Author's Note: It's been, quite literally, weeks since I last updated this fanfiction. To those whom have demonstrated patience, I thank-you. To those whom have commened, I thank-you. This is the final chapter of the series and I'm glad to hear that so many of you have enjoyed it. It makes me ecstatic. The reason I haven't updated is because of school work and rehearsals for the school play. Anywhosel, enjoy!


"Long absent, soon forgotten

Out of sight, out of mind

When the cat's away, the mice will play." – Proverb

He was scum to many, but a king to others. This fellow prowled the night just like any other repo man. His cerulean eyes saw the ruins as a playground, an adventure in the making. Oh, he saw terrible things, yet he managed to make the best of it all. He did his best to ignore the slaughter, the deaths, and the failures. It was indeed a post-apocalyptic world and he managed to get by.

He knew he could never ignore the deaths. GraveRobber, as his name implied, as a man who lived for the dead. He would extract the blue nectar from their corroded veins. He had once been a common man, digging ditches and burying the deceased. In a bitter twist of irony, he still made money from the dead. That would never change. Only his name and identity had undergone a transformation. Other than that, nothing changed.

The moon's rays reflect upon the erect tombstones. Some decay just as the corpses below do. The problem is that there are too many bodies to bury. They pile up. Thus, they take a dive down the underground mausoleum, hidden from the public's eyes. The smell remains, however. The stench can be smelled from several yards away. No matter what one does, the putrid odor remains.

The air raid sirens calmly hover around the grounds. A few lights from a GenCop's lantern flicker in a repetitive fashion. Both the dirt and sky are a murky gray as a result from the massive overdose of pollution. Shadows dance and jest. A tree's crippled branches scrape against someone's window.

A hand extends from the center of it all. The pale hand grips a headstone, slowly rising like a creature of the night. Yet, he's note. This figure is very human. He breaks and bleeds like any other. He has his pain as does humanity. A stifled groans passes through his black lips as he hoists himself upon the tomb. It's not quite a headstone, but a cemetery marker. A statue of an angel with arms outspread.

The fellow rests his chin upon the angel's shoulder, hands gripping the splayed arms. It's a bird's eye view of the graveyard below him. He pinpoints the location of each guard, each siren and makes a mental image. There's a carefully construed map that rests in his mind and it's for the better. If he didn't go through all of the necessary precautions, then he could very well be thrown into a damp, cold cell; waiting for death to take its toll upon him.

"One… Two. Four babes. Six in total. Two leaving for the night, two to take their place. Babes remain until they glitch in the morning. Alright. Three… Two… One… Make a move."

At first, this would sound like incoherent babble to any sane human being. Yet, they're abbreviations for his own understanding. The babes are indeed the air raid sirens. The other numbers are the amount of guards and the necessary countdown. Robbing graves is a risky busy. One wrong move and he could easily be shot on sight or so the sign has warned him time and time again.

He pushes himself off the statue, neatly landing on his booted feet. His gloved hand reaches out to grab a shovel that he had purposely left there beforehand. He is fast on his feet ever since childhood. He had to be in order to make an end's meet, stealing bread in order to live. GraveRobber scurries to and fro, keeping an eye out for the next shift to arrive. The metal blade quickly sinks into the damp earth.

His breathing becomes irregular. He's nervous. There's always the thrill of being caught. The whole business is absolutely exhilarating to himself. Quickly, ever so quickly, lumps of dirt are carelessly tossed aside. The body isn't buried all too deep. The gravediggers these days have become quite lazy with their work, he muses to himself on this. It's true. Back when he was one of them, they were both efficient and proper. Now, no one seems to care.

Bodies are thrown into their cold graves without a second thought. No longer are they human beings. They are empty shells, creatures void of life. He shudders at the eerie images strewn within his mind. It doesn't help for him to think this way, but he can't help it. The nightmares and haunting dreams will remain with him until the day he dies. With a grunt, he hoists the body out of its resting place.

A quick flick of the wrist; a thin, wavering smirk is all that is needed. With excessive violence, he thrusts the silver needle up the nostril. The blue liquid is extracted from the cranium and whatever veins haven't decomposed. GraveRobber recalls an old nursery rhyme from his childhood, proving to be oddly ironic. Worm goes in, worm goes out; worm plays Pinochle on his snout.

The street drug, known as Z, is then put into a little glass vial. He closes it and that's the magic behind the glow. He efficiently rolls the body back into its tomb and scurries away. He repeats this procedure for several more times. Over and over again whilst the routine remains the same. In a manner of speaking, his belt is full of ammunition. The vials contain that unholy, neon hue.

