"Come on, kid," the necromerchant said, turning and walking away briskly; "you have nothing else to learn."
"Where are we going, Master?" Apprentice asked, jogging to keep up.
"To get you initiated," his master replied; "you need a uniform and equipment, and we'll have to hurry if you're to be on your way in time for me to attend the Z gathering tonight."
"What about your job during the day?" Apprentice asked, confused.
"The junkies can go a few hours without me," the necromerchant said, waving Apprentice's protest aside; "you have no reason to stay here anymore, so you need to be readied to go. Your training is done."
My training is done, Apprentice repeated to himself, hardly daring to believe it. Finally…I get to spit in Rotti's face. The rage that burned inside of him flared with elation at the prospect.
He followed his master down a few back alleys that grew more and more remote, until they were in a place he had never even seen before. Suddenly, the necromerchant opened a dark door with no light behind it and walked in. Apprentice followed.
The room inside was dark to an almost cliche degree. It was laid out somewhat like a shop, albeit an empty one; there was a counter, behind which stood a man who was dressed in black and wore a mask, and that was all. The faint light seemed to have no true source; it was probably leaking in out of other places, which made the place too dark for most people to see in, but perfectly bright enough for a necromerchant to navigate with ease.
The necromerchant walked up to the counter behind which the masked man stood. Apprentice followed.
"Graverobber," the man greeted the necromerchant in a voice that reminded Apprentice of a snake.
"Necroman," Apprentice's master greeted the man in turn. He clapped Apprentice on the shoulder. "My apprentice here has finished his training," he told Necroman; "he needs to be outfitted."
"I see," Necroman said, turning his eyes on Apprentice.
Apprentice raised an eyebrow. "'Necroman'?" he repeated questioningly.
Necroman chuckled. "You didn't think necromerchants acted alone, did you?" he asked in a hiss. "Necromen are go-betweens - we provide necromerchants with what they need, for survival and business."
"This is where I came every morning, before I came back to get you," the necromerchant told Apprentice. "You're going to be dealing with necromen in the future; since necromerchants are unmistakable, we can't exactly walk into stores - besides which, some things necromerchants need can only be obtained here."
"Yes," Necroman hissed, and Apprentice suddenly realized that the masked man sounded old. "Now then…" He tilted his head. "What's your name, boy?" he asked Apprentice.
Apprentice blinked, surprised by the question. "Apprentice," he replied; "I don't remember my real name."
"I know the regulations," the necromerchant told Necroman, sounding slightly irritated; "I wouldn't have brought him to you if DRS hadn't taken his name."
"But this is your first apprentice, yes?" Necroman responded. "I need to make sure you did things right."
"I know the regulations," the necromerchant repeated.
"I have to be sure," Necroman said smoothly. He turned to Apprentice again. "How old are you, boy?" he asked.
"Eighteen, as of last week," Apprentice replied.
"Really?" his master asked. "You didn't tell me that, kid."
Apprentice looked at his master. "I didn't think it mattered," he said; "I'm not supposed to remember any of my old life, am I?"
"Well, no, but no one forgets their birthday," the necromerchant chuckled; "that would be like asking you to forget your eye color."
"So young…" Necroman mused. "How long has this boy been in training?" he suddenly asked the necromerchant sharply.
"About seven months," the necromerchant replied. Necroman opened his mouth to say something, but the necromerchant quickly added, "Yes, I know that's not long, but there is nothing more for him to learn; he has worked hard, and is just as proficient as I am in all aspects of the lifestyle."
"And you're willing to stake his life on that?" Necroman asked.
"Yes," the necromerchant replied firmly.
"My life?" Apprentice asked.
Necroman sighed. "The first apprentices always end up like this," he muttered, more to himself than to the necromerchant or Apprentice; "dead."
"Not this one," the necromerchant stated confidently.
"Excuse me, but why are we talking about me dying?" Apprentice demanded of the two men.
"Necroman is simply concerned that you won't survive long," his master answered; "he's afraid your training has been insufficient to keep you alive once you're out raiding graveyards on your own." He turned to Necroman. "But he's wrong," he said firmly; "you're ready, kid."
