Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"GeneCo President, Amber Sweet effectively passed a new law today, which she claims will end grave robbing and unlicensed drug trafficking once and for all. A press conference was held earlier this week to discuss Miss Sweet's future plans for GeneCo, as well as the city itself; during which, Miss Sweet stated that she was dissatisfied with the company's current safety programs. She was quoted as saying, 'Despite my father's efforts to keep Zydrate off the streets and out of the hands of drug dealers, grave robbing and cemetery vandalism continue to be rampant problems. So we're stepping up our efforts to keep the city safe. It is my hope that, with this new law in place, we will be able to crack down even harder on both of these illegal activities and stamp them out for good.' This new law will be effective immediately. In other news, Crucifixus mourns the death of long-time GeneCo opera singer, Blind Mag…"

Like a shadow, he moved quickly and quietly through the darkest corners of the graveyard towards the familiar crypt on the far side. This would be the last time he could get away with this. Hell, he probably couldn't get away with it this time, but he had to try, at least. He wasn't going to just up and leave without telling her goodbye. She's lost enough already.

He ducked behind a larger headstone, out of the way of one of the searchlights that swept past. Shit. That had been close. He would have to be more aware of the GeneCops tonight. He waited for the uniformed figures to pass by before he shifted so that he could peer around the crumbling rock of the grave markers. There was a pebble under his kneecap and it hurt like a sonuvabitch but he didn't dare move to reposition it. It would have to stay there until he deemed it safe enough to make a mad dash for the crypt. At last there seemed to be an opening. Never one to pass up an opportunity, he darted out as silently as he could – which was pretty darn silent, considering. It took him only a few seconds to reach the single iron door. Now came the fun part. He knew from experience that the door had a tendency to squeak. Gods willing, it would hold its peace. Carefully, while looking over his shoulder, he gripped the bars at the top and shoved hard. The door swung open with minimal sound and he slithered inside, his coat trailing behind him like wings.

Once within the safety of the tomb, he pushed the hunk of metal shut again and bounded over to the back wall. He pushed sideways until the slab of concrete slid to reveal a hidden hallway. As soon as there was room to squeeze his body through, he was closing the secret entrance and trotting up the passage and into the house beyond. Through the wall, up the stairs, past the creepy pictures of Mrs. Wallace that always seemed to be looking at you, to the farthest bedroom. He knocked softly. "Hey, kid. It's me."

The door cracked open. Beyond the dim lighting that filtered out he could see just the barest hint of a silhouette, just the faintest glint of an eye. Then the door opened completely. "Graverobber?"

"None other." He gave Shilo one of his cocky smirks. On the inside he didn't really feel much like smirking, but he knew that it would be better all around if he tried his best to act normal. Couldn't go freaking the kid out, now could he? He let the smirk fade away. "You been listening to the news lately?"

Shilo nodded, ushering him into her room and flicking on the lights behind them. "Yeah, I just saw the press conference from earlier. They replayed it." And Mag's funeral, hung in the air, not needing to be said aloud. Instead, she wandered over to her piano bench and sat down.

Graverobber trudged over to the bed, mimicking her actions. He gave a half-hearted glance around the room, noting that the plastic curtains had been taken down and that the medical machinery was shoved into the farthest corner available. About damn time, he thought. "Listen, kid," he leaned back against one of the bedposts, propping his muddy boots up on the foot board, "I'm not gonna lie to you, things are gonna get a helluva lot worse out there. I'm might not be able to stay here much longer." He watched Shilo's face carefully as he spoke.

She lowered her eyes to the floor, twiddling her fingers in her lap. "You had to sneak in, didn't you? Because of Amber's new law."

"Yeah. The number of GeneCops has about tripled." He sighed. "And they're armed to the gas masks. Anything so much as casts a shadow in the graveyard anymore and they'll throw a fucking grenade at it. New equipment, too."

They were silent for a time, both thinking heavily about the situation. Then, in a display of rare uncharacteristic behavior, Graverobber stood, crossed over to the girl, and wrapped his arms around her in a tight hug. "I have to leave, kid." From the way he had said it with such finality, they both knew that he didn't just mean the house, but the city itself.

Pale hands gripped at his ratty coat as Shilo buried her face in his chest. She inhaled deeply and held it for a second before letting it back out though her mouth. "I'm going with you."

"What?" His shirt had muffled her voice but he had heard her none-the-less. It was what she had said that stumped him. He placed his hands on her thin shoulders, pushing her away from him gently so that he could look at her. "No, kid, you can't. It's way too dangerous."

"It's even more dangerous if I stay here. You said it yourself, things are going to get crazier, and I've never been on my own before. I don't know how to take care of myself especially like this." She turned her eyes to the holo-picture of Marni Wallace that still flickered above her mantle. "Besides, what's left for me here? The power with be turned off eventually and I can't exactly go and buy more food once I run out." She looked back at him. "I'm safer with you. Out of this place, out of Crucifixus."

He wished he could argue with her, oh how he did. But he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she was right. And maybe, some little part of him had been hoping that she would say it, would want to stick with him. It was so hard to trust anyone these days, and Shilo was – if nothing else – his friend. He nodded once. "Okay. Get your things; pack only what you absolutely need and keep it light. We leave in ten."

Without another word, Shilo moved to fill a small duffle bag from under her bed with essentials. A locket with pictures of her parents and a signed photo of Mag were the last things to go in.

Ten minutes later, they were gone.

Fear, pure and frenzied. It pounded through his veins, spurred his aching legs to go faster, faster, FASTER. He couldn't breathe, couldn't stop to catch his breath. He had to keep moving. It was his only hope.

He could hear his own heart as it thundered in his burning chest and prayed that he was the only one who could. But then he heard something else. Heavy, booted footsteps, echoing his own and ringing faintly down the alleyway behind him. "Oh god!" he whimpered. His legs pushed harder. Adrenaline surged.

His sneakers 'sniked' against the concrete as he rounded a corner in the never-ending maze of the city's backstreets. In his panic, he collided with a trashcan and both were sent clattering to the ground. He desperately clamored to his feet, nearly staggering into a wall in his haste to right himself. On he ran.

But then he turned another corner and was faced with a dilemma. A narrow corridor of brick stretched out in front of him. Several doors lined the wall, leading into the darkest bowels of the buildings; the city's underground. At the end of the alley was…nothing. A dead end with only another door. He paused in his fleeing to look franticly about him for any signs of hope. Anything that could save him. He rushed forward again and pounded on one of the doors. No response. He tried another one several yards further on. Still no one came to his aid. Time was running out, and so were the doors. His brain stopped functioning properly. All he could process was one single line of thought, repeating and repeating and repeating itself in his mind like a mantra, a chant. "Gotta get away - Gotta get away - Gotta get away!"

Run, run, run.

By the time he reached that final door he was borderline hysterical. His body propelled itself against the rotting wood with all the force of his adrenaline and terror, all the kinetic energy that had built up as he charged down the dark streets. It shuddered but did not break. He was too dazed to try again and stumbled backward.

The he heard the sound of metal being drawn from leather. He knew now. There was nowhere left to run, and he knew it. Tendrils of ice crushed at his heart as he turned around to face the nightmare.

Tall, dressed from head to foot and more in black, and wielding an instrument of death and pain and all things terrible in the world.

A scalpel.

"No. No, please, please just leave me alone!" he begged, pleaded, beseeched. He was crying now, he could feel it. His vision blurred, distorting the image of the monster before him. It advanced. "Please, I—" His pursuer grabbed a handful of his hair and smashed him back against the door with one hand. Cold, merciless eyes gleamed at him from behind a thick mask; illuminated by an eerie blue light. The hand in his hair moved to his throat and held him in place tight against the wall. His own hands clawed feebly against the dense rubber of the figure's uniform.

The scalpel rose.

And he screamed as blinding agony ripped through him. Tearing, shredding, slashing at his defenseless form. He screamed until his mouth and nose filled with blood and he choked on his own life-fluid. But he could still feel it. Gloved fingers, pulling and twisting at his insides. Stripping him of things that should never have been touched at all. He could feel his energy draining out of him like water down a pipe. His struggles ceased, his body went limp, and his murderer finally let him go. He slid down the wall, leaving a trail of crimson behind him.

The last thing he saw before he was sucked into oblivion, was the assassin cleaning the blood from his instrument with a practiced sweep of his wrist. And then the world went black.

He awoke, shrieking harshly; a death scream. He thrashed away the thin blankets that covered him and whipped his body up into a hunched sitting position. His head throbbed and it hurt to breathe. In the dark of the room he couldn't remember where he was. The fog of his dreams hadn't yet left him entirely.

A shape moved in the shadows, reaching for him. An unearthly glow from unearthly eyes. And he was crying out in fear, lashing out an arm to defend himself from whatever may have slipped from his nightmares to claim him again. "S-stay away!" The momentum of his flailing aided him as he crawled backwards off the mattress and away from the corner. He gulped in lungful after lungful of air.

"Hanna…It's me. It's just me; you were having a nightmare." The voice was familiar, soothing, safe. The figure made no move to touch him again, simply watched him with deep concern etched into the glowing eyes. And maybe a little bit of hurt.

He willed his breath to slow, his heart to calm. He was in his apartment, far away from the place in his dreams. He was safe. Safe. No more men in black masks. The haze lifted from his head. "G-Gala…had?"

His friend nodded slowly.

Hanna suddenly felt like the universe's biggest dick as reality snuck back in and walloped him a good one. He ran a hand across his face and up through his hair. He rested his head in his palm. "I'm sorry, I…" But he didn't know just what to say. 'Sorry' didn't seem to cut it. So he just stayed silent.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. "Are you alright?"

Just as he opened his mouth to give an answer his stomach suddenly contracted. Instantly he was on his feet, stumbling into the bathroom and leaning against anything in his way for support. He clutched the sides of the toilet with shaking fingers as his body heaved and convulsed. Nothing came up, not even blood.

He collapsed against the sink, the porcelain cool on his burning skin. As he rested his head back and closed his eyes he couldn't help but wonder just why he had dreamt what he did. That dream – that memory – had not plagued him for years. So why now?

