Title: 21st Century Cure
Chapter: 1
Genre: Fanfiction, Repo! The Genetic Opera
Rating: Gods only knows- Absolutely NC-17, we'll see how much worse. Gore, blood, sex (of course there's sex) and possible blasphemy, depending on your views on the dead. Corpses as mattresses, blood dripping from the streets- so on, so forth.
Summary: Would you change who you are if you could?
Disclaimer: I own nothing except a brain that is hardwired for tragedy, trauma and incredible filth. For legal purposes- assume Shilo turned 18 last week. As always, let's just blame James.

I wish I knew how or why I got here. I shouldn't be here. I should be safe in my room, tucked into bed, watching the world outside my window. Instead there's sirens going off, and a long hard fingers wrapped around my wrist, dragging me through this filthy city- again. This always happens, always, always, always. I don't even know his fucking name, I don't know where he lives. I just know that stumbling through alleys filled with human trash, and graveyards full of shattered stones with the dead man's hand in mine feels more like life than anything I've ever known...

Of course he'd nearly gotten them caught. He was the Grave Robber, and no one ever really accused him of being subtle, or even sane. Maybe throwing a handful of dessicated eyes into the Geneco security squad's faces wasn't the brightest thing he could have done. He cursed under his breath and swung left, heading like a fleeing rabbit for the warren of graves that made up so much of the city. Shilo stumbled and nearly fell, and he heard her breath sobbing in and out of her lungs.

"Just a little further, kid. Come on!" he tugged harder at her wrist and she fell against his back, tangling her hands in the fringe of his long coat. He could feel the heat of her slender body burning through the heavy fabric. He dragged her into the shadow of a mausoleum, pulling her in against his body and smothering the rasp of her breathing against his chest. Booted feet thundered past, shouts garbled by headsets echoing weirdly off the leaning stone monuments.

"I'm okay," she whispered hoarsely, pulling back a little. Her face shone like a star in the darkness, and he quickly pulled her back into the concealing shadows of his shoulder.

"We have to hide," he hissed in her ear, feeling the tremble that slid through her. "They'll come back this way."

"In there?" She moved enough to indicate a narrow crack of deeper black highlighting the rusted iron doors of a nearby tomb. He nodded, and they moved as one from shadow to shadow until he could push his shoulder against the heavy metal vines and thorns. It shifted under his weight with a sibilant hiss, and Shilo slipped ahead of him.

Now he was the one clutching at her, her narrow shoulders under his hands as she stumbled and felt her way carefully down a narrow flight of stairs. There was a wavering crimson glow somewhere ahead, and she hesitated. He pressed against her and she hurried forward. The light strengthened abruptly, and lit a scene from a holocaust.

"Oh, God." Shilo's exclamation was choked and muffled behind her hands as she covered her face. Corpses in various stages of decay lay piled haphazardly in what had once been a dignified family vault, filling the small space with the scent of dust and corruption. The marble floor might have been white once, but now it was a flat, muddy maroon, glistening here and there with highlights the color of rubies. There was a rumble above their heads and they both flinched, looking up. Shadows passed across the drain high above them that let in the inconstant crimson light, and the sound of heavy machinery came distantly through the night.

"We're under one of the sanitation buildings," he murmured. She nodded, and shrank back against him as a trapdoor opened, spilling another deluge of cadavers down onto the pile. "They take what's usable, and leave the rest to rot."

"Uh-huh." Her voice was fainter then ever, and he felt her go suddenly slack against him. He caught her as she fell, easing her back against the wall as her eyes rolled white and her long eyelashes fluttered down. He cradled her head against him as he checked her pulse and gently patted her cheeks.

"Kid. hey kid, come on. Shy, wake up." He heard the panic in his own voice, choked it down into silence.

Damn. Damndamndamn. Why did I bring her here? Haven't I done enough? Poor kid...

He had no idea what drove him to her window night after night. he watched her silouhette as she moved behind the white curtains, cursed the dangerous iron spikes that guarded her balcony. He called her, and sometimes, she came. And every time she did, he drew her further from her safe, clean world into his hell of a life. He hated himself for it. He hated her more for allowing him to do it to her. Most of all, he hated seeing her like this, crumpled at his feet, a white rose tossed into the muck.

"Hang on, kid. I'll fix you up.. I've got the cure." He fumbled for his bag, fitting the little glass vial into the gun. He reached for her leg, sliding her skirt up to expose a length of moonlight-pale thigh. He hesitated, testing the resilence of the flesh beneath his fingertips, and her hand closed over his.

