"So, were you trying to be tough?" Drench sneered, rubbing his jaw tenderly. It smarted from where he was hit, and he could tell that he would have a nasty bruise for awhile. He wanted revenge, but he was too smart to take it out on the man on the floor physically. Instead he kept his distance. Rat had tossed Drench the crowbar before he left with the woman, and now he paced around the room, whacking it against the wall angrily. It left dents in the paneling. "Tough guys never win. You got that injury to prove it. It wasn't even worth it, you know. You think it'll score points with that pretty lady?"

The man raised his head and glared at Drench through the trickling blood. "Shut up." He growled. The foul blackness was pushing at his consciousness again, throbbing with the quickened pulse in his body. "You couldn't get a woman like Resa if you were the last man alive. And I use the term 'man' loosely."

Drench laughed bitterly, smashing his weapon violently into the nearby filing cabinet. It fell to the ground with a crash, papers flying everywhere. When he approached the laptop he saw the older man get to his feet.

"You wouldn't dare." Nathan said in a voice that made the thief turn and look at him. The vile thing in his mind pulsed eagerly, lusting for blood.

"Oh wouldn't I?" Drench raised the crowbar, gleefully seeing a way to get back at the man who had injured his jaw and his pride. "You must have a lot of important files on here, huh? Not anymore!"

Nathan hesitated for a split second, racking his brain for any other alternative for what he was about to do, but none came to him. He lowered his head and let the blackness fill him. It rushed forward like water from an open damn, swirling and pulsing through his veins in rage, glorious, dangerous, bloodthirsty rage.

Drench brought the crowbar down with all his might, but it stopped inches from the smooth plastic as a hand shot out and gripped the weapon. He hadn't seen the other man move and he had hardly turned when he came face-to-face with a fist. The crowbar was ripped from his hands, and, still reeling from the blow, he was viciously smashed in the side of his head. He toppled to the floor, blood spurting from his scalp.

"I told you not to touch that!" Nathan roared. In two strides he had reached the thief, who struggled to his feet, his eyes wide in fear. Nathan felt a thrill run down his spine as he gripped the man by the collar, ramming his head against the wall. Drench shrieked and aimed a kick at the other man, landing a blow to his crotch. Nathan doubled over, releasing his grip for a split second. The thief tried to slip past him but Nathan grabbed him and slammed him against the desk. A crack split the air where Drench's head smacked the wood. "Let me go, man!" He screeched, striking out wildly. Nathan easily avoided the blows and leaned close to the man's face, reveling in his expression of pure terror.

"You're going to pay, you little worm." He growled. He backed away and raised his arm. The thief ducked the first blow, which shattered the top of the desk into splinters. He was not so lucky with the second. The crowbar cracked open his skull, spraying blood and brain matter everywhere. He crumbled to the ground, screaming and writhing on the carpet. Nathan squatted next to him, grinning widely. "Tough guys never win, remember?"

A gurgling sound escaped the man's lips through the blood.

"Oh for God's sake, shut up." He stood, positioned himself with the bar like a golfer about to take a swing, and in one fluid motion he shattered the man's skull. A gory mess of blood, brain and bone fragments exploded, splattering the room. The body twitched, once, twice, and then was still. A silent scream was frozen on the one side of the face that was still there.

Nathan stepped away from the body, wiping the mess off his face with minor disdain. One more to go.

xxx

Dust. So much dust. It filled his nostrils, his mouth, his lungs. He tried to cough, but it hurt too much. Pain shot from his ribs to his fingertips and he cringed, curling into a tighter ball. Why was he in so much pain? Where was he?
He opened an eye groggily, and found that he was looking at an eaten-away cobblestone floor. Outside. He coughed again, and shut his eyes in pain. Shit. Had he been robbed? His Zydrate was still in his belt.

Okay. He'd been beaten up before. You weren't in his line of work without making a few enemies. 'I'm Graverobber,' he recited in his head. Even thinking was painful. What the hell happened? 'I live in Crucifixus. I steal and sell Zydrate."

At least he still knew himself this time.

He tried to move, to move anything. A finger. Good. Limb. Even better. Eventually with enough wincing he pulled himself into a sitting position against the wall. It was cold on his back. He groaned, and the dust tore at his throat.
Water. He spotted a hose-junction a few feet away, and dragged himself to it. Swallowing hurt at first, but the cool water splashing away the grime felt good.