Something was coming. He could feel it…

Chapter Text

She couldn't remember ever seeing the moon so clearly before. The sky was just so…pure.

Back home, (not home anymore, she reminded herself bitterly) the stars and heavenly bodies were all but blotted out entirely by neon lights and bright, flashing billboards. She allowed herself a deep lungful of air. She could breathe! Even after she had learned the truth about her "sickness" she could never inhale properly. The air had been too full of toxins; acrid, pungent smoke from the body pits – the smell of rot and burning flesh. No wonder everyone wore gas masks.

But here!

This city was so different, so strange. And even as she and her protector, her provider, her friend, ran for their lives, she couldn't help but look on in wonder at the so-very-different scenery. Well, she had wanted to see the world, hadn't she? She blinked up at the deep, midnight blue of the night sky. It almost made her forget the hell she and Graverobber had just gone through to get there.

Crucifixus was surrounded by nothing but graves and water, nearly impossible to leave ever since the ferries had stopped running because of the spread of the plague. Or, at least, according to Graverobber. She herself had never seen the water before, let alone anything akin to a ferry. But then again, there were many things she had never seen before. Luckily, her scruffy, drug-dealing companion had contacts; a "friend" of a "friend" of a costumer, who just so happened to know of someone who could smuggle them out…for a fee.

Graverobber had given up almost his entire supply of Zydrate – only slightly begrudgingly – to get them to the safety of an out-of-city-bound body truck. They had only been able to go as far as an outlying burg. That would have been a good start if said burg hadn't also been under the rule of GeneCo's iron grasp. Had he been able to, 'Rob' (as she had come to call him in her mind) could have pilfered more Z from the corpses in the truck with them, and then sold it in the town to get them some more money for traveling. Unfortunately, he was out of equipment and no one was willing to buy for fear of retribution from Amber's new law.

So they had been stuck for a little while. Rob showed her how to find shelter in the gutters and dumpsters, and she in turn was able to go out and steal bits of food and even a blanket or two. Her small frame and nimble fingers from years of delicately pinning insects into cases had made her extraordinarily adept at palming things. She had even managed to pick someone's pocket and then dash away before anyone noticed. She didn't dare try that again.

It took a week for them to find a way out. A week of hiding nervously and praying that no one recognized "that Wallace girl" from the infamous Genetic Opera. A week of huddling together under too-thin blankets and Graverobber's dirty old coat. That week brought them closer together than they ever thought they could get. That week, he had taken to calling her "Sis" more often than "Kid." He said it was for disguise purposes. She knew better.

Finally, finally, they were able to hitch a ride to the next town over. From there they just went by foot. The going was rough and there weren't that many places to stop and rest, but somehow they managed to make it to what appeared to be a state boarder. The farther away they got, the less influence GeneCo seemed to have. In fact, after that first outlying town they had stopped seeing it altogether.

Just to be safe, Groverobber had decided they would go one more city over and then plan their next move. She agreed. She would follow him anywhere.

And so she had followed him here, to this city where the moon shone like a pearl hung in the sky and the stars were more than just dirty pinpricks of something off-color on the smoke-riddled horizon. The air was breathable, the streets less crowded, and best of all, there was no GeneCo. None. Not even a logo stuck onto a lamppost. This city wasn't filthy and crumbling. It was alive. She almost couldn't wait to see it in the daylight.

That being said, they needed to find somewhere to stop for the night; preferably somewhere not out in the open. She may have liked this city, but that certainly didn't mean that she was ready to be exposed to its elements just yet. Dawn was still hours away and it was starting to get a little bit chilly. She rubbed at her arms discretely – she didn't want Rob worrying about her body temperature right now when they had other things to focus on.

At first she thought maybe he had noticed because she felt his hand upon her shoulder, but then she realized that he was steering her towards an alleyway.

"There's a dumpster at the back. You hide while I go scout around and if nothing else, we'll just spend the night there." He walked her over to it, helping boost her up and over the side with a hand under her foot. Once she was safely inside, he grabbed the plastic lid and pulled it down. The drug dealer flashed her a toothy half-grin and a wink before the top came down completely, leaving her in relative darkness with a muffled "sit tight, Kid," filtering through the rusted metal walls.

With nothing else to do but wait for her companion to return with news, she tucked her legs up to her chin and wrapped her arms around them to keep herself warm. At least she was out of the wind and it didn't really smell too bad where she was. She calmly rested her chin on her knees. She would wait. She had all the time in the world right now.

It was probably around ten o' clock, ten-thirty or so – eleven at the very latest – when the pair of them finally headed home for the night. There had been a job, (the first one in months) and, quite frankly, it was a wonder that his employer hadn't collapsed from exhaustion by now. The taller of the two counted himself rather lucky that he didn't need to sleep, because he was sure that Hanna would be out for a day or so afterwards. Long enough for the both of them.

It didn't help that the redhead hadn't been sleeping all that well for the past couple of weeks. Almost every night since he had had that nightmare, he had been jumpy; his dreams dark and foreboding and Galahad suspected he was too afraid of reliving the nightmare to get any sort of rest.

But yes, the job. Concentrate on the job (sort of) well done.

Despite the aching body, the fatigue, and the drained magical energy, all on Hanna's part, things had gone pretty well. No one was gravely injured – just beat-up and bruised – and the paranormal shenanigans had been quelled with a decent amount of success. There wasn't even any major property damage… although that broken window was most certainly coming out of their pay. All in all, he was relatively pleased with the way everything had turned out. Now, his friend needed sleep and an aspirin. Maybe two.

It was while that same friend was voicing similar thoughts aloud to him, not paying attention to much else around them, that they nearly missed the movement in the alleyway to their right. There was a near-silent curse and something 'tink!'-ed to the ground; rolling towards them and coming to rest against the side of Hanna's battered sneaker.

He glanced down. There, lying innocently on the sidewalk below was a little glass vial. Normally, this would not have been important. What caught his attention, however, was the neon-blue glow that poured forth from within the depths of said vial. What on Earth?

Apparently the glowing substance had attracted Hanna's attention as well. He watched in curiosity as the younger man bent downwards and reached for the vial in a kind of trance-like state. He picked it up between his thumb and forefinger, bringing up close to his face to study it. He was engulfed in eerie blue light. For a full minute, the ginger just stared at the thing in his hand. He didn't move, didn't speak, didn't even blink. In fact, his eyes seemed to widen in either recognition or hypnosis, Galahad wasn't sure which.

He was getting slightly worried, too. He opened his mouth to speak, to snap his partner out of his stupor, when a shadow stepped quietly out of the alley. The zombie's eyes shot up immediately, watching the newcomer warily. Instinctively his body shifted to put himself between Hanna and any possible threat. As the stranger took another step in their direction, he scanned the figure briefly – no visible weapons – and then allowed himself to observe more closely.

It was a man, he decided. Tall, medium build, moved with a cocky yet cautious gait. Suspicious all around. The man stopped just in the mouth of the alleyway, only partially illuminated by the dying streetlamp overhead. From what could be seen, he was dressed in a long, dirty coat, baggy pants, and a loose-fitting, dust-covered shirt. His face was pale, even in the gritty yellow light, and he looked to have dark circles under his eyes. Long dreadlocks and strips of random colors hung about his shoulders, which were hunched almost defensively.

But it was his dark eyes, focused only on Hanna, that made Galahad's undead skin prickle. He felt his muscles tighten, ready to spring into action if need be. From his peripheral vision, he caught his roommate's gaze flicking from the glowing blue vial to the man in the alley. At least part of his attention was torn away from the object in his hand…

The stranger's lips curled upwards into a half-smirk. His head tilted to the side as he continued to stare at the shorter investigator. He gave a low, vaguely amused chuckle. "First hit's free…"

Drug dealer, his mind screamed. He ventured a look down to Hanna. The redhead was biting his lower lip, eyes locked once again on the vial, on the cyan light, and the dead man saw his fingers tighten just a fraction on the glass. His breathing had quickened, too. Worried for his friend's safety and not at all comfortable with either the dealer's presence or his product, whatever it may have been, Galahad placed his hand on his shoulder; squeezing sharply and giving the shorter man a shake. "Hanna."

Immediately, those midnight-colored orbs blinked back to reality, their dreamy, dazed quality evaporating. The ginger glanced over at the green hand on his shoulder, then fixed his gaze back on the figure in front of them. "No, thanks." He stretched out his arm, handing the apparent drug back to its seller. "I kicked the habit years ago."

The man tilted his head the other way, one brow raised. He waggled the vial weakly between his fingers. "You…know what this is." It was both a statement and a question, almost as if he knew but didn't really believe.

Galahad looked from one to the other without moving his head. Did Hanna know what that was?

The investigator just nodded slowly. "Better than I should."

The stranger opened his mouth to reply but a muted clatter in the alley behind him diverted his attention and he whipped around to face the cause of the sound. He swore under his breath. "Shilo…" Then he was dashing away, back into the shadows and the gloom of the alley, without a second glance behind him.

As they watched him disappear, the zombie assumed that that was the end of it all. That they could just head home. He was surprised, though by that point he really shouldn't have been, when his employer tugged on the sleeve of his coat and nodded at the passageway before them.

"We should follow him."

He was about to point out that the man was obviously a criminal of some sort and that it really was not their problem what befell him, but he never got the chance to. The shorter man was already walking stiffly in after the drug dealer, face stern.

Galahad made a mental note to add that to his list of things that Hanna needed to explain. It only took him two or three steps to catch up to the redhead, his long legs giving him that extra length in stride.

This was turning out to be a very long night, indeed.

Chapter Text

She hadn't felt safe where Graverobber had left her.

It started out as just a niggling in the back of her mind. New city, different kinds of dangers, general apprehension. Nothing too bad. But then she had started hearing things out in the alleyway beyond the metal walls of the dumpster. Things that sounded like hushed whispers, things that sounded like people shuffling back and forth. Things that sounded like the GeneCops. Suddenly she wished that her friend was there with her.

