Hello Everybody!
Alrighty! So, last full-on chapter of the current story before the other pieces start up. The format has changed a bit, no longer starting off with Shilo's perspective and then going into Galahad's or Hanna's. Instead it's reversed and a good eighty percent of this chapter is all zombie. Reason being, the whole story is supposed to be more about Hanna anyway and besides, they're all in the same room now and GraveRobber and Shilo have all but reached the end of their journey, so we don't really need to follow them much further.
This last numbered part should pretty well conclude their part of the story anyway, leaving ample room to delve deeper into the HiNaBN boys and all of their dark, dingy pasts…
{I HAVE REVIEWERS! Shout-outs to Xynostaph and Tenshi no Mugen for your wonderful comments! Thank you both so much! You're awesome and this chapter is all for you guys! :D}
I know this isn't exactly a Christmas story but it's my gift to you all. I hope you enjoy it. Happy Holidays, whatever you may celebrate, and a happy New Year. Peace, y'all!
Disclaimer: I do not own Hanna is Not a Boy's Name, nor any of the characters/locations therein. I also do not own Repo! The Genetic Opera, nor any of the characters/locations therein. I do, however, own the story.
Escape from Crucifixus - Part IV
The air in the tiny back room had suddenly turned to lead inside his lungs. Or, at least it would have, if he still needed to breathe. Galahad stood rigid, gripping the filthy drug dealer's shoulders with a vise-like hold.
Hanna's shirt was gone.
There, laid bare for the world to see, was the jagged, cruel scar that spanned the length and breadth of the skinny boy's torso; the skin stretched taught against itself, the staples gleaming mockingly from the corners of the marred flesh. Hanna must have been too stunned by what had just happened because he simply stood motionless, jaw agape and eyes wide. His arms sort of hung in mid-air, as though attempting to shield him from view but unable to do so. Scared, offended confused. He looked more vulnerable than Galahad had ever seen him before.
And then there was a soft, "Holy shit…" followed by a sharp bark of laughter. Under the reanimated man's gloved hands, the grave robber straightened up and pointed one pale finger directly at the silent investigator; a disturbing half-smirk, half-grin crawling up his features. "You cheated GeneCo." He leaned forward as far as he could into the ginger's face, pulling against the zombie's hold on him. "You cheated GeneCo!" he laughed. "You che–oh my god!" He looked from Hanna to Worth – who stood there with murderous intent in his eyes – and then back again.
The sudden change from total silence to being laughed at apparently was enough to jolt Hanna out of his shock-induced paralysis. His miserably exposed expression melted away into indignation. He reached over and seized his shirt back from the still-chortling dealer, who let it go without any resistance. The young man gave an abrupt nod towards his partner and Galahad took the gesture as a signal to release his captive. He did so, more shoving him away from the both of them than anything. He had assaulted Hanna; the zombie saw no need to be gentle.
He moved a little closer to his friend, determined to block anything further that might come their way. He was pissed at the grave robber. Oh, so pissed. And he did not anger easily. But at that moment, he would have gladly beaten the living daylights out of the man if given the opportunity. That same protective urge from earlier had roared to life inside his hollow veins, and though he could not place its origins, he was more than accepting of it. Ponder later, shield now.
Also fueling his actions was a none-too-small amount of worry for his companion. The way his eyes had shone when his shirt was taken was something that could only have been fear. And he never wanted the redhead to ever look that way again.
From over on the table, sitting all but forgotten, came a tiny little noise. A whimper. Four heads turned to look at the girl who had suddenly made her presence known. She had pulled her legs up to her chest, hands clenched into delicate fists and held in front of her face. Curled into a ball instinctively. Her eyes, the only visible part of her face, were wide and darkened by some kind of inner pain. She looked like she was on the verge of tears.
"Did…" she took a shaky breath, her gaze glued to the scars on Hanna's chest. "Did my dad do that to you?"
No. One. Breathed.
Hanna's mouth dropped open as he stared at her. Worth, on the other hand, snapped out of his own trance with a growl of, "Yer dad?" His teeth clenched around his cigarette so fiercely that it chomped the slip of paper and tobacco clean in half. For once, the doctor didn't seem to notice. His face had turned a nasty shade of purple-red and he had to close his eyes and take a deep breath before he spoke. Something decidedly un-Worth-like. "Ya mean ta tell me…tha' yer dad," and he bit the word so harshly that the both the girl and her guardian flinched slightly, "is th' Repo?"
The room was dead silent. Hanna remained agape, his partner still at his side and watching him worriedly, and Worth's eyes stayed closed. Even the grave robber seemed tense, no doubt ready to react to any hostile intent. Only the girl on the metal slab moved. A slow, anguished, terrified nod.
"Mmhmm…"
Something about the way that Hanna shrunk backwards made Galahad's silent heart clench. This was more than fear, this was sheer panic, and the redhead's eyes flashed brightly with it as he unconsciously pressed himself into the dead man's side. In return, trying to comfort the shorter figure though he had no idea how or even what he was comforting from, he slipped his arm around and placed a hand on one thin, shaking shoulder.
The word Repo rang in his mind, tugging at his memories and making him go rigid with anxiety. Why did I react that way?