"Don't." Dark eyes burned into his, pinpoints of amber light at the puils. "That's not what I want." She pushed his hand away.

"What do you want?" Irrational anger seized him. "A cure? I've got your cure, kid, right here." He waved the gun at her, thrust his hand into his bag and spilled glowing blue vials across her lap. "All the cure you could ever want. And you don't even have to pay me for it."

"I don't want another cure, Grave Robber." A sudden flicker of a smile curved her lips, and she bowed her head. Her dark hair fell across her face. "I don't want any more dead things inside of me."

"Well that's what I do." He started to fling himself away, but found her hand caught in his hair. She dragged his gaze back to her face.

"I said I didn't want any more dead things inside me," she repeated quietly. "You're not dead."

"Aren't I?" He laughed, catching her by the shoulders and pushing her roughly back against the wall, forcing her up on to her feet. He loomed over her, looking down into her pale face. Flower petal lips, clear eyes like stars behind black glass. Her skin felt like satin. He could feel the heat of her again, a trembling line of fire down the front of his body. "How would you know, little girl?"

"Prove me wrong." There was nothing little girl in her voice, or in the flare of defiance in her eyes. She pressed against his hands, rose on tiptoe to speak with her lips brushing his scowling face. "Show me how dead you are, Grave Robber. Prove me wrong, tell me you don't feel anything." Her hands found their way under his coat, skated down his chest. He could feel the scrape of her nails through his shirt, feel the sudden snap as she yanked on his belt.

"You're playing a dangerous game." He growled at her, catching her wrists in one hand. He forced them above her head, feeling the delicate bones grind deliciously under his grip. She laughed, low and soft, and arched her back, bringing her body into contact with his. He felt it like a jolt of purest Z, a tingling rush that left him lightheaded and glowing. "You have no idea what you're asking for."

"I want my cure, Grave Robber. I want that little shot that makes everything all better." One long leg insinuated itself between his, and he closed his eyes as her knee skimmed the inside of his thigh, pressed gently against softer things. "Don't make me beg."

"I might like that," he confessed, slamming her back against the stones, burying his face in the curve of her neck. His teeth set into her flesh, drawing a strangled moan from her throat. "You, on your knees. On your back!" He yanked her down, spilling her onto the filthy marble, her thighs splayed over his.

"So do it, then." Shilo sat up again, forcing him back on his heels. Her eyes glittered feverishly. She smiled, and then her face disappeared behind a flash of black fabric. She dropped her dress over his shoulder, leaning into his chest. "Tell me you want to say no."

"No." His mouth grazed the curve of her breast, caught a tender nipple and drew blood. She screamed for him, digging her fingers into his shoulders. He threw her away from him, sending her sprawling in a pile of withered body parts and congealing blood. She looked up at him as he got to his feet, unafraid. He could see the marks his teeth had left, purple and red, a serrated brand on her pure skin. Shadowy fingerprints on her thighs, her shoulders. Marked, branded, his.

"No."

"Yes." Shilo scrambled to her feet, promptly stumbling on a dismembered hand. He moved instinctually forward to catch her. She met him halfway, fisting her hands in his hair and dragging his head down as she moved up, wrapping her legs around him. He had a choice- catch her or fall over. He caught her, filled his hands with the taut curves of her ass as her mouth raped him and drained his will. "Yess," she hissed in his ear, impatient hands fumbling with his clothing. He was halfway to coming already, and she hadn't even unzipped his fly. Her voice changed, soft and pleading. "Please?"

"Enough!" His shout echoed off the stone walls. He peeled her off him, set her on her own feet even as he dragged her mouth back to his. They struggled against each other as he fought his way out of his long coat and shirt, throwing them down on top of her discarded dress. Her medication monitor beeped, and they ignored it, busily tangled in tongues and teeth and clutching hands. His hands curved around her leather-clad calves and she reached for the laces of her boots.

"Leave them." He grinned, feral and wicked, and slid his hands up her thighs. His fingers dug into her thighs until his fingernails drew blood. "I want you in leather. Tied up and whipped and crying for me."

"Do it." She twisted, stretched like a cat, presenting the curve of her buttocks to him. "Smack it. Dare you." She caught his hand, drew it up her thigh. He sighed when she pressed her cunt into his hand, wet and soft. His belt hissed as it slid free of his pants, cracked as it came down across her ass. She shrieked, her body jerking, and he felt the sudden gush o fher arousal on his fingers.

"You want to play rough?" He laughed, draping himself across her body.