He had left her on her own before, but only briefly, and always somewhere relatively safe. Like a basement or an abandoned house. This time it was taking way too long. She was alone, afraid, and getting quite cold. She did not want to be there by herself. So, gathering up her courage, she pushed up the lid of the dumpster just enough for her to see out. Nothing there. Raising the cover a little more, she glanced to the left and then to the right. Completely deserted.

She wasn't entirely sure where Graverobber had gone to, but she remembered which direction he had said. She squinted out into the night. Unable to actually see much more than her immediate surroundings, she pushed the lid back all the way and hoisted herself up to the mouth of the dumpster. She managed to get one leg over the metal rim. Her balance, she realized a fraction of a second too late, was not the best. She started to fall forward. With nothing to grab onto and no strong arms to catch her, she had no choice but to use the leg still hanging inside the metal trash bin to stop her fall. It worked, but she still ended up landing awkwardly on her hands. Slowly, she pulled her legs out after her.

And then her left arm gave out. Out onto the pavement she tumbled, a sharp pain shooting through her leg. Once she had recovered enough to sit up, she checked herself over for any damage. She let out a hiss as her fingers brushed her aching leg. There, running vertically along the inside of her right calf, was a long, jagged cut. She must have caught it on a strip of metal as she fell. It didn't look too deep, but then again, it was dark as hell and she had no real medical training above and beyond what her father had told her – which wasn't much. She bit back a small wave of tears at the memory of her father and made to stand up.

She tested her weight on the injured leg. It held, it just hurt to put too much pressure on it. She vaguely thought of wrapping it with something but then thought better of it; she had nothing clean that she could use as a bandage. Oh well, it would just have to drip until she could locate her companion. Speaking of whom…

She turned in the direction he had told her he was going and took a few steps. Then a few more. Then a few more. Soon she had reached a section of the alley that connected to another one running straight through the first. A four-way alley. She stopped. Now where?

She crept up to the corner of the closest building and peeked around it. The passageway just stretched on into the darkness. She hobbled over to the next corner and did the same. Still nothing. As she turned around to look down the third alley, she spotted a faint glow of neon blue out of her peripheral vision. Zydrate. Relief flooded through her and she whipped back around to head towards the end of the appropriate alley. She didn't intend to go all the way out to the street and then across and then through the alley on the other side to get to him, she just meant to get as far as the street and then try and see something. But just as she took her first couple of steps, a loud bang sounded from somewhere in the direction she had just come from.

A door slammed open and into the unfortunate wall behind it. She let out a gasp, diving behind a row of trashcans as several drunken men came stumbling out into the rectangle of light provided by the open door. She watched as they staggered off, leaning on each other and shouting slurred curses. Now more than ever, she was glad that she had not stayed in the dumpster.

But the shock of the door and the drunk men had sent a surge of adrenaline pumping through her bloodstream, which, as of yet, her body was still not used to. She felt her throat begin to tighten and her hands start to shake. She sat down on the concrete and closed her eyes, trying to calm the effects. I'm not sick, I'm not sick, I'm not sick. It would be a while still before the "medicine" her father had fed her all her life fully drained out of her system.

She was so busy concentrating that she very nearly missed the blurred figure as it dashed silently past her. "Graverobber?" she called out in a hesitant whisper.

"Shilo?" the figure called back, immediately coming to a halt and glancing over in her direction.

She stood, shoulders hunched, and picked her way carefully around the trashcans. She made it over to his side before her leg protested and she had to squash down a grimace.

"What are you doing out here?" Graverobber asked, kneeling down and putting his hands on her arms. His tone wasn't harsh, not accusing. He knew perfectly well that she wouldn't have left the dumpster without a valid reason. He was just concerned.

She put her own, delicate hands over his larger, calloused ones. "You were gone for so long, and I started getting worried, and then there were these people – I think they were drunk – and I didn't know where you were and I got scared." She wrapped her arms around his neck in a hug. "Sorry, I guess I panicked."

He gave her hair – still short but growing back in nicely – a soft pat. "Hey, you gotta trust your instincts. If something doesn't feel right, then it probably isn't." He pulled back and gave her a smirking grin. "How do you think I've survived this long?" Then his eyes found the line of blood oozing down her leg and his face twisted into a frown. "Oh hell, Kid, what's that?"

"What's what?"

He pointed. "That."

"Oh that?" She followed his gaze and flashed a sheepish smile. " I uh, cut my leg getting out of the dumpster." He raised an eyebrow at her and she just smiled wider.

There was a crash from somewhere behind them and she whirled around to see what had made it, fearing more unfamiliar drunkards. What she saw was a pair of human-shaped shadows about ten feet down the alley. One of them was picking itself up from where it had tripped and fallen into the trashcans and cussing quietly. The second was leaning over the first with an arm outstretched as if to help the other to stand. Her heart pounded as more adrenaline surged into her veins, adding onto the previous dose not yet fully gone from before.

And then she saw the soft glow of eyes in the dark and her mind instantly pictured her father's face behind the RepoMan's mask.

Graverobber immediately stood up to his full height, pushing her behind him and holding up an arm to shield her from danger. He didn't say a word, just glared daggers at the pair in the shadows. She watched as the first one, the one that had fallen down, took a cautious step towards them; hands up to show that they weren't armed.

She reflexively inched further behind her protector, clutching at her chest in desperation. She was scared; not just of the strangers but also of how dizzy she was getting. Her breathing came in wheezing gasps, her lungs not fully inflating. Black began to creep in along the edges of her vision and she had to double over to keep her balance. She reached up and grabbed weakly at the drug dealer's sleeve. Tugged. "Rob…Rob, I can't breathe…" And then she was falling, nothingness filling her eyes.

"Shit!" she heard him say, felt his arms around her, supporting her, keeping her upright. She leaned into him.

Then another voice spoke. "I know somewhere we can take her; a friend of mine, it's not that far." One of the figures. She couldn't tell which one.

She felt more than heard Graverobber's voice rumbling in his chest. "Why should I trust you?"

"Do you really have much choice at the moment?"

A pause. Graverobber's grip shifted, tightened protectively. Then he scooped her up into his arms and held her to him. She felt him nod. As they started moving, just before she passed out, she heard his voice whispering close to her ear.

"You're gonna be okay, Kid, you're gonna be okay. Just hang on."

Galahad watched the drug dealer carefully as he sat vibrating with nervous tension in one of Doc Worth's grungy office chairs. While he hadn't done anything as of yet, other than threaten to throttle Worth, ("Fix her or I'll break your face!") the dead man still did not trust him.

And for good reason, too, it seemed, as Hanna was also steering rather clear of him. The zombie turned his gaze towards the redhead seated next to him. He seemed…lost in thought; usually not a good sign. Whenever Hanna Cross was silent, something wasn't right. He nudged the younger man gently; trying to bring him out of whatever dark place his mind had wandered to.

The investigator started, then looked at him. Blue eyes far away. Then he focused on his partner and gave a tiny, forced smile. From the way he seemed to almost lean into him, the zombie was sure that the reason for Hanna's silence had something more to it than just sheer fatigue. It was like something deep and painful had been brought up to the surface and the young man was trying desperately to bury it again.

He offered a small smile of his own, wanting to make his partner feel better but not quite knowing how. He was about to ask if the redhead was alright, but no sooner had he thought the words than Worth was banging the back door wide open and stepping out with a flourish of cigarette smoke.

"She's awake," he grunted, acrid yellow seeping out from between his teeth as he spoke. The smell of nicotine and tar.

Almost instantaneously, the scroungy man with the dreadlocks shot up from his seat and shoved into the back room. All eyes watched him go.

As soon as he was gone, Hanna spoke up. "What was wrong with her?" His voice was small, withdrawn.

The doctor shrugged. "Nothin', s'far as I kin tell. She jes' passed out is all." There was a pointed look shared between the two that did not escape the dead man's notice, but as he was unsure as to what it meant, he stayed silent.

There was beat. Then the redhead stood. "I'm gonna…yeah…" He stuffed his hands into his pockets and made for the very same door that the drug dealer had just disappeared through. Worth followed.

Not wanting to leave his friend anywhere he couldn't see him, Galahad trailed after them both. He was not comfortable with any of this. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but he felt…possessive. Overly-protective. It was as if there was something way back in the very deepest recesses of his mind telling him that Hanna shouldn't be let near the stranger. There was something like a fear of his companion becoming corrupted, stolen from him and turned into something he was not. Or at least, should never be again. Again? It was like a little voice inside him was saying, 'I care about him, not you.'

Confused, frustrated, and just generally worried, he chose to ignore the excess bizarrety and simply see what happened. As he pushed open the door to the examination room – or whatever it could be called – he caught sight of Worth digging out a roll of bandages and a bottle of disinfectant. Hanna was positioned against a grubby counter, arms across his chest.

"…no' gonna need stitches, but Im'ma give you a butterfly strip jes' ta be safe," the doctor was saying as the girl, indeed now awake and sitting up on the long metal table with her guardian right behind her, peeled back a ripped legging. The cut on her leg was impressive; angry and harsh, but not very deep at all. "Migh' no' even leave a scar. If'n yer lucky, missy."

Galahad stood soundlessly in the doorway, observing. He watched the girl hiss and wince at the disinfectant's contact, watched the man at her shoulder give her arm a reassuring squeeze. She shivered slightly and her friend – or whatever he was – pulled off his ratty coat and tossed it into her lap. ("You cold, kid?" he'd mumbled, "Here. Catch.") The way they interacted, it…it was like…watching a messed up, parallel version of Hanna and himself. One cared for the other when one was hurt, looked out for them, both of them needing the other to some degree.

Suddenly, he didn't feel quite as threatened by this person as he had before. Now that he saw what could possibly have been a little bit of himself in the dealer's actions. He was still wary but he no longer felt his muscles tensing of their own accord as if to tackle the man at a moment's notice should he decide to pull anything. It was this thought that allowed him to move into the room fully to stand beside his own charge.

He could feel the girl's eyes as she stared at him in what was most likely shock. Unconsciously he tugged the collar of his coat up a little bit higher around his jaw line.