And then Worth began to chuckle. Harsh and throaty and horse from one-too-many cigarettes and late nights. The chuckle became louder until it grew into a full-on laugh, rasping its way out of the grimy doctor's yellow-stained teeth. "O' course. O' bloody course." Still laughing, he shook his head and turned to pick up where he had left off while treating the girl's wound. He knelt, face level with the gash, and pushed the two sides of unscathed skin around it together so that he could apply the first butterfly strip. Eventually he stopped chuckling. "So what're ya doin' inna place like this, then? Run away from home, didja?"
"We-we didn't have a choice!" Her tone was defensive, clearly trying to drive home a kind of urgency without actually explaining the situation that had driven her and her protector to that point. "We couldn't stay in the city after…after…" Her voice cracked on her, rendering the end of her sentence little more than an odd, choked noise in the back of her throat.
Worth made a 'chh' sound from behind his teeth. "Lemmie guess, ya got s'mbody chaisen' ya so ya ran fer it." He sat back from patching the girl's leg, pulling another bent-up cigarette from his coat pocket and lighting it up. He took a long drag before exhaling. "Sounds abou' righ'."
"How did you know?"
He snorted at the girl's query. "Gotta story 'r two, maself, " he shrugged. He leaned back in to eye the remainder of unbandaged leg. One long, dirty finger pointed up at the girl's dusty face. "Don' ask ta hear 'em."
A few feet away from all of this, Galahad watched intently. He never thought he'd find himself intrigued about Worth's past – as it honestly wasn't something he really cared to know about – but as it was so obviously tied in with Hanna's, (and he saw this now, more so than he ever had before) he couldn't help but wonder just how far back the two's history went. Maybe, he thought, if he could learn something about the doctor, he could – by proxy – learn something about his friend.
It was at this time that the grave robber finally decided to actually join in the conversation instead of just hanging around beside his companion and tossing everyone wary or darkly amused looks. (Especially to Hanna, who had by this point managed to slip his rumpled shirt back on.) When he spoke, his voice was more sober, normal, without his earlier attitude or smirking jack-assery. He sounded…human. "Sweet took over for dear old Daddy Largo. We had to get out, wasn't safe anymore."
Someone scoffed. To Galahad's mild surprise, it was actually Hanna. "Not that it was ever safe," he mumbled, just loud enough to be heard.
The dealer gave a single humorless chuckle in affirmation. Unconsciously he shifted his weight in the direction of his charge, nodding a dreadlocked head towards her as he did so. "We're gunning for someplace GeneCo's influence hasn't reached yet. Anywhere close by?" He turned his gaze over his shoulder and Galahad could see that the cocky uplifting of the man's lips was back again, albeit more subdued. The dealer was looking at Hanna. "Since you're all so…knowledgeable about this kind of thing…"
The dead man could feel his employer stiffen beside him and he automatically bristled in response. But if Hanna was about to say something he never got the chance as Worth straightened – his work apparently finished and satisfactory – and rolled his neck to pop it with a sickeningly clean 'crack.'
"Ya woulda' been 'safe,'" – and here he air-quoted the word – "anywhere offa th' damn island. No such thing 's GeneCo out here in th' real world." He huffed, jamming his gritty hands into his coat pockets. "Wot?" he asked roughly, eyeing the grave robber before him with a bit of a flat look. (Although – and he only caught the barest flash of it because he happened to be looking at just the right moment – Galahad could swear that he saw something akin to compassion hiding in that narrow-lidded expression.)"Ya never wondered wha' was beyond tha' sea of bodies all around ya?" He sighed, exhaling a long stream of noxious grey smoke. He seemed suddenly weary.
The idea that Worth was taking pity on these two was…strangely in-character and not all at the same time. He supposed it was the experiences of the past that caused it and that in and of itself only served to heighten the poor lost zombie's desperation to just be filled in already!
Apparently he wasn't the only one confused and getting frustrated (understatement) because the grave robber took a step closer to the good doctor. He was tall, but not quite tall enough to match Worth eye for eye, so he instead stared him down from about five inches below. "Look, we've been on the run for weeks and she's still detoxing from some bullshit meds. Neither one of us is in much condition to go any further, especially with her leg all chewed up." His voice wasn't raised, it wasn't particularly angry, but it held a clear indication that he was tired of playing around. The time for serious conversation was now. "You obviously went though something similar here. We want out of your hair about as much as you do, so you gonna help us do that or not?" It was more than he had said all night. Burst of sudden aggravation spent, he shifted so that he was no longer right up in the doctor's face - while still holding his ground – and waited for a response.
There was silence for a moment or two as they stood there looking at each other. Galahad watched Worth carefully, all but able to see the oily gears turning inside his head. Slowly, as if caught in his own nostalgia, the doctor's entire demeanor seemed to change. "Well, Hanna," Worth rumbled softly, not yet taking his eyes off the dealer in front of him. "Think we oughta set 'em straight?" Though the redhead didn't move, Worth must have seen something in his face, in that look that they shared, the one that spoke of awful things best left forgotten, because he took one last loooong drag from his cigarette before flicking it into the far corner of the room. The lungful of chemical-laden air flared out his nostrils like dragon's fire. "Ya been lied to, all-a ya."
