DISCLAIMER: Still not mine, except for Darby. See Chapter 1 for more details.

AN: Yes, there is an OC in this chapter. Yes, she is a major character in the story and will reappear. No, she is not a love interest for anybody. Yes, I tried to make her realistic. How much I succeeded is up to the reader.

Significant swearing here, but no blood and guts. Yet.

***

Graverobber twitched an old sheet of newspaper aside, revealing a half-eaten hamburger in a wrapper. Score. He immediately snatched up the food and stuffed as much as he could into his mouth—living on the streets, you learned to eat fast. He devoured the thing as quickly as possible, then returned to rooting around the Dumpster.

However, he seemed to have exhausted this particular gold mine. Well, half a burger was better fare than he often got Dumpster-diving, and now that it was free of processed meat, it would be as fine a place as any to bed down for the night.

Graverobber stretched out his long legs lengthwise along the container and twitched his coat around him a little tighter. Even though spring was well on the way, it was still cold at night. Not many people knew the benefits of living in Dumpsters, but they kept the warm in and offered protection from the rain. The smell didn't bother him—after all, he was just a kind of human garbage himself.

Still, given the choice between a Dumpster and a vacant apartment, he'd chose the apartment every time.

He laid an arm across his stomach, needle gun in hand. The tool was usually used for distributing Zydrate, but without its little glass vial it made for a fine weapon of choice. No one liked messing with needles, and a sharp one pressed against a jugular made for a very persuasive bargaining chip. An air embolism could drop a person faster than a gunshot. Graverobber didn't sleep with one eye open, but he never slept unarmed.

He didn't have much tonight that would interest thieves, anyway. He'd already sold his wares of Zydrate, raking in a few credits and a blow job. He didn't like straight-up sex with buyers who weren't regulars, but he never said no to oral. Unless, of course, the offer was from Miss Sweet. Even though Amber had bragged about a new surgery to help fellatio—a Gene Simmons-esque tongue extension, all the rage among the scalpel sluts lately—the prospect of those sharp little teeth taking a bite out of him was enough to turn him off.

Graverobber shuddered inwardly at the thought of Amber as he cracked the bones in his neck. It was a love-hate relationship, to say the least. That woman had nothing original left, except for maybe the toenail of her right pinkie, and while her surgical perfection was intriguing, it also disgusted him. He smirked a little. He tolerated the scalpel sluts because they were his market, but he was one hundred percent original, not a surgery to his name. Aside from keeping him off the repossession lists, it put him a cut—no pun intended—above the others in the street.

Graverobber hummed a little to himself, and settled down to sleep. Nights like this, the quiet ones, the lonely ones—these were the good ones. These were the ones where he could dream, and remember, and not worry about keeping his secrets . . . these were the nights when the rain on the roof of his Dumpster reminded him of a mother's lullaby, when the island city breathed out peace, when he could let his mind wander . . .

And as it had done an awful lot recently, his thoughts turned to the kid. Shilo, the Repo Man's daughter. He liked her, and why not? She was innocent and naïve and pure, everything Crucifixus wasn't, and he'd introduced her to that world. He'd taken her under his wing, albeit for only a few hours, and if he could claim that he'd corrupted her just a bit . . . well, that was something to be proud of, at least in his book.

And she was beautiful. He was well aware of his tastes, and as much as genetic perfection could be exciting, it was girls like Shilo who got him every time. He imagined the feel of her breasts, the taste of her throat, taking her against a wall and hearing her breathy moans as she whispered his name . . .

But his fantasy was short-lived. A loud bang on the side of the container jolted him out of his reverie, and he was instantly awake, needle clutched tight. Maybe it was just a spaced junkie, accidentally hitting the side of his makeshift bedroom—nope. That bang was followed by several others. Someone on the outside wanted in.

A Dumpster was never a good place to be during an ambush, but the thrill of a potential fight got Graverobber's heart pumping with excitement. He liked a break from the monotony every once in a while, and a fight would do the job nicely. Hell, that's what made it fun to scream in graveyards.

Graverobber managed to get into as much an upright position as he could, crouched and balanced on the balls of his feet, ready to spring. He tensed his powerful shoulder muscles as he prepared to burst out the top of the Dumpster and attack. The element of surprise could turn a fight in his favor.

Before he could act, however, the lid was flipped open and a woman's face appeared, grinning down at him. A familiar face. "Thought I recognized your stench," she said.