Worth must have spotted it, too, because he made a noise in the back of his throat and said, "Ain't gonna lie, you two're no' 'xactly wot I'd call my 'usual' brand 'f clientele." The doctor paused in his work to take a long drag of his cigarette. "No' from here, tha's fer damn sure." He glanced over at the redhead in the corner. "Ya wanna maybe fill me in the rest'a the way, squirt?" Another look was passed between them, as though the back-alley surgeon was searching for something he didn't really want to know.

Hanna seemed to shrink into himself even more, if that was possible, and averted his eyes. "Doc…He's a Z Dealer." And every single person in the room, including the dead one, stiffened.

"A fuckin' grave robber?" Worth asked, voice horse and barely-audible.

At those words, Galahad found nearly every apprehension that had previously left him come back full force, his earlier suspicions confirmed. And yet…he was intrigued by the situation. Perhaps it was just that he had no idea what was going on, or that his roommate was letting out pieces of information that stirred his curiosity about him, but whatever it was, it kept the zombie from grabbing Hanna by the scruff of his neck and dragging him out of there.

His already mangled train of thought was derailed entirely as Worth smacked a greasy hand down on the tabletop. "Tha's impossible," he growled, eyeing the offending pair. The girl flinched backwards into her companion's protective hold. The 'grave robber' stood like a soldier, rock-rigid and ready to either bolt with or defend the smaller figure beside him.

The Aussie turned away, shaking his head with a mix of shock and disbelief scattered across his face. "No one escapes Crucifixus." It was almost like he was speaking more to himself than to anyone else in particular.

Hanna just stared at his feet. One of his pale hands came up to clutch at his shirt, just under where his heart was located. When he spoke it was with the same tone of voice that Worth had just used; distant and strange. "We did." His fist clenched tighter. "Lamont did."

The doctor chuckled. "Heh. Yeah, yeah we did, di'n we?"

For an instant, that same look that had been passed between the investigator and the physician twice before hung heavily in the air. The pair of them exuded nostalgia of the most negative kind. It was the kind of look that two survivors might share as they silently communicated a mutual remembrance of harsher times. Times that had shaped them, and that they hoped to never, ever experience again. In that instant, all else seemed forgotten.

And as the green-skinned man watched them in their unspoken dialogue, he, too, very nearly forgot that there was anyone else there. He studied that look, that bond that they had, and suddenly wanted to join in. Like a little voice in the back of his head was saying, "hey, me too!" It was almost…unfair? He couldn't place the feeling, but something in him wanted desperately to be a part of that connection. He deserved to be a part of that connection, even if he did not know why. His brows furrowed slightly, the only outward indication of his inner sensation of being left out in the cold. If only he knew what the hell was going on!

But even that strange, foreign pang in his gut was not enough to distract him fully from the other occupants of the dingy back-alley examination room. He caught movement in the corner of his eye and immediately his attention snapped back to the environment at hand. Unfortunately, by that time it was almost too late to stop it.

The grave robber had shifted, moving from his place behind the girl on the table to step dangerously closer to the partners by the countertop. His face was a mixture of stone and cynical semi-amusement. And he was staring fixedly on Hanna's clenched fist. With one swift, fluid motion that the zombie would never have expected from such a shady-looking person, the man had closed the space between himself and the redhead, gripping the thin shirt with both hands and tugging almost violently.

Galahad's body jolted into action just as his employer let out startled squawk, propelling him forward in one quick stride to grab the assailant by the shoulders and yank him away. But as he did so, the man in his grasp succeeded in his endeavors. Off came Hanna's shirt, over his head and into the grubby hands of the dealer.

And the entire room froze.

Chapter Text

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.

Chapter Text

They had called it a plague, an epidemic, a disease. It was the disease that nearly wiped out half of humanity. It was the disease that made the world so cruel and dark. It was the disease that turned the people of the city into nothing more than greedy animals, ever searching for their next fix. They blamed the disease for everything. But he saw through that. He knew what humanity really was, and he knew that it had nothing to do with the organ failures that spanned the globe.

It was the city itself that had done it - the city that had done it to them all; turned them into monsters of the worst kind.

Crusifixus was the disease.

He ground his cigarette out on the soot-laden wall. It made him sick to his stomach to think about the whole situation, but he supposed that if he wouldn't then surely no one else would. Why couldn't they see? Why didn't anyone hear the rumbling of the body trucks as they rolled through the streets in the middle of the night? Gods, was he the only sensible person left anymore?

But it wasn't just the people. Oh no. That wasn't even half of it. Humanity may have gone insane but it had had help. GeneCo was the worst of all. Because of that foul blot on the surface of the once pure earth, the horrors of the plague seemed like nothing more than a bad summer cold. Because of Geneco, there was no compassion left in the world. No one even batted an eyelash if you were found dead in the gutter with your throat slit and your lungs torn out. No one gave a second thought to just where that new set of kidneys had come from – ripped from their neighbor's body and then sewn into their own. Someone else's life to feed their vanity.

Because of GeneCo, murder, fuckin' murder, was now legal. Repossession, they called it. But fancy names didn't change what it was.

He spat in disgust as he mulled these thoughts over in his head. How had it come to this? Where had they all gone so horribly, disastrously wrong? When you could change your DNA with just a simple pen stroke on the devil's contract, did being human even mean anything anymore? Was there any value in life at all, or was it just another commodity that could be bought and sold to the one holding the most cash? His stomach churned.

He eyed the filthy little hovel that had become his home. A rusted gurney sat despairingly over in the far corner, older machinery and trays of dusty surgical tools along the wall beside it. A row of cabinets stood on the opposite side of the room, their pilfered contents striped of all bar codes and serial numbers. All of it stolen from GeneCo itself. The thought made him smile just a little bit. It was his way of fighting back, of spitting in the face of the very people who had made them all their slaves. It was thanks to that god-forsaken company that he was forced into the underground in the first place, might as well use its own supplies against it.

He had come to this city because he had wanted to help people. When the plague first started he had taken in anyone who came to him, whether they could pay or not, losing many but saving dozens more. Once the Largo Family had stepped in, he thought the worst was over and that he could simply treat the sick – be a doctor instead of a surgeon. But no. Rotti's company promised to give life to a dying world; instead, it drained it even more. If you were one of the lucky ones who had the money, then you could also afford to make yourself "beautiful" in the twisted eyes of a decaying society. You could "enhance" yourself, make yourself "perfect." Turn yourself into something not human, plastic, hollow, false.

For everyone else, it was a different story. If you couldn't pay, you financed. If you couldn't finance, you died. If you could finance but still couldn't pay, you were subject to repossessions and an even more gruesome death. And that's when people had started coming back to him. They knew that he would take them in, help them, do the best he possibly could to save their existence. He didn't do the cosmetic surgeries, he refused. But if you were dying he would usher you inside his office without a word. Eventually, his resources and contacts began to dry up and he was forced to start pilfering the much-needed supplies from passing GeneCo trucks or buying them through the underground off GenTerns who would sell things on the side. He had even, once or twice, had to procure that damnable blue drug from a grave robber in green face-paint that had just happened to stumble by.

But then GeneCo got wise to independent doctors and began to systematically snuff them out; either by absorbing them into the company itself, or by silencing them. Rotti wanted to make sure there was no competition. One day, the GeneCops had come knocking on the door of his tiny clinic with a message stating that he had been offered an official position as one of GeneCo's top surgeons. He turned them down with a scowl.

"I know wha' this is, and I know what'll happen if'n I don't respond in kind. I ain't doin' it. Get the hell outta my office."

They were back the next week to shut him down, but by then he was long gone.

And so he disappeared, out of the sight of Rotti Largo and his death doctors. He wished he could have left some kind of notice to his patients, the dozens of people who had come to depend on him for help, just to let them know that he was still around, that they could still find him and come to him, but he knew that it would have led Rotti right to him. So all he could do was hide away and continue to practice in secret, hoping that the people who needed him would be able to locate him before it was too late. Hoping that those who were looking for his blood didn't.

As he had fled to the underground, he had allowed himself a rare emotional moment. He grieved for the ones he had helped, would now most likely not be able to help again. He grieved for them because it was those people who showed him that there still was a glimmer of hope for humanity. These people were genuine, real, flesh in a world of plastic and cookie-cutter molds. And he was abandoning them. Running away to this tiny little one-room cell in a vain attempt to save his own skin and still find away to save the skins of others. He knew that he couldn't have it both ways.

Sooner or later he would have to leave.

He was yanked viciously from his musings by something smashing into his door. He heard the wood splinter under the force of the blow. "What the hell?" He stood up and shifted from behind his desk. Cautiously, he put his hand to the battered door and leaned his ear beside it – listening. He heard the sound of someone begging, heard them being slammed against the wall, heard the blood curdling screams of pain. Oh god…

"Repo."

He stood frozen against the rotting wooden door as the sounds of slaughter rang throughout the alleyway beyond it. He bit his tongue. Finally, finally, the screaming ceased and a new sound took its place – the sound of retreating footsteps as the RepoMan vanished back into the shadows from whence he had come, prize wet and dripping in his refrigerated bag. With his stomach already lurching from earlier memories, he had to fight to keep from dashing off to the sink and purging his guts into the drain.

In a fog, he moved to undo the latch, ancient hinges screeching as he pulled open the door. A young boy, no older than eighteen, nineteen at the most, slumped inwards against the doorframe. The door opened a little further and the boy fell limp and lifeless to the dirty floor. His hair was a bright, fiery red – a rare color for the city if it was indeed natural. His eyes, now dull and staring, had once been electric blue, he guessed, and a pair of black-rimmed glasses hung on the tip of the boy's nose. Glasses. Those eyes were real. Then he looked down; a huge, jagged cavern spanned the entire length of the boy's abdomen, most of his innards gone.

Even after the act his ears had just witnessed, he was still human. And he just couldn't leave another human being out in the grime of the street. At very least he could cremate the poor blighter in the blaze of the furnace in the back. Spare them the ride in the body truck. Holding back his revulsion at the sight of GeneCo's latest victim, he knelt down to close the boy's eyelids. And got the shock of his life.