Galahad saw the questions burning in both the drug dealer and the girl's eyes but was more immediately concerned with the way that Hanna took a deep breath to try and steady himself against whatever was about to be said. This entire night was taking one hell of a toll on the investigator. The zombie wanted to ask about Crucifixus, about the city that everyone's histories were so steeped in. He wanted to, so badly, but he kept his mouth shut, hoping to be able to piece together the bits and parts of the story from whatever he could overhear. When they were home, he and Hanna, back safe and sound in their own apartment, he would ask. Then, but not now. Now was the time for tightening his arm around his friend's shoulders.
Hanna straightened from his defensive hunch at the dead man's side, shifting – but not removing – the arm that lay comfortingly across the back of his neck. Galahad caught the slight flicker those electric blue eyes (so like the glowing blue of that liquid drug tucked away in the grave robber's pocket) made across the other three occupants of the room, settling finally on Worth.
Worth must have seen it, too. "Ya wan' me ta do it?"
The ginger shook his head. "Boston's going to hear it, too, and I'd rather it came from me." (Boston? Was Hanna so rattled that he was thinking of city names for the zombie now? Any city but this 'Crucifixus,' no doubt…) His voice surprisingly strong for someone who just moments before looked like he wanted to crawl out of existence, Hanna took another deep breath and asked, "What year do you think it is?"
The girl all in black and her guardian exchanged glances. "It's…2057, isn't it?" she asked hesitantly.
Wait, what? The zombie felt his brows knit in sheer bewilderment. He may have been dead for a few years but he was pretty sure it wasn't that late in the century! What was going ON?
"And how long ago did the plague hit?"('Boston' noticed the distinct tightening in Worth's jaw at the word "plague.")
The girl's expression must have rivaled the dead man's because she seemed to be struggling to understand what the point of Hanna's questions was. The dealer just looked put out. Again, it was the girl who answered. "About twenty years ago?" She sort of half-shrugged, apparently not knowing the exact date.
The atmosphere in the room grew thick as steel as Hanna looked the girl square in the eyes and said, "…It's 2011."
Matching expressions of shock and disbelief twisted themselves into being on the odd pairs' faces. Agape, the girl managed to squeak out a "What?" while her companion instead furrowed his brow in a look of, 'this isn't funny.' Clearly, they thought Hanna was insane.
"Okaaaayyyy," the grave robber drawled out, voice that of a man trying not to aggravate an obviously delusional person. Though he said it calmly his tone betrayed his underlying, defensive anger and mild anxiety. He was worried for the safety of the girl, Galahad recognized. It was something he had caught himself doing at least once before.
The dealer moved to slip an arm around the girl's waist and help her down off the table. "Thanks for patching her up, we'll just find our own way out."
But Hanna wasn't finished yet, nor was he apparently giving up on helping them. Concerned for others to a fault. "It's 2011…" he said again, stopping the pair in their tracks with a look. (The zombie tried his best to catch a proper glimpse of his partner's eyes, to see what was hiding behind them, but at his place by Hanna's side it was hard to do so, the difference in height getting in the way.) "…And Crucifixus doesn't officially exist."
Galahad had pretty much given up trying to make sense of what was being said and had begun more closely studying the movements and facial expressions of those in the room with him. If he had thought the two strangers were unnerved by Hanna's words before…
"What do you mean, 'it doesn't exist?' " The grave robber asked slowly, deliberately. It was perhaps less of a demand and more of an indication that they were listening, if only to let the 'crazy boy' talk himself out so they could leave. Although, judging by the reaction garnered from the look Hanna had given them, it may have genuinely been a kind of sinking-feeling-curiosity. Foreign faces were hard to read. "How can it not exist, we were just there a few weeks ago."
Hanna opened his mouth to answer, albeit a bit shakily, but Worth decided it was his turn to take over. "Couple a' decades ago, in th' late 70's, there was this scientist, see? Claimed if he could build a city tha' was allowed to advance on its own, away from the rest'a society, it could get all sci-fi. 'E said it'd be a civilization 'fifty years in th' future.' Crucifixus, 'e called it, the City of th' Reborn. So 'e got 'imself a buncha grants, some poor lil' fuckers ta do all the labor, and set abou' makin' th' thing. They finished it in th' early 80's, getting' people from all over ta come 'n be part'a th' 'futuristic experience.' Buncha fuckin' lab rats, 's what they were. 'N they didn' even know it." The doctor shook his greasy head in an odd show of pity. He paused before continuing the story to flick away his cigarette, which had smoldered to nothing but grey ash as it hung forgotten in between his bony fingers.
"Th' city grew, alrigh', but not like they wan'ned it. Got too dependant on technology," he spat disgustedly, "n' nature failed 's it spread. Over th' years people started getting' sick – sick from th' clouds-a smoke 'n toxic fumes bein' put out by all th' industrial plants. Chemials in th' drinkin' water. No trees ta siphon th' shit outta th' air, no green, nothin'. Just an island a' metal an' concrete floatin' way out there in th' middle 'a th' water. 'Ventually, it got so bad people were dyin' in th' streets. Organs shuttin' down, left 'n right."
Hanna shrunk back into himself, leaning on the taller, greener man beside him for support. "The plague."