"As rough as you want to," she retorted. "Fuck me, Grave Robber. You promised me a fix." He felt her little fingers slipping behind his fly, stroking him with maddening slowness. She shifted, blindly tracing his erection through his pants until she found his zipper and began inching it down.

"No more foreplay," he groaned. He flipped her, admiring the fan of her black hair against the wax-pale corpses below, the heavy-lidded eyes and kiss-bruised mouth. She reached for him and he forced her hands away, pinning her wrists above her head. He wanted her helpless and writhing underneath him.

She whimpered, her hips surging upwards to brush against his as he ripped at his clothing one-handed. His cock throbbed painfully, dripping scalding liquid across her belly as he bent to ravage her mouth again. So small, he dwarfed her. He liked that. He liked it better when the head of his dick slid against the slick wetness of her, when her body rocked against his. He felt the lips of her pussy furled against him, hot and soft as the lips above, before they slipped open and swallowed him down, balls-deep and aching with the relief of finally being inside her.

She closed her eyes, her head thrown back as her thighs trembled and quivered against his hips. "God, that's so good."

"Better than Z?" He laughed, pressed deeper, felt the quick flutter as he pushed against her cervix. "Tell me it's better than the glow, Shilo."

"Shut up and fuck me," she whispered back. "We both know you want to."

"Demanding little bitch." He thrust once, twice, and watched her eyes go wide and glassy, her skin flush. "So you enjoy being fucked on a pile of dead bodies, by a pimp and dealer, you little whore?"

"Yes," she hissed, her hands clenching into fists. She rocked beneath him, almost sobbing with frustration.

"You want more?" He slid slowly out, teasing her, teasing himself with the velvet soft cling of her flesh to his.

"Yes, damn you!" she screamed. He chuckled and drove home, covering her mouth with his own as he went to work, drinking down every whimper and shriek he could wring from her. She sruggled beneath the grip of his hands, fingers clutching at empty air as wrapped her legs around his waist. He tasted the tears that rushed down her cheeks as she cried out, convulsing under him. The sweet saltyness made him grit his teeth. He didn't want to lose this delicious heat that surrounded him. He whispered in her ears, telling her of the exquisite texture of her pussy around his cock, of the taste of her blood on his tongue.

"I could fuck you until you were broken," he muttered, fingers digging into her hips as he rode another of her convulsive peaks. "Take you home to Daddy in pieces, and let him know just what kind of slut his little girl really is."

"Break me, then." Shilo's teeth grazed his throat, sank into his collabone. A kitten-soft tongue soothed the bruise, licked away the sweat on his skin. "Just do it."

"One day, maybe." He trembled, realeasing her wrists so he could draw her up into him, wrap his arms around her slender body. He groaned. "Shilo..."

"I'm here. I'm here." Her hands smoothed along his spine, oddly gentle, urging him deeper. "Oh God..." He felt the sudden clutch of her body around his and let go, let her feverish hands and voice draw him over the edge. He felt the hot rush of his seed into her heard the shuddering moan the sensation drew from her. Spent, he collapsed, rolling to the side enough to avoid crushing her, his arms locked around her as his breathing returned to normal.

"We're filthy," Shilo said eventually. She nestled her head into his shoulder, and he stroked her hair absently. "And there's a hand on my ass that I'm pretty sure isn't yours."

He looked at her, bemused. Covered in blood- his, hers and the tacky dark fluids leaking from the dead, the bruises he had given her standing out like scars on her skin, she was beautiful. He knew he had to return her to her ivory tower, but he didn't want to. Fear frissioned through him at the realization that he wanted to keep her here, just like this, forever. Carefully, he rose from their charnel bed and extended his hand.

-

He watched her pause at the mausoleum door, and look back over her shoulder at him. She was clean and dressed, any sign of their rough play hidden under her black dress. She smiled, her freshly painted lips a dark curve in the pale oval of her face, nad lifted her hand slightly in acknowledgment of his eyes on her. She slipped through the door and was gone.

He watched her window until the light went out, and then watched some more. He should leave. He should go away from here, forget the dancing silouhette behind the pristine curtains and iron balustrade, let her go back to her safe, secure little world. He was never coming back here again. He was letting her go. He turned away, and started down the street.

"Grave Robber."

He turned back, looked up. She hovered above him, pressed against the wicked spires of the iron fence, and something white fluttered from her fingers towards him. He stepped forward, caught it. She blew him a kiss and vanished. He fingered the tiny white rose that she had thrown him, filling his head wih the haunting perfume. A thorn pierced his thumb, drew blood. He looked down at his hand and smiled.

Damn her..