The boy moved his head a fraction of an inch towards him, dull blue orbs locking onto his own dark brown ones. He stared in shock. The kid had moved. "Yer still alive?" he breathed in disbelief. The boy twitched as if trying to speak, but he put a hand gently on his shoulder. "Dun' go movin' now. You'll jus' make it worse."

And then suddenly he was all doctor; surgeon's need to help, to save taking full control over his mind. He had to get the boy out of the middle of the entryway and onto an operating table as quickly and as softly as possible. Somehow, he managed to scoop the dying boy into his arms – the kid weighed hardly anything at all now that his chest was hollow – and deposit him on the long metal table. Deftly, numbly, he flicked switches and pushed buttons until all of his machines whirred to life and he was able to connect them to the boy's failing body. Then he went to work.

Hours later, the red-haired kid was stable, neatly outfitted with all the latest in stolen GeneCo property.

Surgeon mode deactivated and he peeled off the bloody latex gloves. With an exhausted sigh he sat back in his desk chair, head in his hand. It was a miracle that the boy had held onto life just long enough for him to stitch and staple him back together. It must have been the work of the gods themselves that he survived at all.

It was then that he knew.

He couldn't save the soul of the city, he couldn't save its people from their own self-induced nightmare; hell, he couldn't even save himself! But he could save this one. He knew a sign when he saw it. This kid would be his last shot at redemption before he, too, was dragged down into hell with the rest of humanity. He would stay until the kid woke up. Once the kid was well enough, healed enough to travel, to flee, he would leave this city. And he would take the boy with him. Even if he couldn't save anyone else, he could save the two of them.

It would be days before the boy with the ginger hair and the glasses and the blue eyes would wake. A week or two more before he was able to sit up on his own, able to walk. But he managed, and he secretly praised the boy's vitality.

"Wha's yer name, kid?"

"…Hanna."

"Doc Worth, nice'ta meet'cha."

And together they would run.

Chapter Text

This was bad. He was going to get himself into big trouble for this. This was bad. This was really bad. But he couldn't stop. It would hurt too much to stop. So he couldn't stop. He had no choice.

There was no choice, no choice. His parents were dead; victims of the plague. They had spent everything they had to save him when he'd first been infected so that they had had nothing left to save themselves. And they hadn't told him. They had just…died. Just died and left him all alone with no other choice than to become a street thief and an addict just to get by – to survive.

Bad thoughts, bad thoughts, don't think them, don't think them.

He had to pay. He had to pay or GeneCo would come and get him. The RepoMan would come and get him. So he stole. He picked pockets. He snuck into people's dingy little holes-in-the-walls and took anything he could. Sometimes it was valuable and he could sell it for cash and then use that cash to make a payment. Sometimes it was edible and he was able to stave off starvation for just a little bit longer. Sometimes it was wearable and it kept him warm when the rest of his clothes were nothing but tatters.

But anymore, if he could sell it, if it was money, it went to pay for Z.

Z.

Zydrate.

Glow.

Oh gods, he was in really big trouble.

But it wasn't like he was doing it to get high. No, not to get high. It was for the pain. He had to make the pain stop. The pain of old surgery scars getting nicked open and infected, the pain of yet another piece of his insides stating to rot. He was going to die. If he couldn't get another surgery then his body would shut down. If he couldn't pay for that surgery then he would be murdered by the RepoMan. It was a catch twenty-two, is what it was. Because he barely had enough money to squeak by with his payments already. There was no way he could afford to fix himself again. So he was a dead man either way. At least Z kept him going a little bit longer, just a little bit longer. Maybe if he could pay off at least one of his first surgeries, then he could get that new one. Maybe, just maybe…

He stared at his face in the mirror of the filthy, decrepit little bathroom he had found. It smelled like blood and vomit and death, but at least there was running water...sort of. And it was a place to hide. A place out of the cold night air, out of the moonless night air of that cruel city. Crucifixus. He wanted out. He wanted out of his debt, out of this cycle of death and preservation of self, out of Crucifixus. But that was impossible. Nobody escaped Crucifixus. Nobody ever escaped.

He ran a hand down his face. Gaunt, dirty, bruised. Dark circles under his eyes – sunken in and dull. He looked like he hadn't eaten in weeks – and he probably hadn't. He struggled to remember the last time he had had food and he failed. He remembered pain though; there was plenty of pain. And Z. This is bad, bad, bad! He barely recognized his own reflection. Who was that? Was that what he really looked like?

He tore his gaze away from the stranger-that-was-him in the cracked and tarnished glass and patted down the pockets of his threadbare black coat. He felt the lump of metal and glass and reached in his hand to withdraw a Zydrate gun and a little glass vial. He watched himself in the mirror light up with an eerie blue color. Glow, indeed. He felt a dry sob clench in his chest as he lifted the vial to the gun, snapping it in like a battery. His parents would be so ashamed of him, so disappointed in what he had become. But he had no choice. He had no choice. He was a thief and an addict. He was broke. He was in pain. He was an addict.

He put the needle of the gun to his leg, to his upper thigh – didn't want it to get too close to his heart, it could stop it, ha ha ha – and let out a jittery, miserable breath of air. Sorry, Mom. Sorry, Dad. I'm sorry…I'm so sorry. With violently trembling fingers, he pressed down on the gun and pulled the trigger.

He felt the pain, the gut-rotting pain, melt away and leave him with a feeling of emptiness. He leaned heavily against the sink, looking up again into the mirror at the red-haired stranger. Tears. There were tears slipping from the reflection's eyes. Funny, he couldn't feel them. But then again…

I can't feel nothin' at all.

He let himself slide down the wall at his back and curled up into a ball on the grimy tile floor.

It's the grave robber that tips him off about his horrible mistake; the drug dealer – whom he had come to depend upon for relief from his pain – that had showed him kindness, taken pity on him, that told him to fucking run.

The man had grabbed him in the alley when he was looking for him, looking for another hit of Z, and pulled him into a dark little cubby set into the brick and steel walls. He had clapped one rag-wrapped hand over his mouth and whispered harshly into his ear.

"Now listen here, flea bite, you were stupid enough to go and get mixed up with this stuff in the first place," and here the dealer had flashed a glowing vial in his face, which he reached for, only to snatch it back. "Pay attention! You were stupid, yeah, but now you've gone and done something even stupider! What happened to 'paying it off', eh? Your little addiction's gone way too far." He had let him go, whirling him around to face him. His expression was riddled with annoyance and…concern? "You got the Repo on your ass now, little mongrel! Ninety days delinquent gets you Repo treatment, and you sure as hell haven't been spending that hard-stolen cash on food, now have you? Spent too much on your pain."

The grave robber gave a sigh and stuffed the vial held between his fingers into the pocket of his coat and gave it a pat. "You run. You run like all hell is chasing you, cuz it is. I don't wanna find your ginger corpse on my next supply run, you understand? Take that," he pointed to the glow of the Zydrate vial shining through the black material, "just in case you get away. Now go. GO!" and shoved him back out into the alley.

He had taken the man's advice and torn down the pavement into the darkness, hoping against hope that he could outrun GeneCo's legal assassin.

Until, that is, he came to a dead end.

And Repo caught up.

This was bad!

He wakes up what could have been days or months or even years later, he isn't sure. He's not sure about anything anymore. Never was, really, but most certainly not now. His whole body hurts and all he can think about is stopping the pain. When he's able to open his eyes, when he's able to sit up and look around, he sees that he is in what could barely be called a doctor's office. He searches for his coat, for the Zydrate gun and the little glass vial hidden away in his pocket. He tries to go over to it, but there's a sharp tugging at his chest and he looks down and nearly vomits up whatever could possibly be in the stomach that should not have been there after the RepoMan's ministrations.

A jagged scar. Long and zig-zagging and held together with staples and surgical thread. Somewhere in his pain-wracked mind it registers that he should not be alive and that someone has pieced him back together again like a jigsaw puzzle. Like a broken mirror. He slips off the metal table, staggers to his feet, drags the numerous wires and tubes and cords that have been attached to him to keep him from death. He wants to look in the mirror. He wants to see himself, see his reflection. He finally makes it over to the sink in the far corner and stares at the face that stares back at him.

Still the same, just paler. And, of course, with a monstrous wound on his torso. He swallows and nearly passes back out. Shouldn't be standing, shouldn't be standing…

Later, the doctor tells him that he has taken away his Z and gun and that he is not getting them back. He is to break his addiction. And somehow, he doesn't really mind – in fact, he secretly rejoices at the idea. He's been fixed, he won't need to drown out the pain anymore because he's been fixed! He's going to live. At least for now.

"Wha's yer name, kid?" the doctor asks him, and at first, he doesn't know how to answer. Nobody's ever asked before. Not even the grave robber.

"…Hanna." he finally says. It's true, too. His name is Hanna. Hanna Falk Cross. It's been so long since he's heard it, said it, thought about it at all, he's nearly forgotten it.

The doctor flashes him a weird, dark smile and lights up a cigarette. "Doc Worth, nice'ta meet'cha. Soon as you kin walk on yer own two feet, we're gettin' outta here; you'n me."

And he – Hanna – finds himself dumbstruck. They were going to escape.

They were going to escape from Crucifixus.

Chapter Text

They called him "Zombie."

It had become almost like a substitute for his real name; not that he ever told anyone what it was. In all actuality, he probably couldn't even have remembered it if he had tried. So he just…didn't. First, he was "The Dealer," then "Grave Robber," and now, finally, in his latest incarnation apparently, he was 'Zombie."

He didn't really mind. After all, it worked perfectly for his profession. And besides, the massive shit-ton of irony made him chuckle whenever he stopped to think about it. A grave robber named "Zombie." Ha. Haha. Funny. Well, to him, at least. It suited him just fine. He even changed his makeup from his usual black streaks down the eyes to a grayish-green. The mark of a Zydrate dealer, with a touch of his own personal flair.