Worth nodded. "Only i' wasn' really a plague so much 's 'n epidemic. They were poisonin' themselves. Once i' started getting' outta hand, gover'ment stepped in. Tha higher-ups panicked and destroyed th' bridge to th' mainland. They cut off all communication 'n wiped it fr'm all th' official records. 'S like Crucifixus never existed in th' firs' place. But…" and here the skeezy physician pulled a new cigarette from his coat pocket and lit it up. He'd gone too long without one and his lungs must finally have been screaming at him for the calm of nicotine. He took a deep drag before continuing. "Tha' didn' do shit ta help th' poor bastards still in th' city itself."
"Two-thirds died from organ failures," Hanna voiced.
To Galahad – and judging from the transfixed stares of the drug dealer and the girl – it was like none of them were even there. The two survivors, Hanna and Worth, were lost in their own pasts, in the past that they shared, and each word that slipped from their numb mouths was a step back into the horrors of another time. Reminiscence was a terrible word for it. It implied the recalling of happier, pleasant memories. Not nightmares and scared flesh. But it was the only word that came to the zombie's mind as he looked at them, regardless of how wrong and perverted the meaning may have been in that instance. For once he was glad he didn't need to breathe, as he would have been holding his breath anyway.
Hanna spoke again. "They tried taking uninfected organs from the dead to use in the dying, but nothing worked. Hearts would go out, lungs, brains, sometimes two or three or four parts at a time." Frail hands clutched at his shirt, unconsciously splaying over the scar across his chest…And Galahad thought he was beginning to understand.
"An' then came Rotti Largo."
"And GeneCo."
"An' the s'pposed cure fer humanity." Worth sniffed. His top lip curled upwards in a hateful sneer. "An' wot'd GeneCo do? Leech outta whole new setta pollution inta th' city. Vicious cycle. Largo 'n 'is company may've found a way ta treat th' sickness, but 'e didn' 'cure' nothin' – i's people wot's th' disease."
There was a whisper at Galahad's side; small, childlike, so faint the dead man was sure he was the only one to hear it. "Fear does thing to people. It makes you do things. Forget things…"
"Brainwashed, all of 'em, Worth continued darkly. "All th' ones tha' came to th' city after i' wos built were dead an' all th' ones who were born there 'r were too young ta 'member anythin' but th' city became convinced they were th' las' great society on Earth. Panic 'n fear'd made 'em all ferget there wos a world ou'side their lit'le hovel. They'd all but collapsed b'fore GeneCo 'n so most records're prob'ly gone by now."
The doctor took another long hit off his cigarette. "We all really though' i' wos 2050-somethin'…" he murmured, more to the space around them all than to anyone in particular. Galahad wondered if he even saw them anymore. But then Worth seemed to sober up a little bit, stubbing the half-gone cancer stick out onto the counter beside him. "There's still a quarantine 'round Crucifixus. No country'll go near it. Most don' even know or 'member i's there. Tha's why nobody gets in 'r out….'Cept us lucky few, eh, Cross?" A genuine, haggard smile tugged at the corner of Worth's lips as he and Hanna caught each other's eyes. Relief. The mental ordeal was over.
Galahad thought he saw another side to Dr. Luce Worth in that moment. He saw a survivor, someone who had stared something awful in the face and come out the other side – worse for wear, but alive. And he had walked side-by-side with Hanna, another worn and weary survivor, through the flames of hell and back. In that instant the zombie realized that this was a bond that he could never share in. He was not that same sort of survivor. Even if he were, how would he even know, what with his head empty and his memories gone?
With a sad heart, he did the only thing he could think of to try and keep a sense of purpose: he pulled his redheaded companion (not 'mine,' just borrowed, just borrowed…) imperceptibly closer to him, clinging like a small child to a security blanket. It wasn't fair.
Hanna sighed, taking the minute hug as comfort directed at him, and rested his head against the zombie's side. "Yeah…" he said quietly, and dropped his eyes to the floor. "Us lucky ones…"
There was something else there, in his voice, in the way he held himself that spoke of something still hidden, not yet revealed. Galahad wanted to ask, to point out that he had noticed, but he didn't dare. He didn't feel like he had the right to.
The moment was broken by Worth suddenly shuffling forward and clapping a hand on the table top. "Tha's enough o' that. Discussion over." He made his way over to a line of drawers and began yanking them open one by one.
Everyone had jumped at the sound of stick-thin hand meeting metal examination table – save for Worth, of course – and now was feeling the tingling of their limbs from where they had been standing (or sitting) motionless for far too long. It was the girl who found her voice first. "…How did you get out?" Curious, nervous, still in shock.
The good doctor didn't pause in his rummaging through one of the messily stocked drawers, nor did he look up. "An ol' friend smuggled me n' staples over there out." (The drug dealer stole a quick glance back over at Hanna, half-hearted smirk playing about his mouth. Galahad still prickled, but not as violent as it had been before.) "Pro'ly the same one'at got yer asses outta there." Worth grunted in triumph as he brought his hand back up out of the mass of god-only-knew-what pilfered medical equipment. His grubby hand was fisted, whatever object he had unearthed hidden behind his interlocked fingers. He didn't even bother closing the drawer properly as he returned to the middle of the room to stand in front of the girl's guardian. " 'Ere," he said, words gravelly. "You'll be needin' this." And with that, he thrust the item into the other, equally dirty man's chest.