Necroman sighed. "As you wish," he said; "it is your place to say."
"Yes it is," the necromerchant said.
Necroman sighed again, then pulled out a length of tape measure and stepped out from behind the counter.
"Hold still, boy," he commanded Apprentice.
Apprentice looked at his master, who nodded. Apprentice obeyed.
Necroman paced around Apprentice a few times, much as the necromerchant had done when Apprentice had first asked to be trained.
"Slightly taller, but also slightly leaner," he muttered. He glanced at the necromerchant. "I'm guessing he's about your weight." It wasn't a question, so the necromerchant didn't answer, and Necroman went back to pacing. "At least your hair isn't black, like his - trying to bleach and color highlights in black hair is a bitch."
"Who are you?" Apprentice asked as Necroman began measuring him.
"A retired necromerchant, like many of my kind are nowadays," Necroman replied.
"Retired?" Apprentice asked. "But haven't there only been necromerchants for eighteen years or something?"
"Nineteen," Necroman corrected, working busily, "but that's long enough. I was rather old when I first started robbing graves, so I couldn't keep at it for more than twelve years myself. I was one of the first; I've seen almost all of the evolution of our lifestyle pass me by. I know everything there is to know about our history."
"I never really thought about this business having a history," Apprentice mused. "How did it begin, anyway?"
Necroman chuckled, measuring every possible relevant length on Apprentice's body. "The first grave-robber was actually the first person to ever be injected with Zydrate," he told Apprentice; "the drug is highly addictive, and even though he knew what it was, his craving pushed him to extremes when he was refused further doses after it was done being tested. Also due to its addictiveness, when it started being used by surGENs, addiction to it swept across the globe like a plague. The first grave-robber realized that there was a fortune to be had in selling the stuff on the black market, so whenever he went out raiding, he saved some of what he stole and sold it to other addicts.
"When Rotti realized what was happening," Necroman went on, measuring both the length and width of each of Apprentice's individual fingers, "he outlawed grave-robbing." He chuckled. "Of course, this drew attention to the fact that there was a Zydrate black market, and some people wanted a share in the profits. The first necromerchant started teaching other people how to gather the stuff, and when the profits were spread across the group of them too thinly, the new necromerchants moved to other places to start doing business; thus, the black market spread across the globe. Rotti eventually managed to infiltrate the original necromerchant's secret school, and the first necromerchant was executed before he'd been in the business for a full year. No necromerchant has worked on the city-island where Rotti lives since.
"The damage was done, however, and the Zydrate dealing business lived on. The rules, regulations, and uniform evolved over time, and were actually finalized after I got in. Unlike necromerchants, we necromen don't stay in one place for very long, and we are how news in the black market gets transferred from place to place; and, as I said, we are the go-betweens for necromerchants and the more…shall we say, wholesome trades?" Necroman chuckled eerily, much as Apprentice's master often did. "Of course, the first of us were simple shopkeepers, if corrupt ones. Our part in the business started when necromerchants realized that, being unmistakeable, they can't simply walk into shops to buy food and such - and, once you're done here, neither will you," he told Apprentice.
Apprentice pondered these words; they complicated things slightly, considering what he was planning to do once his 'initiation' was finished…
Once Necroman had gathered enough measurements to create a true-to-life-proportioned statue of Apprentice from the neck down, he went back behind the counter, took out a piece of paper and a pencil, and started writing something - presumably the measurements - down. This took a couple of silent minutes, and then Necroman took the paper and walked through a door behind the counter, leaving Apprentice and his master alone.
"Does he scare you?" the necromerchant asked Apprentice.
Apprentice looked at his master, surprised by the question. "No," he replied; "why should he?"
The necromerchant shrugged. "I was just wondering," he said; "I was afraid of necromen when I first met one."
"We really are opposites," Apprentice commented. "Really, though; what's to be afraid of? Sure he's creepy, but so are you…and I'd be willing to bet that I am, too."
"No you're not," the necromerchant said, smiling slightly; "not yet, at least. Once you're outfitted, you might be."
"If I'm going to end up looking like you, I'm sure I will," Apprentice said.
The necromerchant chuckled, just as Necroman came back in.