Using a dustbin as leverage, he was able to stand. Leaning on it, he examined the damage. Not too bad. He poked at the wounds and almost cried out. All right, a little less than 'not too bad'. He'd been through worse, though.
A huge poster was pasted to the wall opposite him. The new face of GeneCo, Amber Sweet. Of course, he thought, remembering. The thought almost made him chuckle. 'You were kinder this time, Sweet.' He knew her. She'd done this several times; thrown a fit, had him fractured and broken until he couldn't feel anymore, but never killed him. Stormed around and ordered death-on-sight, but he'd never been caught. And she always came back for the glow, just as sidling and seductive as before.

Graverobber looked at the wounds again. Stomach, leg, shoulder. He could deal with that. The trademark shallow rips of electric rifles, scorched flesh at the edges from point-blank range. Hurt like fucking hell, but liveable. The weapons were designed to slow people down, not kill them.

However, he felt broken bones. Wrist and ribs, pulled ankle. Those would take longer to heal. There was a small lump on his forehead that hurt, but didn't seem serious. Dried blood caked his face and his nose felt broken as well.
"All in all, a pretty good night," he groaned sarcastically, inching along the alley to the garbage truck route. His thick watch told him it was six o'clock, the truck would be along soon. What day, though?

He'd find out soon enough.

Gingerly he swung onto the back of the GeneCollection truck as it passed, and tried to stay awake on the ride to Shilo's. It went through the graveyard, and he had to toss himself from the truck. Stumble. Catch himself on a tombstone. Pain.

He went through the mausoleum, which Shilo kept unlocked for him, and staggered into the house. It seemed empty, dark. Food supplement lay out on the table, uneaten and stale-looking. Shit. He knew he shouldn't leave for so long - she never ate when he did.

Everything looked the same as when he'd left. "Shilo?" he called, nearly doubling over in pain. No response. Quickly washing his face of the blood and tying together a torn cloth with ice for his head, he limped from the kitchen and through the house, searching.

"Shilo!"

More pain. No answer.

She was in the center of the living room. Shards of glass were scattered around her like a dangerous mosaic.

"Shilo, what's going on?" he asked carefully as he walked around her.

She didn't turn to face him. She was sitting, curled in a twisted ball, holding a piece of paper. Her wig was thrown across the room, and her short, still-growing hair stuck out everywhere.

"I don't exist," she murmured from the cradle of her arms. "I'm no one. I'm not real."

"You're starting to scare me," Graverobber said, boots crunching over glass as he crouched in front of her. "What are you talking about?"

"This!" Shilo suddenly lifted her head, eyes crazy and dark-rimmed. She shook the paper at him. Her voice was ragged, surreal, loud. "This piece of ancient history! The thing that's held me here for years! The thing I found that you weren't here for! THE RECEIPT FOR MY DEATH!"

He just stared, shocked at the outburst. Shilo, looking terrifying and then exhausted, collapsed on him and began to sob. He peeled the paper from her hand. A death certificate. Shilo Wallace, 2036. According to the paper, she'd only been alive for a few minutes.

"Oh, Shilo," he muttered, gathering her in his arms. She was still small, still frail, and the cries that shook her shoulders looked painful.

"He said I was dead!" she sobbed hysterically, and it came out as a whisper. "He signed that with his own hand, destroyed me! Cut me off from the world! I don't exist!"

"Shi..."

"What do I do, Graverobber? What the fuck do I do now?"

For once, he was at a loss. His midsection was on fire, Shilo's frame pressing into his broken ribs painfully, but he couldn't just push her away.

"Come on," he murmured gently, pulling over the rug so she could walk out of the ring of glass. She leaned heavily on him, and he gritted his teeth and tried to cope. He couldn't make this about him, not tonight.

Graverobber helped her up the stairs to her bed, leaning heavily on the banister. She didn't seem to notice. Shilo looked different, older, completely drained. She leaned on him all the way to the huge bed, and Graverobber tried his hardest not to pass out. She'd started sleeping in her father's bed, unable to face all the monitors and medicine in her own room.

It seemed as soon as her head hit the pillow, she was dead asleep, curled in a fetal position. Graverobber rested on the edge of the bed for a second, breathing shallowly and trying to gather his strength. He took a moment to stroke Shilo's cheek protectively, pulling the thick comforter around her.

What he needed before any more thinking, however, was a bath.