The grave robber held it up for he and the girl to examine. It was a key. "What's this go to?" he asked flatly, though his former edginess had apparently dissipated. That, or he was still trying to process all he had just learned. Either way, they both seemed to be taking everything remarkably well, considering.
Worth shrugged. "Ya wan'ned somewhere ta stay fer a while, yeah? Got me a spare room in th' back here. Goin' unused, 'cept fer storage."
The sheer relief that washed over the odd pair of out-of-towner's faces was palpable. They were safe for now, sort of. They weren't sleeping in an alleyway tonight. The two shared a little smile between themselves that could have almost been likened to excited if they didn't look so damn exhausted. The man nodded to Worth. "Thank you." Worth just grunted.
The dealer turned over his shoulder to face Hanna, nodding to him and to Galahad as well. "Sorry about the…" he gestured to his shirt. "Sorry."
Hanna visibly relaxed, a small, tired smile creeping along his face. "It's…heh, it's fine. Don't worry about it."
"C'mon," Worth said, turning on his heel and striding towards a door half-obstructed by a dilapidated shelving unit. "Th' room's this way. Get yer shit n' follow me." He spared a look back at the girl, who was getting an assist from her companion in climbing off the table. "Yer leg should carry yer weight, 's not far." And with that he jammed a shoulder against the door. It opened with a creak, revealing another door and a rotting set of stairs that led off into the darkness. Up to Worth's own apartment, Galahad assumed. The ground-level door must have been the spare room.
The girl took a tentative step on her injured leg to test its strength. True to the doctor's word it held. She flashed a smile at her companion, who hovered over her with an arm held just above her shoulders should she need his help balancing. She took another step or two, limping a little as she went. But it was not after Worth that she was headed. It was over towards the paranormal investigator and his undead partner.
"Thanks," she said, "for bringing us here. And for…everything else, too."
Hanna shrugged, looking briefly up at his friend's glowing eyes. "We didn't really do much, it was mostly Worth." He looked back at the girl in front of him, smiling like his old self, if still a bit out-of-it. "Escapees gotta stick together, huh?"
Nearly identical almost-laughs broke from the pair of strangers as the last of the tension was released. Like a string that had been stretched too thing being relieved of its stressful burden. The girl quirked a smile. "I…" she stopped. Uncertain, she glanced over at her companion with an unspoken question. He raised his eyebrows at her in response. A silent conversation, much like the ones the zombie and his own friend tended to have every now and again.
Apparently receiving the answer she had been looking for, the girl turned her face back to Hanna, nibbling slightly on her lip. She took a deep breath. "I'm Shilo." She flicked her eyes over to the man beside her. "That's 'Rob.' "
The way she said it made the zombie think that it was most likely a nickname, or an alias. He wondered briefly if she actually knew the man's real name but decided to ignore the thought. The irony was just a bit too much.
Hanna shifted at his side and he focused on his friend in time to see the smile become a grin. "I'm Hanna," the redhead replied, offering the newly introduced pair an amiable hand to shake.
'Rob' snorted quietly at the name but, for once, Hanna seemed willing to let it go. Instead, he looked up at his own partner, wordlessly encouraging him to introduce himself.
Luckily, the dead man was saved from having to either make up a name on the spot – a job usually done by Hanna – or launching into the explanation of just why he didn't have a name. Worth to the accidental (or maybe not) rescue.
The doctor, apparently getting tired of waiting for his two new tenants to stop shooting the breeze, leaned heavily against the tilted shelf half blocking the door. "Hanna's pet corpse (Ouch, Worth, that sort of stung.) ain't gotta name. Ju' pick somethin' ta call 'im and let i' go."
"He does so have a name!" Hanna retorted, miffed. "He just doesn't remember it."
Oh please, Hanna, the zombie thought with what may or may not have been the barest hint of a frown. While I appreciate your standing up for me, let's not get into this now…
'Shilo' and 'Rob' exchanged a look that spoke of the need for explanations. Thankfully Worth had returned to his regular, grouchy self. "Yeah, well, ya 'kin all git acquainted t'morrow. Righ' now we're closed an' Doctor wants ta go drink till 'e fergets his own name." He jerked his head over his shoulder at the door behind him. "Move it."
Saying a final 'thank you' and 'goodbye' for the evening – for it was most assuredly not the last they'd be seeing of them if Hanna had his way – 'Shilo' and 'Rob' trudged over to where the lanky street doctor was waiting for them, meager belongings flung across their backs.
Hanna gave Worth a weary, knowing grin, which the doctor returned from across the cluttered room. "Go home, Hanna. You 'n Macbeth there. 'N be safe." For a moment the doctor caught the zombie's eyes. There was an odd kind of acceptance there, and Galahad took it gratefully with a silent nod. His piece said, Worth turned to follow the refugees into the space beyond the examination room. Just as the three of them retreated into the spare room, the doctor's muffled voice drifted back out in a curt introduction. "Doc Worth, by th' way…"
Galahad didn't listen to the rest of the conversation. He was more concerned with ushering his drooping partner out of the shady office and out into the darkened streets beyond.