"Darby," snarled Graverobber, glaring at his sometime associate as he lowered his needle, "the fuck are you doing here?"

"Just trying to see if I could kip in there for the night," answered Darby. "Didn't think it was occupied until I caught your particular miasma." She swung herself up onto the closed half of the Dumpster, a graceful move for someone so stocky. She shook long red hair out of her face, splashing Graverobber in the process—she was soaked, even though the rain had tapered off. "Any food in there?"

Graverobber grinned toothily. "Not anymore. Of course, if you're hungry—"

"Not a chance. I know where that thing's been, you perv."

"Cocktease." Graverobber allowed himself another smile, stretching his blue-painted lips. He leaned against the side of the Dumpster, adopting the casual stance he usually took with potential buyers. Darby wasn't a buyer, of course, but they had their ways of dealing with each other.

"To what do I owe the dubious pleasure, D?" he asked. He didn't believe the 'looking for a place to kip' nonsense for a moment. Darby had her own place, and she didn't often join him in the streets. The two were friendly, or as friendly as two people in this city could be, but hardly partners. Except for—

Don't go there, he warned himself. Leave it alone. Danger zone.

Darby was quiet for a moment, then began cracking her knuckles in her ever-present leather gloves. "Heard you met the kid. The Wallace kid."

"Maybe."

"Heard she's missing now," Darby pressed him. "Heard the Largos are looking for her."

"Maybe, D."

"Don't give me that 'maybe' bullshit. I'm right. You found the kid, and if she's anything like she looks in the pictures, you wanted to get in her pants. You probably did. I know your style. You go for the jailbait."

"If I did, that'd be between me and her, D," Graverobber said in a lazy voice. "Don't expect a play-by-play."

"Like I'd want one," scoffed Darby. "Anyway, the Largos set a bounty on her head. Fifteen thousand credits. You heard about that? They just broadcast it. And there's no 'dead or alive' clause on the bounty, either. They want that girl dead and in pieces."

Graverobber gave a long, slow whistle through his teeth. Fifteen thousand credits went a long way on Crucifixus. A long way. Everyone and his mother would be out looking for the kid with that kind of money in play. Jesus, on her own she was good as dead.

"Is that why you came by?" asked Graverobber. It was more of a struggle than he'd expected to keep the anger out of his voice. The thought of that innocent little thing cut open in the street, like some Repo Man's trash—it sickened him, and he was not a man easily sickened. Christ, he'd only met the kid twice, but he didn't want her to end up like that. "You want to cash in on that bounty?"

"Relax, Graves," said Darby calmly. "I just came to give you the news. I wasn't gonna go after her. I don't do kids, remember? Too close to home."

Graverobber sighed. No, Darby didn't do kids. It was definitely too close to home—but there was that danger zone again. Don't go there.

"You just came to give me the news," Graverobber repeated. "Why?"

"'Cause I know you," said Darby easily. "And I know what you like, and I know you get possessive. These streets aren't a fucking picnic. I figure that kid could use at least one person looking out for her right now."

Darby and the graverobber locked eyes for the first time since they had met tonight. Darby's eyes were blue, or at least one of them was. The right eye was a covered by a cloudy haze, the result of a scarred mess across her face. Even half-blind, Darby could see through him better than anyone else—well, either that or he was a hell of a lot more obvious that he'd like to be. They stared at each other for a few seconds, then Darby hopped off the Dumpster.

"Anyway, I'm off," she said. "Got to see a man about a dog, whatever the hell that means."

She walked off down the alley as the rain started to pick up again.

"Hey, D!" Graverobber called on impulse. She paused and turned back toward him. She was little more than a silhouette in the rain.

"Thanks," he said.

Darby shrugged. "Yeah. But we're still even." She ducked into a shadow and was gone.

Graverobber pulled the lid of the Dumpster shut and settled back down to sleep. A little rainwater had collected inside during their chat, but it wasn't enough to deter him. The heads-up was welcome, certainly. As to being even . . .

When you know a person's real name, you're always even.

***

Oy vey! I had to totally rewrite this chapter trying to get GR right. He was way too nice in the first version. You're supposed to be a cocky bastard, not a pansy, dammit! Also, air embolisms don't work quite the way I've described here, but I'm not a doctor, so please forgive me. Anyway, questions? Comments? Happy thoughts? Constructive criticism? That's what the review button is for. Flames, as always, will be forwarded to the ninja hit squad.