"Come with me, boy," Necroman said brusquely before turning right back around.
Apprentice followed.
The area behind the counter turned out to be a hallway, off which several doors branched. The light still had no apparent source, and was thus incredibly dim; still, it was more than enough for Apprentice.
Apprentice followed Necroman into a room - again, dark and unadorned - at the center of which was a chair like a doctor's chair. Without needing prompting, Apprentice sat down, and Necroman went to work.
"The reason we need to put highlights of every color in your hair," Necroman told him as he started bleaching locks of Apprentice's hair, "is so that no one can say with absolute certainty what your natural hair color is. It will, of course, be what the main body of your hair will be, but with all the added colors, there can be no certainty."
"Why do you highlight with colors that hair can't possibly naturally be?" Apprentice asked.
Necroman chuckled. "That's just how the world works. Everyone dyes their hair nowadays, and not always is it even supposed to look natural. Besides, we need to emphasize the fact that your hair is dyed, so that everyone will know to doubt."
Apprentice accepted this.
While they were waiting for the bleach to work on the locks of his reddish-brown hair, Necroman started applying the makeup and lipstick.
"The reason necromerchants wear white makeup and dark lipstick is so that no one can say for sure what our skin color is, either," he explained. "I'm going to put it on for you this time, so you know what it feels like to have your skin properly covered, but you will have to do it yourself in the future."
"No problem," Apprentice said.
To Apprentice's surprise, though, the makeup had to be applied to his entire arms, his shoulders, his neck, and the upper half of his chest and back in addition to his face. When Necroman tried to start applying it to Apprentice's armpits, Apprentice jerked away.
Necroman sighed. "I've done this many times, boy, and it's necessary," he told Apprentice; "all the skin that could potentially show at any point in your career needs to be covered, both for safety's sake and for tradition's sake. Now, I would rather not have to knock you out just to do this - and I have done that in the past, when pressed - so hold still."
Apprentice complied, though it was very strange for someone to be touching his armpits.
The bleaching took a little while, and the recoloring of most of the highlights took even more time. Necroman was precise, and as such, very slow, so the entire process took several hours. Apprentice didn't feel like a woman getting a makeover so much as he felt like a soldier putting on war paint - after all, he had expected this, since all necromerchants looked alike.
He understood the meaning of it all perfectly well - it was the same as turning his back on his family and forfeiting his personal name: With no definite hair or skin color, he was doing away with anything that could make up any sort of identity. He had no race, no nationality, no face, no family, no home, and no name - he could be almost literally anyone, and therefore, he was no one. His job defined every aspect of him that remained. He was a grave-robber, a drug dealer, a Z-whore, and nothing else - a necromerchant was all he could ever be. He was dead, in almost all ways except the literal one, just as his master had told him he would have to be.
And he liked it. How could Rotti catch - or, for that matter, corrupt - someone who didn't even exist? He wasn't a human being, wasn't a person - he was barely more than a ghost. That made him out of Rotti's reach, and there was nowhere he'd rather be.
When it was all done, Apprentice followed Necroman back out to the front room where his master waited.
"Red, blue, yellow, and more, all on a maroon background" the necromerchant commented, looking at Apprentice's hair; "kid, your hair looks like a dark rainbow."
"Is that good or bad?" Apprentice asked, raising an eyebrow at his master.
"Neither," Necroman answered for the necromerchant, "though it is rare. Wait a moment," he added, and he turned back around and left them again.
"Have you been waiting for me this whole time?" Apprentice asked his master.
"Yes," his master replied.
"But what about your job?" Apprentice asked, slightly confused.
The necromerchant shrugged. "I just wanted to be sure I'd be here when you were done," he said; "until you're fully outfitted and settled in another community, you're still my responsibility."
"Thank you, Master," Apprentice said softly; for the first time, he realized what he was going to lose by going off on his own…and that he would actually miss his master once he left.
Necroman returned before Apprentice could say anything more sentimental, carrying a full new necromerchant uniform. He held the clothes out to Apprentice, who put them on: knee-high combat boots, a special belt where Zydrate vials could be stored, a thick brown coat trimmed with fake fur, and thick black gloves studded with metal.