"Let's go home."
Shilo turned once on her booted heel, giving the room a thorough inspection. She couldn't believe it. She just couldn't believe it. Not only were they under a roof but they were away from GeneCo! They were safe! She let a strange, manic burst of laughter escape her throat in a single gust of breath. Spent, she plopped down on top of one of the cots the man named 'Worth' had pulled out for them to sleep on. They were safe.
"Y' kin hole up in here fer a few days on yer own, m' not gonna make ya leave in th' mornin'. Tha' friend a' mine I mentioned ealier'll be aroun' sometime this week. He'll getcha' all set up. Jobs, place ta stay, new names if ya want 'em. If ya wanna move on, tha's fine. If ya wanna stay, 'Mont's th' guy ta talk ta."
The doctor's words replayed in her mind as she sat there, carefully avoiding touching her bandaged calf.
"Penny for your thoughts, Kid."
Shilo turned her head to see GraveRobber smirking over at her from his own cot. She felt her face heat up in embarrassment at having been caught spacing out. Nevertheless, she drudged up an answer for him – as well as a mischievous smile. "Let's see the money first."
GraveRobber laughted. The sound was comforting, familiar, and a bit of a blessing after such a taxing evening. "You're getting pretty quick at that, Kid. Once of these days you'll be as good as me."
"Better watch your back," she grinned.
They sat quietly for a while, each going over their own thoughts in contented silence. After a time Shilo turned her eyes once more to the set up what was now 'their room.' It was small, a little cramped – but then again, so had the rest of the so-called doctor's office – and bare as a bone except for a few shelves with floppy old cardboard boxes on them lining the far walls. Across from her, up near the ceiling, was a small square of window that overlooked another dark alley. A dim yellow street lamp burned somewhere in the distance.
Above her hung a single bare bulb with a rusted pull chain. To the far right on the wall across from them was another door that supposedly lead to a tiny bathroom that also connected back out into the waiting room. The doctor – Worth – had said there were a toilet, sink, and shower stall within, but neither she nor Rob had really felt the need to check the validity of the man's claim. All in all, the room was…pretty nice, compared to all the places they had stayed. True, the sterile white walls where peeling and she and GraveRobber were both shoved up against one wall, but it was a veritable palace when she thought of the dumpsters she had grown accustomed to recently.
Shilo blinked, her repeated examination complete. Well, now that that was finished… She sighed. "Rob?"
He paused in the removal of one of his boots to look up at her. "Yeah?"
"Do you think…what they said was true? About Crucifixus?"
It was GraveRobber's turn to sigh. "I don't know, Kid. To be honest I've been trying not to think about it." He flashed her a strained smile. "A little too much all at once."
Shilo nodded. "Yeah…I know what you mean."
Without voicing it aloud the pair of them agreed to let the matter drop until at least the next morning. For now they would sleep.
A little bit later, as they lie under their worn blankets that smelled slightly of dust and cigarette smoke, Shilo rolled over onto her side and picked out her friend's silhouette in the darkness.
"Hey, Rob?"
He 'hmm'ed in query.
"Are we going to stay here?"
There was a pause as he thought it over. "Dunno. What do you think, Kid? Do you like this place?"
"Well…There's people here who're willing to help us…And I guess this city's not so bad. It's clean-ish."
GraveRobber chuckled. "That it is, Kid." He shifted his position, presumably to face her better. "How about this? We entertain the idea, jut for now, and wait to see what this 'Mont' guy says?" There was a smile in his voice.
Shilo grinned. "Deal. If we don't like it, we run like hell."
"Damn straight we do."
A beat of hope hung suspended in the air between the two reclined figures. Something they hadn't felt in force for a long, long time.
"We're going to be okay, aren't we, Rob?"
"Yeah, Kid. Yeah we are."
Galahad watched as Hanna numbly wandered out of the bathroom wearing his pajama pants. The younger man looked…hypnotized. Frankly the zombie was concerned, so much so that it was beginning to overpower his molten curiosity over the events of the night.
Almost.
But not quite.
He waited until his friend had made it back to the mattress and sat down, still staring straight ahead of him. Maybe now wasn't the best time to ask but…If I don't do it tonight he may have snapped out of it come tomorrow. And that meant the patented Hanna Cross Brush Off.
He had to try.
"Hanna," he murmured, taking care not to startle the boy; for that's what he looked like then, a frail, empty child. No response. "Hanna?" he tried again, this time receiving an ever so slight turning of the investigator's head to look at him.
But now that he had Hanna's attention he didn't quite know what to say. He licked his lips, an automatic gesture only as there was no moisture to dampen them with, and simply held his partner's dull blue stare. "What is Crucifixus?" To you, remained unspoken in the air.
Hanna blinked, long and slow, before pushing up his glasses to rub at his eyes with his thumb and index finger. He sighed. "An entire city built on top of the dead." He looked back up into Galahad's possibly-stunned face. "I was wondering when you were gonna ask, actually. It's where I was born. Lived there up until about six years ago."
The zombie felt his throat tighten. That was not what he had been expecting, even after everything he'd overheard in Worth's office. Hanna's bluntness had caught him off guard.
