaces, stuffing them in his bag. She'd never notice, and if she did, he'd be long gone. There was no doubt in his mind that she could replace him in her bed in the blink of an eye. He'd held no illusions about what they had, or that she was exclusive to him. Fact was, she got around more than he did. And he had no problem with that. It did make the leaving easier.
Sweet was drugged up enough that it was easy not to disturb her, though a part of him wanted to, just so he could be chased. Oh, how he loved the chase... but, alas, the night called to him. There were other riches to be had. He went out, ran off, and into the graveyard.
Unfortunately, he did find someone to chase him, and it wasn't the hundred and twenty pound Amber in stiletto heels and fetish gear. No, he had to go and bait a pack of GenCops with their scary guns.
"I'm genuinely scared now!" he yelped as he ran. Seeing an open door about to close, he raced up and slid in. It closed and locked behind him, putting a barrier between him and the police. He caught his breath before taking a look around. He looked to be in a tomb, although it didn't smell like dead people.
A slab was on the ground. He knelt to read the inscription. Marni Wallace. It didn't ring any bells, which was unsurprising, given how many of the city's population was dead. Or dying. Either way. And Flynn didn't have many connections, sort of a lone wolf. He preferred it that way. It discouraged unpleasant entanglements.
The lady had died young. Too bad. He avoided walking on her grave and went on to the passageway and through. It was spooky, lined with torches, but naturally it didn't bother him. A rat ran by his feet. "Geh!" He recovered quickly, smoothing his hair back. No one had seen that. Good. Onward!
The passageway spat out into a living room. A pretty nice one, too. Flynn went to the front door, to go on his merry way unbothered by GeneCo security. However. He heard a noise from upstairs, and he went to investigate. There was much to take and turn for profit, but none small enough to carry. Music carried him through the very dark hallway toward a bedroom. It was so dark, in fact, that he could barely see what was in front of him. He tried the door and found it locked. Interest now piqued, he jimmied the lock and opened the door without a sound. The room he found himself in was girly and cluttered and adorable.
A little lady slept in a bed that was too big for her, protected by a plastic canopy. Ruffles went up to her chin and fishnets went down from shoulders to fingers, ornamented by silver rings. Whoever this house and the girl belonged to had to be very moneyed. Flynn was careful not to make a sound as he surveyed for valuables that would fit in his pack. And then he saw it. Very rare. Very beautiful. The bug glowed in the jar, still alive. Rumor had it that the bug itself harvested Zydrate. He had to have it.
He reached for it. There was a shriek.
"Hands off the bug!" screeched the little miss, darting out of bed, pushing past the plastic. He panicked and headed for the door. She chased him in sock-clad feet, picking up her boots on the way out. Long-fingered hands grabbed the back of his shirt. Not wanting to drag her down the stairs, he stopped, fast, slamming the brakes on his heels, and in surprise she slammed to a halt against him and let go. He couldn't get a good look at her, from that angle, but she felt just tiny. She pushed away, and he turned to face the girl. She was panting, and her nightgown barely covered the essentials, especially with how she was leaning back.
"Give it here," she demanded, holding out her hand and beckoning with four fingers.
"Sorry, but I gotta run!" He gave a quick and casual salute and ran down the stairs. The girl slid down the banister after him and chased him all the way outside, where she promptly fell to her knees and began hacking up a storm.
He danced from foot to foot in indecision. To run, or to be a gentleman? What would Flynn Rider do? Flynn Rider would help the damsel in distress. Cursing, he went to her. "Hey, you okay?"
"Need my pill," she gasped. "I can't—I shouldn't be outside."
"Where are your pills," he said, enunciating carefully. Her eyes were rolling around like marbles. He shook her. "Hey! Your pills. Where are they?"
"Bedroom," she said weakly, and he hurried off to fetch them. Flynn came back to the girl curled up outside the front door and gave her the pill. Mumbling that she didn't have water to chase it with, she popped it. After a minute, she sat up, caught her breath. There was a guilty puppy look in her big eyes.
"You weren't sleeping, you fink!" he realized.
"You're the fink." She tugged on her boots and accepted the hand that pulled her to her feet. Then she screamed "Get back here!" when he ran again, and she took chase, across the street, through a backyard or three, into a tomb, where he caught her and pushed her down, purely concerned for her obviously delicate condition.
"What's so special about this bug?" he asked.
"It glows," she said, all quiet. "I want it back."
"No can do. See, I'm in need of some Zydrate..."
Her brow furrowed. "Some what?"
He stared. How sheltered was she? "... Forget it. It's a drug. It makes you feel good," he explained slowly, exaggerating his words and expression.
"It's a narcotic?"
"It's a painkiller. An expensive one."
"It—the bug, I mean—completed my collection. It's everything to me," she said shyly, getting up and dusting herself off.