"If you want a change in the shirt and pants, you'll have to handle that on your own," Necroman told him.
"I will," Apprentice said. The uniform had been tailored to fit him like a second skin over his clothes; the weight felt comfortable, almost familiar, even though he had never worn anything but jeans, a t-shirt, and hiking boots at any point in his memory.
"I'll see him off," the necromerchant said to Necroman. Then, turning to Apprentice, he said, "Come on."
Apprentice nodded. "Thank you, Necroman," he said to the masked man, and he turned to leave with his master. Beside the door, a mirror he hadn't noticed hung from the ceiling to the floor. Unable to resist, he looked at himself in it.
He had been completely transformed. Apart from the fact that his jaw was stronger, he was slightly taller and leaner, his face was more featured, and the main body of his hair was reddish-brown and somewhat shorter (though it would grow more in time), he was the spitting image of his master.
He stood a bit straighter, proud of who he was. A necromerchant. Unmistakeable. There was just one thing missing…
"Don't I need my own set of equipment?" he asked his master as they left.
Just outside, his master stopped and turned to look at him. Apprentice met his master's intense gaze silently for a minute, unafraid. Then, without breaking eye contact, the necromerchant lifted his pack off his back and held it out to his apprentice.
"This is yours now," he said.
Apprentice stared at it. "You're not retiring, are you?" he asked.
The necromerchant chuckled. "No," he replied, "but it's custom for a necromerchant to hand over his old equipment when his or her apprentice completes their training. I'll get a new set, don't you worry."
"Thank you, Master," Apprentice said, and he took the pack and slung it over his back.
"No longer," the necromerchant said. "We are equals now; from this moment on, call me 'Brother'."
"What?" Apprentice asked.
The necromerchant lifted a hand and put it on his former apprentice's shoulder. "Congratulations," he said formally; "your training is complete. I am no longer your master, and your name is no longer Apprentice; from now until the day you die, your name is Graverobber."
The new Graverobber smiled. "I can't think of a name I could bear more proudly," he said.
The old necromerchant chuckled. "As for fellow necromerchants like myself…you are to call our kind 'Brother', for you are now one of us." He sighed. "There's just one last thing for you now," he told the new Graverobber: "where you're going to work. As I told you at the beginning - you may not remember - only one necromerchant can work per community, so we don't end up warring with each other. Your best bet is to search around for a place where the local necromerchant has recently been executed-"
"There's no need for that…Brother," the new Graverobber told his former master, taking a moment for the name 'Brother' to come instead of 'Master'; "I know where I'm going. I've known, ever since I saw that boy who had been repossessed on…maybe even since you first told me I wouldn't be able to work here…possibly even before that, when I first decided to become a necromerchant, though I can't remember when that was or why."
"But you can't know," the old necromerchant protested; "you can't be sure that a necromerchant isn't already working there."
"Yes I can," the new Graverobber said with a smile. "I had a feeling it was vacant, since simply to work there would be to bend the first part of the first rule of our business, but Necroman just confirmed it for me a few hours ago."
The old necromerchant's eyes widened with realization.
"I'm going to the ninth circle of Hell, to live and deal where the devil dwells," the new Graverobber said proudly; "I'm going to Italy, to the city-island where the main GeneCo headquarters is based." He smiled wickedly. "Do tell Necroman that one of his kind needs to start working there now, too, won't you?"
"Italy? But that's dangerous, Brother!" the old necromerchant exclaimed.
"I don't care," Graverobber said firmly; "if I can deal just one vial of Zydrate in Rotti's backyard, then all this effort will have been worth it."
The old necromerchant chuckled. "A rebel to the end, aren't you?" he commented.
Graverobber clenched his fists. "I loathe Rotti and GeneCo," he growled; "I can't remember why, but night and day, a burning rage fills me, eating me alive at the thought of that monster sitting on a throne, ending human lives, young and old, with impunity. I must live my life as rebelliously as I can." He thought for a second. "Do you know why I'm so angry, Brother?" he asked his former master. "I can't recall for the life of me…I know it has to do with something more than just seeing that boy I dug up, gutted, but…"
"Yes…I know why," the old necromerchant said slowly. "Still, it's best you not dwell on it, Brother; it's part of your old life, and best forgotten."