He was good at what he did, too. He made sure to listen to his instinct; if something didn't feel right, he was gone. He never stayed in the same spot for more than a couple of days, never stocked up in the same graveyard twice in a row. Never allowed the scalpel sluts to pay him with anything but money – no matter how hard they tried to catch his sexual attention – and never, never touched the Glow himself. He would be the supplier, the dealer, but not a user. Not an addict. He had known of a few grave robbers who used. It got them killed.

But he was smart. He saw his costumers for what they really were: greedy, dirty, sick little creatures that thought about nothing but their next fix. He didn't care about them. They disgusted him, really. If they overdosed in the back alleyways, then they deserved what they got. If they were caught by Repo, then they must have been stupid enough to get into debt. Vanity kills. It was none of his business.

That said, he didn't go out if his way to corrupt anyone either. If they came to him, he gave them a hit – providing they could pay, of course. Some other dealers sought out new victims. He knew for a fact that there would always be someone who needed his services. No need to make new ones when there were enough already.

He knew his regulars, too. He was good with faces, with people. So he could always tell whether or not he had Z'd somebody before – could tell who was new and who was not. And so it was, that, during one of his regular nights pumping old, familiar druggies full of Glow, he happened upon a most peculiar specimen.

He had just finished up on the last of the scalpel sluts and was preparing to pack up and wander over to another spot. There was a noise from behind him, a quiet little cough meant to catch attention. Well, it worked, and he turned over his shoulder to see…a boy. God, how old was this kid? Sixteen, seventeen? Whatever his age, he was dressed in raggedy black and white clothes topped off with a pair of too-big boots and a threadbare black coat. A street urchin. Orphan, no doubt. Nothing particularly new. What surprised him, however, was the way he held himself; like he was in pain and scared. That combined with the timid way he had made his presence known, having apparently waited until he was the last one left. Not the usual customer.

He raised an eyebrow at the kid and waved his arm in a 'well?' gesture. The urchin swallowed visibly, not meeting the dealer's eyes. He really should have just walked away, leave the thing to find a fix elsewhere, but he was genuinely intrigued by the…oh, what was the word?…innocence (was that it?) that the boy seemed to exude. So he pivoted on the ball of his foot to face him. "Need something, do we?"

The boy jerked as though startled. Then he unwrapped one of his arms from around himself and opened his fist to reveal a small pile of currency. "I…Could you…?" He looked up at last. (Glasses, huh? Didn't see those much, what with people up and buying new eyes. Must be real ones, then.) "I can p-pay."

"Can you now?" And "Zombie" found himself striding over to the hunched figure. He looked even smaller up close, more emaciated. Damn, how long had it been since he'd eaten anything? He took the kid's hand into his fingers and gently pried them further apart, mentally counting the amount in the boy's palm. More than enough for a hit. He took his fee and left the rest. Mustn't get greedy now, leave the kid with a little something for the next time. He closed the pale fist around the remainder and took a step back.

Those eyes, blue behind the glasses, blinked up at him in surprise and more than a little trepidation. "This…kills the pain, right?"

Another raised eyebrow. "If it doesn't, the next one's on me." Now what in Dante's nine hells had possessed him to say that? Ignoring it, he made a gesture near his own arm, indicating to the urchin to roll up his sleeve. He did so with shaking fingers. The grave robber knelt down to the kid's level - he really was short - and placed the tip of his Zydrate gun against the bared flesh of his arm. "Take a breath." And back went the trigger; in went the needle. Out came the Zydrate.

The familiar spark filled his ears. He removed his gun, feeling the boy start to go limp in his grasp. Deftly, he steered his newest customer over to the wall and guided his back against it so that he could sit without falling. Only then did he let go of the arm he had just shot up. He stepped away slightly to look upon his handiwork.

He felt a pang of guilt in behind his little black heart as he watched the street urchin loll his head back against the bricks, closing his eyes as if a huge weight had just been lifted from his chest. Well shit. Did he just corrupt the little beggar? He wasn't pleased with himself.

"Thank you."

He started almost violently. What? Surely he was hearing things. Noooo, no. He had really heard that. The kid – how had he not realized that his hair was red until just now? – had just, of all things, thanked him. For a hit. Nobody in this plastic city said 'thank you' anymore. Especially not to those who did what he did. He couldn't even think of the last time he had heard those words. Strange, foreign. He had no idea how to react.

Without thinking, he closed the small space between the two of them and patted that red hair. "Don't."

Blue eyes opened back up to look directly at him, disarming him further. A tiny smile crept up those pale features. Unspoken gratitude.

The drug dealer felt sick to his stomach at the sight of that smile. Yet again, he had trouble remembering the last time anybody had smiled in this god-forsaken city. He yanked his hand back to his side, stalking away. As he left the redheaded gutter-rat behind, he mentally vowed to deny the kid should he ever coming looking for a hit again.

Which of course, he did.

About a week or so later, that little monster sought him out, tracked him to one of his favorite backstreet hang-abouts. Again, he looked like he was in some kind of horrible pain, holding himself and keeping his eyes to the ground.

This time, the grave robber blatantly ignored him until everyone else was either gone or passed out. And then he continued to ignore him. He was just sweeping into an overhang when he heard a "wait!" and stopped in his tracks. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. But he turned anyway.

He was prepared to say something along the lines of, 'get lost' but felt his words dry up in his throat at the sight of those damnable blue eyes. Well fuck. With a feeling of I-shouldn't-be-doing-this, he beckoned the boy over.

And with a look of relief, the boy all but sprinted up to him. Already fumbling in his pockets and everything. Fuck, fuck, fuckity, ffffuuuck. Annnnd, of course he just would have to still have that timid expression set deep in his features.

"Zombie" had to fight to keep from gagging as he crouched down closer to the boy. He examined the proffered handful of money but made no move to take it. Instead, he locked his gaze with the kid's. "You really want this, huh?"

The redhead bit at his lip and clutched his arm tighter against his torso. He lowered his head, but nodded just the same. He looked so vulnerable, like a half-drowned kitten.

Ah hell. At least the little runt had come to him. Better "The Zombie" than some of the other dealers out there. He sighed again, raised his gun. "Alright then, up you get." He tugged the tattered sleeve up to bare the skin of the boy's arm.

Click, spark, bang.

And he walked away a second time with a kind of nasty taste in his mouth.

After that, he didn't see the kid again for a while. He was secretly both grateful and worried. He told himself he was just put off by the prospect of losing a potential regular, but it didn't really stick. In reality, he couldn't quite put his finger on just why he was so hesitant to shoot the kid up or just why he was finding himself bothered by his absence. It was a conundrum.

It wasn't until he stumbled into an abandoned basement one night in the middle of a rainstorm, (and what with all the smog and chemicals in the air above the city, that rained burned!) that he had his third and most important to-date encounter with the bespectacled urchin.

He had just finished falling rather ungracefully through a broken-out window and was picking himself back up, letting out a few choice words, (such as 'sonuvabitch!') when he heard a shuffling from a darkened corner. He whirled immediately, three vials of Zydrate tucked in between his fingers and held aloft to shed their glowing blue light into the gloom. Had there been any form of law enforcement present, that may have proven to be a bad, bad move. Thankfully, the room was free of GeneCops. On the other hand, his heart still stopped beating when he caught sight of just who was in the room with him.

Fucking Murphy's Law. It was the red-haired runt.

The kid sat scrunched up against the wall over in the farthest corner of the basement. His legs were curled up to his chest, his arms wrapped around behind them across his torso – like always – and he had his face buried in his knees. He didn't even seem aware that he was not alone. Didn't look up. (And really, who wouldn't haveheard the drug dealer as he made his spectacular entrance fail? The cursing alone was loud enough to wake the dead. Ha.) Pitiful. But, with nothing else to do and unable to go anywhere until that acidic rain let up, "Zombie" decided that maybe some company wouldn't be too awful after all. Hey, the boy was harmless, wasn't he?

Before he even knew what he was doing, he'd already sidled up to the little ball of urchin and was clearing his throat. "Hey. This seat taken?" Ooooh. Cliché for the lose.

Of course, the sound of another voice shot that red head up faster than a Z-gun's needle. Without waiting for an answer, the grave robber plunked down beside his companion for the evening. He leaned his head back against the dirty stone of the wall. For a time, there was complete silence; "Zombie" watching blue eyes watch him through his peripheral vision. The kid looked nervous and…somewhat dead.

After a good half-hour or so, and after getting tired of his temple having a hole burned into it by that incessant stare, he finally turned his gaze to the figure beside him. "I'm not gonna hurt you, you know. If I'd wanted to I woulda done it already."

Once again, the boy started at his words. He felt a little bad for a moment, but slapped it away. He shifted his shoulders so that he was facing him better. "So what's your story then?" Not that he was curious or anything, mind you, he just wanted something to pass the time with. Talking seemed like a good idea. And it was most certainly not because he wanted to get to the bottom of whatever it was that made him…feel sorry? Really? Feel…sorry…for the pathetic-looking lump of a child. Nope. Not at all.

Screw it. Yeah it was.

The boy blinked at him, obviously not sure how to respond. Not surprising, really, he had probably never been asked that – or anything like it – before. People in Crucifixus weren't meant for their compassion or concern for others. He just stared some more, eyes wider than they should have been.

So he just shrugged and turned back to the front. "Okay. Don't tell me then. Your prerogative."

It took a minute or two, but eventually he heard the kid whisper, "I'm dying."

He didn't know why this piece of information bothered him so much; after all, they all were dying in some way or another. But for some reason, the notion of life slowly draining out of that fiery-headed teen made him…kinda sad. Instead of showing it, however, he simply tugged a little glass vial of Zydrate free of its holster on the belt across his chest. "So you decided to forget all the bad things in life and waste what's left of it hopped up on Glow." He lolled his head to give the boy a sideways look.

But he shook his head. "No." His glasses (Glasses, honestly! What a concept!) slipped down his nose from the action and he shifted to push them back up with one skinny finger. "I can feel myself dying, like a motor winding down. It hurts. It hurts so freaking bad sometimes that I feel like I'm gonna die right then and there." He fixed his eyes on the blue drug in "Zombie's" hand. "That makes it stop for a while."