"When GeneCo was built it was supposed to be a way of saving people. You could go in and get your failing insides replaced with new ones. Better ones. Ones that wouldn't shut down on you. And it was even cool because if you couldn't pay right off the bat you could sign this contract and finance them. But then if you fell behind on payments…" Hanna's face twisted into an expression of pain and fear. He looked like he was about to cry.
The redhead took a breath and held it and the expression slowly faded. He had got himself under control. "If you didn't pay they'd send the RepoMan after you."
No. Dear GOD, no. He couldn't be saying what the zombie thought he was saying. Surely they didn't…did they? "Repo man?" For the second time that evening he felt himself shudder at the sound of the words. So familiar and yet so alien to his memory-less being.
Hanna nodded grimly. "Yeah. He'd come and take your organs back. And he wouldn't bother to write or phone you; he'd just rip the still-beating heart from your chest." He clutched at his sleep-shirt, unconsciously doubling over a little to protect his vulnerable scar from an invisible assailant.
Galahad swallowed dry air against the jagged lump forming in his throat. He felt sick, or at least, the undead equivalent of sick. He didn't want to think about where this was headed. But he had to know. He had to forge ahead. Had to be strong, show that he wasn't scared off. For Hanna's sake as well as his own. "So…your scar…"
"Yeah….He got me."
It took everything he had in his rotting green body to hold himself still and not crawl over to where his best friend sat on the edge of the mattress and gather the smaller man up into his arms. Oh god…
Reeling, Galahad sat gob-smacked. He had no words, nothing he could think of to say. No questions. No response of any kind. Just an empty sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. His employer, his friend, his Hanna had been sliced open – while still fully conscious – and had had his innards removed. The missing piece clicked into place at last: Worth. Worth had stitched Hanna back up. Worth had patched him and kept him alive and helped him get out of that murderous city. Galahad now knew what it was that linked the investigator and the doctor together, what it was that they shared that had made them closer than blood could ever bring a pair of comrades. They had faced death itself together. Horrible, gruesome death…
And they had survived.
So lost in this revelation was he that the zombie barely noticed his companion staggering to his feet. The dead man scrambled to stand up as well, ready to catch the ginger should he topple over. But Hanna just shook his head. So Galahad watched dumbly as his partner shuffled over to the one tiny closet in the shabby apartment. Without saying a word Hanna stooped inside the open door and knelt to reach something hidden at the very back.
There was a box there, the dead man knew, where Hanna would sometimes put small mementos and things that were important to him. He had seen the shorter man put a handful of photos taken of them and their friends on random outings inside that box. He had glimpsed the contents, but never actually looked inside for himself. He had been hoping that, one day, Hanna might show him of his own accord.
Be careful what you wish for, he mused darkly.
As if in a trance the redhead returned, lowering himself and the small cube of cardboard back down onto the floor. Deftly he pulled off the lid and began to dig around inside. His hand disappeared into the depths of the box, sinking in halfway up to his elbow. Whatever he was looking for was way down deep, buried at the very bottom of his box of memories.
A minute passed in silence. Then two. Finally Hanna stopped his search, closing his eyes at the feel of the object in his grasp. Slowly he lifted it up for Galahad to see.
It was a rusted metal tattoo gun. Or at least, that's what it looked like. But…it wasn't. Galahad felt his brows furrow in confusion, but not at the object held before him – inside his quiet chest there came a wrenching sensation, like all the air that would have been in his lungs were he still alive was being sucked out of him. He wanted to smack the gun out of his partner's grip.
Hanna turned the gun over in his hands. "It's a Zydrate gun."
Galahad's teeth ground together as his jaw tightened inexplicably.
But Hanna was staring at the once smooth metal of the gun, fingers running almost reverently across where a needle should have been. "They developed a drug to anesthetize surgery patients and keep them from feeling too much pain afterwards. Kinda like morphine, only stronger and way more addictive." He raised his eyes, now bright in the dimly lit room, to look at the zombie dead on. "That blue stuff that Rob had, that was Zydrate. A cheap, dirty street version – the kind that grave robbers sell – is extracted from the dead. It comes in a little glass vial that goes into the gun like a battery," he pantomimed snapping something into the back of the gun, "and then you shoot it up, like this." He held out a trembling arm and placed the needle-less space against his skin. "Doesn't even have to be a vein, just somewhere against your anatomy."
Hanna's grip tightened sharply on the handle of the Zydrate gun and his shaking became so violent that Galahad found himself reaching out to clamp his own hands over Hanna's and lowering the whole ball of fingers and metal into the young man's lap. He frowned. "Hanna?" he ask softly, inwardly begging his friend to look up, to call himself back from that dark place his mind was in. "Hanna, why do you have this?" Indeed, it seemed a vial thing to keep as a souvenir.
The investigator let out a choked bark of laughter that sounded suspiciously like a sob. "Because I was an addict!" His shoulders shook with unreleased emotion, though whether it was actual sobbing or perhaps hysterical laughter, the zombie could not tell. From somewhere behind his teeth, so broken and quiet that his partner almost did not hear, Hanna said, "And because he gave it to me."
He? He, who? "Worth?" Surly not.