"Too bad." He headed for the exit. Again, she grabbed onto his clothes, which frankly he was getting a little tired of, but he stopped anyway, with a great sigh. "You know what, why don't you stop following me?"
"I won't."
"Fine. Then stop grabbing me! You're free to follow along, but I am not giving up this bug." Now it was more from stubbornness than anything else. He had to prove a point and win this battle of wills. He needed to win and get the upper hand, even though he'd all ready gotten it; Flynn had the bug and the muscles to keep it. But, man, was she persistent. "Listen, Gothette..."
"It's Shilo," she corrected sullenly.
"Shy-low. What kind of a name is that?"
"My daddy likes it. Speaking of." Her fingers fumbled together, and her knees shook before the admission. Shy or frightened or both. Maybe her shyness was the inspiration for her ridiculous name. "I called him when I was pretending to be asleep. He'll beat you up."
"You may not have noticed, 'Lo, but we are not in your house. Call away, because he will never find me." He laughed, AHAHA, like a dramatic villain. He coughed. "In all seriousness, all that will do is alert him that you are not in bed, and it is bedtime for young girls."
Horror crossed her face, and her hands flew to her heart. "Oh no. I'm not allowed outside."
"You've said that. Metaphor?" he asked.
"What? No! It's a rule. I can't... I can't go outside. Or talk to strangers." She took a step backwards, wary of him and his intentions, no doubt.
"Well, guess you'd better go on back to your room. Your bug will be safe with me," he said, and sighed. "Damn, and I was so looking forward to travelling with you." He put an arm around her shoulders and pushed her toward the exit.
She locked her heels down and shoved him away, anger and fear flitting across her small, mouse-like features. "No! I am not going back without my bug." Quieter now, she said, "Besides, I'm in trouble regardless. It has to be worth it." In wonder, she looked around, taking stock of her surroundings. "I've never been outside 'til now."
"Yes, and growth, new experiences, all that? Great for building character. Now, in return, will you have to make some sacrifices? Sure! Will it decimate the foundation of yours and your father's relationship? Of course! Is it possible that..."
"Enough with the rhetorical questions," she sneered. "I am not going back without my bug, and that's final."
His shoulders slumped. But that trick always worked. "Fine," he groaned. "Whatever, you can come along. I guess."
"R-really? You'll let me?"
He'd try to pawn her off on the nearest person, granted they didn't seem liable to harm her... Oh, wait. Perhaps he could scare her into taking flight and retreating back to her nest. Flynn, you sly dog, he congratulated himself. And he knew just the place.
"Yes. Think of me as your guide on this, your first foray into the world!" he said. She smiled.
"Oh, um. If you're thinking of ditching me, know that you... you can't," she said feebly.
"No need for that. I wouldn't leave you stranded. Do you have any idea where you are?" Flynn asked her, amused.
"N-no." And she fell quiet as a corpse. He looked around the tomb for valuables, declaring her creepy for watching him so closely, accusing her of violating him and looking at his rear—a claim which she, blushing, meekly denied. The ladies could not resist Flynn Rider. It was physically impossible for him to be ignored by females, or the occasional man. He didn't blame her. His bag was filled with coins and jewelry. "You're stealing," the girl hissed.
"Yes? Good, you can identify basic actions. Now describe in more detail," he deadpanned.
"That's wrong. It isn't yours," she protested. "Put it back."
"Lo, I will do no such thing. This is my bread and butter, almost literally."
"It's Shilo, okay? Shilo!" She trotted over and put her hands on her hips, nostrils flaring. A bull about to charge. A short, goth bull, and Flynn was the capable matador, teasing and turning the bull about for her frustration and his fun. He grinned at the image.
"Okay, okay. Shilo. Sheesh, are you a nag."
"I am not," she protested.
"Nag, nag, nag," he teased, leaving the crypt, the girl following, his entourage of one, his tiny anti-fan club.
Twisting, the city streets mangled by corpses elicited disgusted and frightened howls from Shilo. Finding her naivety hilarious, Flynn offered macabre comments aimed at the decidedly unresponsive victims of Repo Men. The girl did not appreciate his attempts at comedy, shooting him glares and hissing that those were people he was talking about, for God's sake, and to have some respect.
"People die every day. Everyone's going to lose sometime," he said, stopping the routine and becoming serious.
No longer the teenager of lo those many years ago, the man fast nearing thirty paused in his search of the rarest flower – indeed, a species of flora most agreed extinct, if it had ever existed at all—to gaze at the sudden light, coming from the derelict tower. No movement had come from it for ten years. Not by night, anyway. But now a light came from the window, as if straight from God above, and Graverobber paused in his task, curiosity filling him to the brim. He stole closer. A very young girl sat on the ledge, a curtain of her golden hair falling down her back and into the tower behind her. Her legs dangled, and she was very still, her hands clutching the stones, her expression still, determined, afraid. He came closer to hear what she murmured. In the absolute silence of night, her grim voice carried down with clarity.
