"Fame is a powerful aphrodisiac." –Graham Greene

Amber Sweet thrived through the life of the rich and the famous. If there was something her heart desired, then she would receive such. She had fame, looks, wealth, and publicity. Amber had what common people yearned for. People envied here, yet she envied those people as well. She always wanted, needed more. Miss. Sweet needed to maintain and update her constantly changing appearance. In all reality, she just wanted to belong.

She hadn't always been this way. Amber wasn't even her real name. It's a stage name. Amber Sweet had once been Carmella Largo. It explained how she achieved such wealth and fame. That was the grandest opportunity of being an heiress. She was and still remains a Daddy's girl, although her father sneers at what she's become.

The paparazzi attack with their assaulting lights. The cameras clank loudly as they go off in a repetitive manner. Flash. Pose. Flash. Pose. A slim hand rests upon an equally slim waist-line. A false smile etches onto her lips. Eyes hold a mocking display of sincerity. Her brothers pose beside her like her now deceased bodyguards. She flips her hair, twirls her body. It's the dance of the famous, avoiding or welcoming in the bright lights.

In an instant, the two separate from their sister. Amber is left alone to swim through the crowd. She slides on a pair of dark shades. Without a doubt, they're from a designer brand just like her beating heart. Stilettos clink after she passed the threshold of carpet and pavement. One last glance to the crowd and she blows a kiss as if she's luring them in. With that, she steps into the limousine.

"Bring me to the usual."

"Alright, Miss. Sweet," the chauffeur complies. The car rears to live, taking off into the black of night. Buildings, both new and crumbling, pass. She lowers her glasses by a mere fraction as she averts her gaze towards the tinted window. There's nothing of interest to her. Amber turns her attention to her hand, examining each crimson nail.

The chauffeur thinks to himself with a slight grimace. The poor girl's going to kill herself through the fame that they feed her. He silently hopes that his daughter won't end up like Amber Sweet. His little girl looks up to that woman as well as Blind Mag. He shakes his head. The chauffeur attempts to bring conversation to the dark vehicle, "How do you fare today, Miss. Sweet?"

"I'm fine."

"That's good to hear, Miss."

She nods absently. She could care less what the driver says as long as he gets her to the key location. The car comes to a stop, pulling up in front of an alley way, shadowed by night. It's only illuminated by the flickering lamp post. Amber gets out of the car, sashaying her body with each step. Junkies slink about, sliding to the ground with ecstasy. They look so blissful, so carefree, so… happy. No, that's not it and she knows it.

Why does she associate herself with these people? Then, she remembers.

"GraveRobber… GraveRobber… Sometimes I wonder why I even bother," her voice is hypnotic and equally alluring. It's as sweet as honey, luring in the flies that linger about. Her hand remains attached to her hip like that of a doll's. Finally, the figure that she directs her attention to picks up on her tone. He tauntingly smirks, holding the gun away from her.

"Don't tease me, GraveRobber!" Her tone becomes both shrill and furious. It's the effects of being addicted. Addiction changes the structure of the brain and how it works. In other words, the person is never the same once they suffer from whatever the influence might be. They're a shell of what they once were, feeling incomplete without that particular substance that keeps them ticking.

"Calm down, Miss. Sweet," the peddler's voice is suave, smooth, and seductive. Had he been a business man in this lifetime, he would have been most successful. The lighting of the moon seems to bring out his pale features. Blue eyes twinkle with mirth. He truly enjoys teasing the addicts. They can't resist. They never can. That is the greatest thing about the business. One hit is all you need for them to be disposed to it.

"Give me the glow! Stop messing around!" It's a demand. She is no longer the innocent girl that she had once been long ago. She's faced changes. If those changes are for the better or the worse, that is of her opinion. Her face is a flurry of emotions. Rage. Tension. Depression. Envy. Greed. Grief. It's every single negative feeling that you can think of. Then, there is a loss of innocence.

"Pushy, aren't we? It's because you need your fix, isn't it?" She nods in response. He continues to speak, "Well, it seems as if you've been trying to go without Zydrate a bit too long, hm? That's what you get. You try to escape its grasp, but you can't. People always come back. You can never leave. There will always be a relapse. Your body will never be sober. That is the cost. It's the price all of these people pay for coming to me. Now, won't you pay me?"

Amber scowls, stomping her foot on the ground. Her hands curl into loose fists. Oh yes, she's bitter. She's angry. She only has herself to blame in all reality. She never needed surgery. She had been beautiful before it. Oh, don't get anyone wrong here. Amber Sweet is still gorgeous beyond compare, but her soul is not. It's tainted with filth. It'll never be clean again all because of her own demise.