The pale fellow strolls off. Just as he does so, the next patrol passes by him. With an eerie grin, he salutes them. Clueless expressions muddy their faces as they, too, give him a modest way. The GenCops are quite unaware that this man just made a mockery of all they live for an all that they've done. He merely laughs as he runs towards his familiar turf.

A car siren sounds off in the forlorn distance as GraveRobber steps out of the shadows. He holds his gun in the air in all its temptation and moderation. At first, they arrive one by one. Then, they come in duos followed by trios and finally, droves. That is the repetitive pattern of all addicts. They will always come back, thirsting for more like that of a power hungry man and GraveRobber recognizes this for its entirety.

The familiar moan of Amber Sweet, one of the richest heiresses in the world, greets him. He represses the urge to roll his eyes and grimace. Truth be told, he's been a bit bored by her drunken actions. They're all the same and nothing new. When he first met Miss. Sweet on his new 'job', he was entranced by her. She was his drug and couldn't get enough of her. Now, the tables have taken a turn.

"Pay me later," he calls out hoarsely to her as she slumps to the ground. The Queen of the Junkies, he muses to himself, is at my feet. The pale man feels like a king, but this does not blind his actions. This job keeps him weary and on the constant look-out. One wrong move is all that is needed for him to bring himself to ruins.

What seems like minutes turns out to be hours. The dawn seems to be on its steady approach. He smiles, so rarely seeing the light of day. In Sanitarium, it's practically impossible. All one ever sees is the lights of night or the fog covered sky during the morning and afternoon.

Then, he remembers that he must return to the confinements of his so-called 'tomb'. Had he the choice to roam the day, he would, but given his profession; he could not. With a stressed groan, he lifts the lid of a GeneCo dumpster. With a cautious look, he hops inside his make-shift home. Being a grave robber comes with a cost. You lose your original home (he lacked one), friends (he had few), family (he didn't have any), and yourself.

GraveRobber is put a mouse in Sanitarium Island's giant playground and he accepts this idea until a young girl encounters him once more. The lid of his coffin is open and his exhausted, cerulean eyes open. Rays of light warm his exceedingly pale face. He resists the urge to make a joke out of his current position (i.e. hissing, using a 'Transylvanian' accent, etc).

A timid, young girl with the eyes of a doe bends over the dumpster with profound excitement and curiosity. A serene smile etches onto her lips, "GraveRobber! At least I know I have one good friend in this place." His mind is foggy and full of confusion. He rubs his head, followed by his eyes. What did she mean by friend? He didn't have any as previously mentioned.

"What're you talking about, Kid? Jeez… Interrupting my pleasant dreaming," he grimaces ever so slightly.

For a split second, she frowns and appears to be crest-fallen. His words don't encourage her to leave. No, they leave her even more determined than before. Her tone is quiet, "I just wanted to make sure that you were real, that you existed, and that you weren't a figment of my imagination."

"That'd be some imagination of yours if you could muster all of this," he wrinkles a grin.

"Yeah… I guess… I just wish everything was a dream. Do you ever think about that? One day we'll all wake up from this existence and snap into reality…." Now, the girl he knows as Shilo Wallace, is oddly distant.

"Sounds like you've been through a hell've a lot kid."

"Yeah…"

"Let me tell you a little something to distract your overworking mind."

"Um, are you going to tell me about that time again when you were hammered and hooked up with-" GraveRobber quickly clamps his hand over Shilo's mouth as he lets out a nervous laugh. Kids, these days… He runs his other hand over his hair. The young Wallace girl squirms away, waiting for the dealer's words of distraction.

"It's some kinda proverb or something. Learned it from someone close to me when I was a kid. It goes: Long absent, soon forgotten. Out of sight, out of mind. When the cat's away, the mice will play."

"It sounds… familiar. Like Dad would have known it or have told me it."

"Yeah?"

Shilo merely nods. GraveRobber rubs his chin, hopping out of his dumpster. He can only offer her a meager shrug of the shoulders as they pay their adieus and take separate paths. When the cat's away, the mice will play. That line alone remains in GraveRobber's memory to this day. His shadow glides across the road as his heavy boots clunk against the ground. He is but a mouse in Sanitarium Island.

The big cats are GeneCo and all their little friends. It's the mice, or the common folk, that have difficulty making end's meet. Yet, when GeneCo fell, all becomes seemingly just. GraveRobber can't help but to laugh in scorn at the fall of the king. Being a mouse has it's advantages. For each endless night, he dances on the graves once more.