Hanna shook his head, staring down at the dirty carpet that looked even dingier in the artificial light. "The grave robber."
Galahad opened his mouth to ask when Hanna could possibly have been given that thing since the grave robber at Worth's had only ever come near him to yank off Hanna's shirt, but Hanna cut him off.
"Not Rob, a different one. A long time ago. He…he was my friend."
Something exploded in the back of the zombie's mind. A voice so very like his own, but far from deadpan, screeched words of frenzied protest. NO! NO, DON'T CALL HIM THAT! DON'T YOU DARE CALL HIM YOUR FRIEND! THAT'S NOT WAS HE WAS! HE DIDN'T DESERVE YOU AS A FRIEND – HE WAS A MONSTER, A DEALER IN DEATH, AND YOU LET HIM FEED YOUR ADDICTION! WHY? WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT?
He couldn't see. He literally couldn't see. His vision had gone black the moment the screaming inside his mind had started. He felt dizzy. Clamping his jaw tight, Galahad summoned every ounce of willpower he possessed to stamp it down and drown out the voice. He fought to keep from ripping the gun out of his roommate's grasp and hurling it out the window. He blinked, hard, trying to clear his eyesight. Again. Once more. It worked, finally. Against reason, it worked. And he felt himself calming to some degree. At least to the point where he wasn't two steps away from pulling the smaller man into his chest and hugging him like there was no tomorrow.
Such an intense reaction frightened him. Where, in all the world, had that voice come from?
And whom, if not himself, had it belonged to?
Fate must have smiled on him for that moment of insanity, as Hanna – blessedly – seemed unaware that his undead companion had suffered a lapse in mental control. Instead he was once more focused on the Zydrate gun clasped tightly in his fingers.
Galahad needed to speak. He had to keep himself grounded lest the voice come back and blank out his vision once again. "How could someone who desecrates graves," he said cautiously, measuring out his every word to make sure it was still his own, "and sells drugs for a living ever possibly be your 'friend?'" He tried to keep the image of Worth from his head, though really it was both a disturbing and amusing image – and he doubted Worth was a grave robber, despite what he knew of the man.
Hanna looked up at him in disbelief. "Oh, no! No, he helped me! He warned me about the RepoMan. The only reason I even made it to Worth's was because of him." He smiled slightly, sadness giving way to a brighter thought, just for a moment. "You would have liked him, I just know it. Maybe not at first but still…"
"...I'm sorry." For what, he wasn't sure exactly. Perhaps for speaking ill of someone who had helped to save Hanna's life. Perhaps for another reason entirely. "…I'm sorry."
The investigator shook his head, pushing his glasses back up his nose as they slipped a bit. "Don't be." He smiled again, warmer this time. "You…You remind me of him sometimes. Just a little, and only every now and then. When you smile."
He didn't know what to say to that. He didn't think he ever would.
An hour or so later, when Hanna was finally asleep in bed, Galahad sat beside the man's mattress with the cardboard box at his feet. A strange feeling came over him as he watched his friend breathing. Something had stirred. He knew it now. He was starting to remember…
Only vaguely aware of his own movements the zombie found himself reaching a stitch-laden hand into the deepest recesses of the memory box and feeling around for the brush of rusted metal. His fingers grazed the side of the Zydrate gun and he lifted it ever so slowly up into the pale stream of moonlight filtering in through the World's Smallest Window. He turned it over and over in his hands.
He studied it. Memorized each and every feature on its worn surface. The feel of it, the weight, it felt…oddly perfect to the touch. Almost like he had held it once before, long ago in another lifetime. As he stared down at the instrument in his lap he couldn't help but let his mind wander back to that voice he'd heard in his own head earlier. It had been him, there was no doubt anymore. But it wasn't a current him. No. It wasn't him now… It was him from before.
The idea of being another person than the one he was right now unnerved him and he quickly placed the Zydrate gun back into its home within the box. Too much thinking. He'd be better off rereading one of the books Hanna got him from the library dime sale.
As he pulled his arm away from the box and the instrument inside, he faintly heard the voice that was-but-wasn't him, saying something in a much calmer, more inviting tone. Almost happy, even friendly in its own dark way. Galahad felt a shiver go up his spine at the voice's words inside his own foreign strands of memory.
"First hit's free…"
He spent the rest of the night starting tensely at his sleeping partner, trying his best not to think until dawn.
And thus concludes Shilo and GraveRobber's portion of the story line! Don't worry, kiddies, there's still plenty more to come – five more chapters, in fact! Which will come in a more timely fashion, I assure you, since the first three are already done.
I have to say a quick thank you to Hai Aieru {roseredautumn on Deviantart} for her FANTASTIC suggestion of Crucifixus being nothing but a sham! I was struggling to find a way to tie Repo! TGO and HiNaBN together through the obvious time-gap and she solved it for me in a single email. Poor Shilo and GraveRobber, you're not in the super-advanced future like you thought you were, you were just tricked and stuck living in a place that was decaying in on itself from its own disease.
I feel like I rushed it there at the end, but eh. The thing's eighteen pages long and it needed to be done at SOME point. Be on the look out for Part 0, coming soon!
Musical Muse: Repo! The Genetic Opera Soundtrack – Genetic Repo Man