"I'm going to do it." She pushed forward on the ledge some.
"Don't!" he yelled, surprising himself. "Don't do it."
She gasped and nearly fell off right there, managed to steady herself to continue the conversation, it seemed.
"Who are you?" she called down. "And what do you care?"
"If you kill yourself, I'll have to clean up," he informed her. "I am Graverobber, at your service." He gave a low bow and looked up, holding his breath, hoping, waiting. She was holding her breath, too. In the pale moonlight, with lights behind her, she glowed and was beautiful. It was then that he noticed cuts on her arms, fresh ones, deep vertical cuts along each forearm that dripped blood onto her long pink skirt, marring it. He was obsessed at once with the beauty contrasting with her injuries. The red in her round cheeks mirrored that fresh, running blood, and her brilliant green eyes were hollowed with what unknown horrors she'd endured. She wore no makeup and was not pale. He smiled up at her, offering warmth and what comfort he could from way below.
"Very well. Then I will wait until a later time, when you are not there," she said stiffly, and pushed herself back into her tower, ending the conversation.
Not satisfied with this, Graverobber decided then and there that he would either compel her to join him safely on the ground or he would journey up and talk her down from a future attempt. Looks like that weren't meant to be wasted.
He would have gone up the traditional way, except the door was locked and barricaded from the inside. How inconvenient! Scratching his scalp, he surveyed the area for another way up. There wasn't much in the way of helpful trees... there was, however, ivy growing up the tower, all the way to the young lady's window. Graverobber was no fool. He tested it first, grabbing handfuls and hoisting himself a few feet off the ground. It held him. The stuff was rooted into the bricks, steadfast and wondrous for his purposes. And there were footholds. Handy.
He began his ascent, a little quicker than he intended due to anxiety. Graverobber did not want to fall on his back from that high up. The security of the ground abandoned him, and there was no going back. Smirking at his fear and casting it aside, he utilized what there was, using the vines and the gaps in the walls to reach the ledge. His arms were strong enough, and soon the ledge was in an arm's reach. How the girl could stand the idea of jumping from this height was beyond Graverobber. He was brave, and even this was a bit much for him.
Grabbing the ledge, he swung himself over and onto the balcony. A handy hook helped him swing in through the window onto the tower floor. For a moment, all he could do was catch his breath, and after, he looked around. The place was sparse aside from the plethora of multi-colored paintings on the walls: animals, spirals, suns, and the girl he'd seen in the window. All were slightly off or downright macabre. The animals were impaled on spikes and bleeding profusely, or devouring each other. The suns were red and boiled the subjects beneath them. The spirals seemed to ooze with pus, and as for the girl? She sported horrible wounds, bled from her eyes, her mouth, her hands, like stigmata, and her eyes were hollows, begging, weeping.
A figure hid in the shadowy underbelly of a desk, with just the whites of the girl's eyes visible. He approached and stooped with his hands on his knees.
"Hello, little one," he greeted her, and offered her his hand.
She shrank back, arms folded over her chest protectively. "How did you get up here?"
"I climbed." He showed her the red marks on his hands where the vines had dug in. "See?"
Her voice was a whisper. "Why?"
"I wanted to see you. Come on out. You're hurting my knees." He stood up, grumbling. He wasn't as physically capable as he'd once been, and his work was slowly destroying his body. But he didn't care about that at the moment. The girl intrigued him, and he liked intrigue in his women.
She came out of the underside of the desk, and as she drew up and stepped into the light, his mouth dropped open. By God, she was beautiful. Not allowing himself to show more than that moment of being taken aback by the presence of the beauty of this mysterious girl, he smiled and nodded his head once in a kind of bow. "Might I know your name?"
"Rapunzel," she hesitated. "Rapunzel." She seemed like a deer about to bolt. He dearly hoped she wouldn't, especially because his efforts would then be wasted, and he really hated that.
"What a lovely name. Enchanted to make your acquaintance, miss," he said, having decided that she was not exactly little, and that pet name would not work for her, not at all. "I am the Graverobber."
"Dumb to- to ask what you do for a living?" she asked with a slow, shy smile. "Isn't that kind of morbid?"
He shrugged and tossed his hair back. "It keeps me on my toes. Gives me perspective. There's plenty worse ways to make a living."
"Like what?"
Full of questions, this one. He leered, "You don't want to know, missy."
She blinked quite rapidly and dropped what had been behind her back: a frying pan. It hit the wood floor with a resounding clunk, and she looked horrified at the noise. Her head swiveled as she listened hard for some indefinable something that his keen senses could not discern. Then she relaxed, breathed a relieved sigh. "Whew. She's out cold, I guess," she muttered. He took a step closer.
"Who?"