"So why not go to GeneCo?"

And here a pair of delicate, pale hands fisted into the flame of his hair. "Because I can't pay for anything else! I'm already barely able to make the payments on my other surgeries and if I get any more I'll be Repo-ed in a second!"

Surger-ies? As in, plural? Before he could activate his brain-to-mouth filter and stop himself, the dealer blurted out, "Jesus, kid, how many things've you had done?!" Smooth, real smooth. He kicked himself mentally at the sight of the boy's face. He'd taken it to mean 'prosthetic,' which wasn't what the grave robber had meant at all.

"I didn't get them so I could be 'pretty,'" he snarled – which was actually kind of weird, seeing that expression on a face that had been so blank and hopeless and depressed just moments before. "My parents wanted me to live, so when my insides started falling apart, they had anything and everything replaced that even looked like it was rotting out of me." The snarl faded, leaving that strange, empty look in its wake. "I guess the doctors missed something…" And those blue eyes turned away in despair.

Well Christ, now he felt like a total prick. Ironic, considering he probably was one. He made a 'calm down' gesture, trying to sooth the urchin's ruffled feathers. It wasn't exactly apologetic – he didn't do apologies - but it must have worked anyway. After a beat of silence he spoke again, testing the waters a little with a hesitant tone. "So…your parents, huh?"

"They're dead now."

"Ah." He figured he probably somehow knew that already. But still. That sucked. He waited another beat before tying again. "So what are you gonna do, then, hmm? Drown your sorrows and hope you don't croak? Cuz it seems to me that 's all that's happening here."

But the runt just continued to stare straight ahead. He moved one of his arms from around his chest and draped it over his knees. It must have been a good three minutes before he responded. Frankly, the drug peddler actually thought that meant an end to the conversation, but he was proven wrong once again.

"I thought that…maybe…if I could just keep the pain away long enough, if I could just make it until I've got something paid off…then maybe I could go in and get fixed. Maybe if I could hold on long enough…I'd be alright." He pushed his glasses up and rubbed at his eyes, emphasizing the deep purple where they had sunken in. (Didn't he sleep either?) He really did look sick, poor kid. He sighed. His gaze lifted to the ceiling. "But I don't think Mom would be too happy about me being a pickpocket." He gave a cynical half-smile. Something akin to a snort or chuckle escaped as he did so.

And that's when the last piece locked itself into place in "Zombie's" mind. This was what made this tiny mutt so different from all the other Zydrate addicts he had serviced: he wasn't doing it because he wanted to perfect his image, or because he was so far gone that the only thing keeping him functioning was the Glow gun. He did what he did to survive. True, that was what most everybody in the city was doing, but it was clear that he still had a sense of right and wrong, a conscience. He wasn't a junkie, just some poor child that had lost his family and had to get by without them. From what the dealer could tell, the kid even appeared to be in mourning for his parents. Now that was not something that he had ever seen. No one grieved for the dead. Not in Crucifixus.

He had barely noticed it until just then, but he realized that he had been missing humanity. He didn't believe in anything anymore. The people he did business with everyday? They had no souls. They were just hollow shells. Inhuman. They meant nothing to anyone and no one meant anything to them. Sometimes he wondered why they needed him at all.

No, he had no hope for humanity; none at all. But, now that he had met this boy, this little stick of a ginger-headed kid, he caught a glimpse of something genuine, something real. And it made his heart ache for more of it. He could feel again, if only just barely. That smile of gratitude he had been given after he had bestowed that first hit…

Rare and precious, just like its owner.

Maybe he had something to believe in after all, he thought as he out and out gaped at the boy sitting to his left. Oh…right. Had an appearance to keep up. Just like the rest of the city. Even if the urchin was free of falsehood, he certainly was not. He nudged the blue vial, still in his hand, over into said urchin's field of vision. "Wanna hit? This one's free." He plastered on a fake smirk, though his heart was not even remotely in it.

"Uh…" Blue eyes widened in surprise.

He shrugged absently. "Call it an exchange for the company. So how about it?"

Red hair jostled ever-so-slightly as the kid shook his head. "No. It doesn't hurt that bad right now."

The dealer gave another shrug and tucked his product back into its holster. "The next time then." Because there would be a next time, he would make sure of it. He would make sure that no one else touched the kid.

The rest of the night was spent in comfortable silence. Eventually the rain stopped and the grave robber slipped back out into the night, leaving the boy's sleeping form covered with an old rug he had happened to find in the corner of the room.

And so it was. They would occasionally run into each other; sometimes the urchin sought him out, sometimes he went looking for the urchin. He never let on that he was trailing him, of course, never let it slip that he was keeping an eye on him. Pity was a new thing to him; though when he thought about it, it wasn't really pity he felt. Compassion, perhaps? No. There was no such thing. Ah hell with it. Didn't matter anyway so long as it was something.

There was even one day that he chanced upon a shiny new Zydrate gun, rendering his older one rather unnecessary. He found out where the kid was hiding and nonchalantly positioned himself atop a dumpster that he knew would be passed. All he had to do was wait. He could be patient when the need arose. It took maybe an hour, but, sure enough, out came the urchin from the depths of the underground. He stayed still where he was, feet propped up against the alley wall and back against the dumpster lid, until the kid finally spotted him.

"Well, look what else hides in the gutter."

- "Wha-what are you doing here?"

"My job. You?"

- "…"

"Heh. The same, I would imagine. Anywaaaaay…got a present for you, since you're right there." And he had rolled off the dumpster with considerably more finesse than the basement window, strolled up to the very confused ginger, and slapped his old Glow gun into the boy's palm. "Enjoy." Off he had gone, vanishing around a corner before the stunned youth could choke out a 'thank you.' (Which was good, because he wanted it like that and 'thank yous' only made him feel like a bastard anyway. Giving drugs to a kid; he was a monster, he really was.)

Things carried on in much the same way for…oh, probably a couple of months. Yeah, four or five. Normally, the beggar would show up every couple of weeks for a hit. Now that he had a gun, the grave robber was selling him vials instead of single shots – he could use it when he needed it. Thinking back on it later, that was probably not the best of ideas, but at the time he hadn't been terribly worried; the kid was smart. Cheaper to buy in bulk, after all. It was when the boy started coming to him once a week, then twice a week, that the dealer started to get concerned.

The next time "Urchin" made an appearance, "Zombie" took a good hard look at him. He was still hanging back until nearly everyone else was gone, still clutching his arms tight to his body, still wearing that bedraggled, miserable expression. But he was much, much paler. He was thinner, too, more emaciated, like he hadn't had a decent bite to eat for weeks. His blue eyes, already dull, were sunken in to the point where he had purple, bruise-like circles around them. He looked for all the world like a living corpse.

The dealer felt something bubble in his chest at the sight of his customer. Anger, maybe, or irritation. A feeling of what-the-hell-man? A scalpel slut wrapped her arms around him from behind and he turned over his shoulder to shove her away with a hand to her face. "Off," he commanded, sweeping away from her harshly. He stalked over to the boy, who already had a handful of cash ready and waiting. "Second time this week, flea bite, you're getting kinda needy."

He didn't look at him. He wouldn't raise his eyes and look up. He just stayed staring down at the holes in his battered boots. There was a look of shame, of guilt, etched into the lines of his face.

And it just pissed the "Zombie" off even more. In one rough-but-still-gentle motion, he grabbed the kid's wrist and wrenched open his fist to reveal his payment. His lip curled in disgust. He snatched up what he thought was fair and let go of the arm. He plucked one of the little glass vials from its holster and jammed it into the redhead's chest. "Here."

He moved to walk past the boy, but as he got about three feet away, he heard that soft, timid voice call, "Wait…you didn't take…"

"I took what you owe me," the robber cut him off, pivoting to look at him dead on. His eyes hard, he took those few steps back over and leaned down so that he was nearly nose-to-nose with the teen. "Mangy little fucker, go eat something." He bared his teeth as he spoke, gritting them together and biting out his words.

The runt finally met his gaze, blue orbs widening in comprehension behind his glasses. He swallowed thickly and nodded. With a tiny smile that could be called a cross between grateful and astonished he took a step backward and then hurried off into a side street, heading for the underground.

"Zombie" scowled as he watched the urchin run off. That kid was gonna get himself killed. He glanced down to the coins still in his hand with a weight in the pit of his stomach. He'd only taken about a third of the ginger's money – way less than what that vial of Glow was actually worth. He really was getting soft.

He felt something on his leg and shifted to see the same damn scalpel slut from before (seriously, where the hell had she even come from?) grinding her overly exposed cleavage into his thigh. He let out a growl as her hands started sliding up the front of his pants and jerked, kicking at her. "I said, off!"

It was barely three weeks later that he caught wind of GeneCo's next repossession from a random junkie who claimed to have been interrogated for information. His blood ran cold. No…

The Zydrate peddler immediately went to find out where the mutt had hidden himself. It took a bit of time, (which he didn't have, goddamnit!) but he landed himself in a row of derelict old buildings. Exactly the same as the rest of the underground. He spotted an alcove set into the bricks and slunk inside to wait in the darkness. Not long afterwards, a familiar shock of fiery hair drifted past. The drug dealer reached out like a phantom and seized the boy around the waist, one bandage-covered hand clapping over his mouth to stifle any sound. He dragged the mass of kicking, flailing limbs back into the cover of the alcove. God, the kid barely weighed anything at all! Even struggling!

He winced slightly as the boy tried to sink his teeth into the flesh of his palm. In response, he just pulled him flush against his chest. "Now listen here, flea bite," he whispered into the runt's ear. The struggles ceased. He recognized his voice; good, good, that was good. "You were stupid enough to go and get mixed up with this stuff in the first place." He let go of the boy's waist and slipped a hand behind him to yank out a vial of Zydrate from his belt. He held it up to the kid's face for emphasis.