Graverobber nodded. "As you say, Brother," he conceded, marveling at how quickly it had become easy for him to accept and use the title 'Brother'.
The old necromerchant nodded, then held out his hand. "Good luck, Brother," he said.
"Thank you, Brother," the new necromerchant replied, taking his former master's hand and shaking it. "For everything," he added after a moment.
The old necromerchant blinked.
Graverobber smiled. "I don't remember much from the early days of my apprenticeship," he said, "but I do remember promising that I would be grateful to you, no matter what." He inclined his head. "I have kept that promise," he told his former master; "I am forever in your debt for training me…and I will miss you, Brother."
"You'll miss me?" the old necromerchant repeated incredulously. "Even after everything I did to you, all the abuse I made you suffer?"
Graverobber chuckled. "It was all for my own good, in the end," he said; "in truth, you are the closest thing to a father I will ever remember having."
"Funny you should say 'father'…" the old necromerchant muttered.
"Why?" asked Graverobber.
His former master looked at him. "You really don't remember?" he asked softly.
Graverobber shook his head, not even bothering to ask what his former master meant. "No," he replied.
The old necromerchant sighed. "Well, I suppose that's just as well," he said.
Graverobber nodded again. He thought for a moment, then said, "Tell me something, Brother: Did you enjoy corrupting me?"
His former master chuckled. "Sometimes," he admitted; "mostly when I was jealous of your heart. Sometimes, though, I was truly sorry that you had to end up like me."
"Don't despair, Brother," Graverobber said, giving his master a half-smile; "I still know what's right and wrong. I can set it aside, when I need to, but I still have my moral compass."
"Really?" asked the old necromerchant. "Well, in that case…you are truly one-of-a-kind, Brother."
Graverobber tilted his head. "Would you please call me 'kid' one more time?" he asked of his former master. "It's just…it feels strange, to suddenly be your equal."
His former master laughed nastily. "You are, and have always been, far above me…kid," he said.
Graverobber smiled - the last pure, genuinely happy smile that would ever cross his face - as a wave of nostalgia swept over him. This is the last time I will ever be able to converse with someone honestly, he reflected, and a bit of sadness mixed with his eternal rage for a moment…only to ultimately be burned away by the pain that burned inside him, forevermore, like a fire that couldn't be contained.
The two necromerchants were silent for a moment. Then, Graverobber bowed slightly in farewell.
"Goodbye, Brother," he said.
"Be well on your way, Brother," his former master replied.
He nodded again, then turned and walked away. By the time he got to Italy, he couldn't even remember where he had come from.
~X~
Graverobber stood close to the barren-shored channel across which stood the city-island where the devil lived.
He looked intently at the island that was to be his new home. The beaches, he saw, had been entirely converted to barren graveyards; all the gray suggested to Graverobber that his job wasn't going to consist of digging so much as lifting heavy stone covers off of tombs.
Fine by him.
He raised his eyes to look at the skyscraper on which the GeneCo logo blazed in the form of a huge neon sign: the very heart of the darkness that covered the globe.
Rotti's in there.
His eyes narrowed. Can you see me, you bastard? he thought. I wish you could. I wish you could see me standing here, hating you, ready to steal right out from under your nose. If I ever meet you…I'll kill you.
He blinked at this thought as he realized it wasn't true; he would never hurt anyone, not even Rotti. Still…
He smiled to himself. The life I was born to lead starts now.
He took a step forward…and hesitated. There was something he wanted to do, but he couldn't remember what…
After five minutes, he gave up. If it's something I don't remember, then it's part of my old life, which means it's dead now, he decided - leaving his soul to say the little prayer unacknowledged by his conscious mind:
This is for you, Father; I hope you're proud of me.
And so, Graverobber crossed the channel, never to go back - not knowing who he was, or where he had come from; not knowing that in doing this job, he would meet, not only the nastiest bitch in the world, but also the last uncorrupted soul in existence; not knowing the pivotal (if behind-the-scenes) role he would play in the world's future; not knowing anything except the fact that this was what he was meant to do. For better. And for worse.