"My… my mother." She gathered up her hair in her arms. He noticed how absurdly, cartoonishly long it was, and thick, and the color of gold and just as beautiful. It wound across the floor until she wound it in her arms in great bundles. He couldn't imagine how she went around with all that weighing her down; the tug on her scalp alone must have been incredibly uncomfortable. "She put herself to sleep a while ago."
Oh, how sad. The child of an addict. "Zydrate?" he asked her. After a baffled second followed by recognition, she shook her head. He growled just enough to make her shiver and in a deep voice asked, "Then what?"
"What what?"
"You know very well. What did she use?" he pressed.
She closed her eyes and took a breath to steady herself, breathed out and opened her eyes, her expression tentative, terrified. "Me." Rapunzel would not answer any more questions, shaking her head, lips tightly pressed. Instead, she got him a cup of hot chocolate and said they probably had until morning before her mother woke up and made him go. "I don't know what she'd do if she found you here, but it wouldn't be any good," she said, sipping at her mug. It burned her tongue and she said "ow ow hot hot!" and remembered to blow on the contents after that. Graverobber grinned. It was odd, being so high up off the ground.
He was glad she hadn't jumped. This was the best cocoa he'd had in a while, and he said as much. Her red cheeks grew redder, and she mumbled thanks. "You know you're named after a plant?" he said casually.
"I- I didn't know that, actually. Mother does call me Flower. When she's angry or when she's comforting. It's her little name for me."
"Well, Rapunzel, you'll be pleased to learn that your particular breed of flower is exceptionally rare. Near about extinct, or so I'm told. In fact, when I'm not harvesting and selling Z, I spend my time in the world's backyard—yours in particular—seeking this precious flower." He had stumbled on something far more interesting, however, and he smiled at his discovery. When she reached up on a high cabinet for the fluffy marshmallows to pack into her cocoa, he admired her hips and those long legs. She was a little like a horse or donkey, but much more attractive. Gazelle would be a more appropriate comparison.
"What's so special about this flower that you'll go looking for it all the time?" she asked, taking her seat across from him again. Her fingertips danced across the surface of the marshmallows, pushing them down into the chocolate. The whites melted and swirled.
"Not all the time," he refuted, though he'd been searching, off and on, for a decade. "They say it's the bud of eternal youth and beauty."
"And that's my namesake? Huh." She looked a little pleased, and what girl wouldn't be? The mother had the right idea.
"So they say. Rumors can be wrong." He cleared his throat, looked left and right, and leaned closer to her. "Why were you going to do it?"
"It?"
"Jump." He jerked his head toward the window. "Seems a long way down."
"It… it is." She bit her lip. "Oh my gosh. I… this was a mistake. It's bad to entertain guests without Mother's say-so. Please- please go." She stood up and pointed to the window emphatically.
"Rapunzel, I climbed all the way up here to talk to you, help you if I could. I am not climbing down." It was enough of a pain getting up. He stood up and shoved the chair aside, lowering his face to hers. "You can trust me. Got it?"
Timidly, she nodded. "Okay."
"Now. We're going to have a little chat and iron this whole thing out," he said, but the girl had other ideas. She went to the window.
"You know… I've always wanted to go outside. I was too scared to go without a guide." Hopefully, she smiled at him. "You'd be a good guide, I think. You're very scary, anyway, so I wouldn't have to worry about ruffians and thugs."
"I am a ruffian," he laughed.
"Oh. But you're a nice one! Besides, I wanted to leave home," and it trailed off into incomprehensible muttering.
"Speak up, miss. Can't hardly understand," he gently prompted.
"Death seemed like a good way to leave. Guess that's pretty silly," she mumbled, sheepish and unbearably sweet. She looked down at her bare feet.
His finger lifted up her chin, and he said, "Nothing stupid about it. What are you escaping from?"
She seemed about to crack, her large green eyes widening and expressing an open, unpolished pain. Then she broke away, pushing his arm aside. "Can we leave now?"
He eyed her. She didn't look strong enough to make the descent, and he sure as hell wasn't going to carry her. "How are we going to do that? We're a long ways up."
Leaning out the window in spite of his protests, she took a loop of her hair and wrapped it around the hook, knotting tight. "I do this for Mother," she explained. "Always wanted to try it!"
Hollering with glee, she let go, and swung quickly down to the ground, then stopped, hovering a few inches off the ground, letting go slowly. Her soles touched the ground. "Come on. It's secure," she called up to him, using her hands as a megaphone. "Take it and swing, then we'll unhook it!"
He heard a rustle behind him. Hurrying, he went to the hook, gathered a loose loop in his hands and hoping it wouldn't hurt her. But no, she stood at the bottom with her hair gathered in her arms, and he let go, dropping down to the grass and the brambles. He put an arm around her to give her the leverage needed to unhook her hair from the top of the tower.
She said, "I'm free."