The boy made a grab for it, but he just snatched it back out of his reach. "Pay attention!" he snarled. This was even more serious than he had first thought. "You were stupid, yeah, but now you've gone and done something even stupider! What happened to 'paying it off', eh? Your little addiction's gone way too far." He pulled his hand away from the kid's mouth and spun him around by the shoulders to hold him up against the wall. He forced the redhead to look him in the eye. "You got the Repo on your ass, now, little mongrel!" he hissed. "Ninety days delinquent gets you Repo treatment, and you sure as hell haven't been spending that hard-stolen cash on food, now have you? Spent too much on your pain."

A pained, terrified whimper escaped from the boy's lips. "I-I m-m-missed a c-couple of payments."

Obviously. "No shit." It was here that he paused to give the small frame before him a once over. A walking cadaver, that's what the urchin was. "Christ, do you even feed yourself?"

He shook his head weakly. "I can't anymore, it just comes right back up."

The grave robber bit the sides of his tongue and scrunched his eyes shut to keep himself relatively calm. Too late though, he was already worked up from before. He took a deep breath, let it out, and opened his eyes again. Light brown locked onto vibrant blue. "You run. You run like all hell is chasing you, cuz it is." He gave the bony shoulders beneath his hands an unconscious squeeze. "I don't wanna see your ginger corpse on my next supply run, you understand?" The urchin nodded vigorously.

Without looking, he took the vial of Z, still held between his fingers, and tucked it into a pocket on the kid's ratty black coat. He gave the spot a pat. "You take that," he pointed to where the drug was shining through the moth-eaten fabric, "just in case you get away."

Those blue eyes, once dulled, now shone a bright electric with fear and…what was that? "Thank you," he whispered and threw his arms around "Zombie's" waist. "For helping me, for everything."

"What the hell?" A hug. He was hugging him. Who did that anymore? And why…did he suddenly feel so…sad? His mind told him to push the creeper away from him, but instead, he awkwardly wrapped his own arm around the smaller figure and gave his back a few unsure pats. Hug, huh? He liked it. (Not that he would ever tell anyone.)

The gutter-rat pulled away and looked up at him with a kind of grin on his face. "Heh, you smiled!"

Had he? Oh…yeah, yeah he had. He was. It wasn't a smirk, either. It was small, soft, kind of lopsided, but it was a real, honest-to-god smile. Something genuine. Just like that kid. He felt it stretch a little wider and allowed it to stay on his face for a moment more. Then he quickly settled his expression back into one of seriousness. "Okay, okay, so I smiled, big deal. You do it all the time." He steered the urchin closer to the entrance of the alcove, giving his hair a light ruffle. Then, he shoved him out into the alley. "Now go." The boy hesitated, looked back at him. He pushed again. "Go!"

And with that, the redhead gave a nod and was running at top speed out into the underground.

"Zombie" stood there watching him disappear. Fuck. He leaned on his forearm against the side of the doorway, clenching and unclenching his fist as he rocked back and forth on his heels. Fuck. The kid would never make it. Not with GeneCo on his tail. He felt like yelling; tense, ready to hit something. Fuck! He tried to tell himself it was just because he was losing one of his best customers, that he was upset because he had just given away a free thing of Z. He told himself this, and he didn't believe it for a second.

FUCK! He slammed his fist into the crumbling stone of the wall. Then his foot. Then both at the same time and one right after the other. FUCK, FUCK, FUCK!

One month later…

He had known of other grave robbers who had let themselves get distracted; dealers who had started doing their own product, peddlers who had allowed the scalpel sluts to walk all over them. He knew the dangers of being distracted. Distractions got you killed.

He tried to keep his mind on his work, on his own survival, but it was difficult. All he could think about at times was whether or not the little runt had somehow made it to safety. His head would tell him that there was no safety in Crucifixus. Then his hope (small and withered thing that it was) would scream, but what if? And on it went. Once, he had seen a bit of what looked like red hair in the back of a body truck and nearly bit through his tongue. Thankfully it had been someone else, someone with the tips of their blond locks dyed. Never had he been so happy not to see the urchin's face.

But distraction meant sloppiness and sloppiness meant death, and he knew that it was only a matter of time before he had to either banish the kid from his mind entirely or his luck ran out. Try as he might, there just didn't seem to be any tangible reason to focus anymore. The only real person left in the whole city – maybe even the world – was most likely lying dead in a mass grave somewhere; those blue eyes glazed over and staring.

Yeah…he needed to stop thinking altogether.

Maybe that was his problem: he wasn't thinking, because it only took a month for the GeneCops to catch his sorry ass. He'd let himself get distracted.

They caught him off-guard one night while he was standing over a woman's corpse with a half-full vial of Zydrate in his hands. He had just smacked the syringe into her skull, (like a needle through a bug, he thought) when the beam of a searchlight hit him. For a moment he panicked, frozen to the ground. Then he had bolted…right into a second wave of uniformed men. Surrounded. Well shit.

He didn't know how he had managed to get past them – he vaguely remembered his shoulder connecting with one of them as he charged into the ever-inclosing circle of GeneCops. Several grabbed for him, but he evaded their gloved hands and shrugged off his sleeveless coat so they would have no purchase. He leapt over gravestones with practiced ease, making his way to a hidden exit that (he hoped) only others in his profession would know of. As he rounded the last tomb he nearly tripped on a broken-off hunk of stone. He awkwardly jumped over the thing but it slowed him down for a fraction of a second – just enough time for a shot to be fired and hit him square in the side of the calf.

His body slammed into the ground with a force to make his teeth rattle. He rolled as best he could to soften the blow and to keep himself moving, but the pain seeping through the adrenaline in his system made it difficult. More difficult than it should have been. He forced himself to keep moving, to stay upright. Finally, he felt his heavy boots hit metal and ducked down to jerk the grating away from its resting place. Without another look back he swung his feet into the hole and dropped into the darkness within.

When he landed, he landed hard. His injured leg refused to support him and he crashed down in a heap in the shallow water of the drainage tunnel. That fall really, really sucked. Whose idea was it to put it that far down, honestly? Asshole. He picked himself up and began to stagger along the passageway, using the wall to support himself. He knew he wouldn't have much time if someone came down after him.

The going was more than rough but he managed to get himself to the end of the underground corridor in a decent amount of time. Coming to the metal door that would allow him access to the outside world, he pressed all of his weight down on the crank that held the lock in place. The rusted iron gave a shriek and then a groan and swung open just wide enough for him to get his hands in and pull. As long as no one was out there he was safe, he could get away. He pressed his face to the opening and peered out. Nothing; the street beyond was deserted. He pulled the door open a bit wider and was halfway out when—

Oh that's riiiiiight, the GeneCops had communication with the RepoMan, didn't they?

He was viciously yanked from the tunnel by a hand grabbing his shirtfront and then smashed into the wall. His vision blurred for a moment and he had to blink rapidly to clear it. He almost wished he hadn't. A pair of sinister eyes bathed in a sterile blue light burned down at him from behind the window in a thick black mask. The dealer felt his heart stop cold in his chest.

The Repo reached his free hand back and gave a solid, underhanded punch to his gut. He felt something pop and suddenly there was a metallic taste in his mouth. Then, wonder of wonders, he heard a dark, gravelly voice snarl out a damning sentence – muffled only slightly by the mask.

"You are the grave robber known as 'Zombie.'"

Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit they knew who he was!

"You have been seen engaging in illegal drug trafficking with this man." And here the monster produced a sheet of plastic from seemingly nowhere. On the sheet was a picture, a mug shot of a man with dirty blond hair, pale skin, dark eyes, and a greasy sneer. The name 'Worth, Luce' hung in black text directly above the snapshot.

The peddler recognized the photo, yes; word was he had been one of the surgeons that Rotti Largo had driven into hiding. Decent guy, all things considered. Tried to help people. He'd sold the good doctor a few vials of Glow one or twice for his patients. Hadn't heard about him in a while, though.

"Where is he?"

Ah, so he was missing. That explained it. Maybe it was the head trauma, or the loss of blood from his leg, but he felt like being belligerent in the face of the boogieman. It seemed like a good idea at the time. "What's the matter?" he chuckled, "He give you the slip?"

Fist to the face. "He and his accomplice are wanted by GeneCo for theft." Repo pulled out another sheet with another picture of another man. 'Toucey, Lamont.' (That one, he didn't know.) "Where is he?"

The dealer just snorted and spat out a mouthful of scarlet. "Somebody got away from you, broke your perfect record, and you don't like it." He leaned forward slightly. "Do you?" And, quick as he could, he brought a boot up to the RepoMan's chest, kicking him soundly in the ribcage. Yeah, he was limber like that.

GeneCo's attack dog stumbled backwards in shock, momentarily releasing "Zombie's" shirt. The dealer seized the opportunity and made a mad dash off to the right. He got maybe twenty feet away before he felt the surgical instruments imbed themselves into his back; thrown like kunai knives with a surgeon's precision. He arched from the force of the blow, body collapsing onto the grimy concrete ground. He head his kneecaps crack.

Pain welled through him, zipping along his nerve endings and making his head swim. He felt heavy. It hurt to breathe. And yet…and yet it was all just so ridiculously funny. Here he was, a grave robber named "Zombie," who had been distracted by a stupid little redheaded runt, had let himself get caught by the GeneCops, and now had just tried to mock the RepoMan. All because of an urchin, and he didn't even know what that urchin was called.

He laughed then. Loud and hysterical and cynical. It was just too funny. His name was "Zombie" and he was going to die. Deal in death, end in kind. Fucking pushed himself up onto his forearms, just as a gloved hand slapped down right between his shoulder blades. He was jerked upwards by his shirt and flipped over none-too-gently onto his back, which only served to drive the knives in deeper. He kept laughing the entire time.

Repo stared down at him, scalpel raised. He was waiting; waiting for the dealer to beg, perhaps, for him to plead for his life like so many others had done. Or maybe he was just taken aback by the sudden lack of fear.

"Zombie" gave him a bloody smile. "First hit's free." And he just kept smiling, even while rubber-gloved fingers twisted in his dark hair – pulled his head back to expose his neck.

Even when the scalpel came down and slashed a thick red line across his throat, he just smiled.

See you soon, flea bite…

See? No one ever escaped from Crucifixus.