"Money is all you get, because money is all you deserve," she grumbles out. Her brother's are right. He's filth. He, too, is like a drug. She can never leave, never escape, if he is always the one behind the unearthly glow. Amber flicks out the green bills one after another. Their numbers are unreadable in the dark. GraveRobber knows that they're of a large amount. After all, she's a Largo. Largos can afford the world if they so desire.

He chuckles. The pale figure bends forward to scoop the cash into his hands. He crams the money into his pocket, beckoning her to come closer. It all happens too quickly. The gun goes off. The glow of the vial has faded. The drug swims through her veins, stealthily working their way up to her brain. There is no pain. No emotional wrath. Nothing. I can't feel nothing at all…

The peddler steps back into the shadows. He's only around when he's needed. Amber slinks to the ground. Her palms scrape against the building's bricks. Her eyes flutter. She turns her head up towards the night sky. The window gently caresses her face. Her breathing has been reduced by a great amount. Being an addict is like being among the living dead. The truth is that she does not care. Zydrate guarantees her happiness, no matter how momentary that may be.

What's funny is that she would never have been introduced to Zydrate had she never been famous. Life works in funny ways, pulling on everyone's strings just like the ill-believed legacy of fate. You are born into the life you have lived, opportunity or not. Yet, it's your decision onto how you choose which path to walk. Amber merely chose the misguided one.

"Miss! Miss Sweet!" A voice calls out through the abyss.

A small smile curls onto Amber's lips as she hazily turns her head towards the general direction of the sound. Her body sways lightly as she tries to stand up. Firm hands grab her wrists, pulling her up. She blinks into attention. The world still remains fuzzy and muted thanks to the drug. It's the chauffeur. Why's he helping me? He speaks, but she can only see his mouth move. She cannot hear a thing he says.

"Oh, Miss. You've got yourself into a mighty fine predicament. I was waiting in my car, thinking about my family, when your brothers call my communicator. They're worried about you. Heck, I'm worried about you. Everyone is. Even includes the paparazzi. My daughter looks up to you. I don't want her to follow in your footsteps if you continue this lifestyle."

Amber laughs, lowly. Her body continues to sway with the excommunications of her brain. The chauffeur helps her to the limousine, easing her into the seat. He commands her to keep her head up and try her best to stay away. …Acting like he's my doctor… She stifles a giggle, looking around with half-lidded orbs. He hands her a bottle or water whilst she drinks from it. Finally, Amber gains a small fraction of coherence.

"Tell her… That fame's no good for her…" She feels sick. Nausea wells in the pit of her stomach. The chauffeur blinks in surprise that she can even speak. Zydrate's been known to affect people's motor skills and so on and so forth. It's a bad drug in all simplicity. It's not good for you. That's why the administration made an attempt to limit the dosage and dilute it. Still, there are the pesky peddlers in the world who sell it as its whole package.

"And why is that, Miss. Sweet?" She gives a little shrug. How the hell do I know? Isn't it kinda obvious? I mean… I'm all messed up. Amber consumes more of the precious liquid. Water has never tasted this good in her entire life. She sweeps her hair out of her face, trying to form an answer to the seemingly impossible question. Oh, she has plenty of reasons, but her mouth just won't form them. Besides, some of those reasons would be a fatal blow to her pride.

"It messes you up, leaves you in the dust. It even kills you. It's killing me. There was a quote or something that Daddy told me a while ago before he died… I tried to shrug it off, thinking it didn't really matter, but he was right; 'Fame is a powerful aphrodisiac.' It blinds you." Step one is admitting. It's a rough revelation that dons upon her. If she continues to live this way, she would very well die. And who would get GeneCo? Her brothers, of course. She shudders at the thought of Luigi and Pavi running the company.

"Well said, Miss. Sweet. I'm glad you're finally seeing through the eyes of those whom care about you."

"Hey… Chauffeur Guy."

"Yes?" He arches a brow, glancing into the rear-view mirror.

"You're too smart to be a car driver. So, why're you one?"

"Let's see. I'm driving around the Largos all day. Its great pay and I'll let you in on a little secret: I'm not afraid of them. You guys aren't monsters even if you're father said so. You guys are just misguided."

"Oh…"

"That and I have a PhD," he crinkles a smile.

Fame is a master manipulator, but you can pull yourself out if you're surrounded by those you love.