(Out of boredom, and as a way of holding off writer's block, I decided to revisit some old work, and revamp it if possible. This is a piece that I wrote three years ago, that I recall being very fond of. While not awful, I admit that it is very basic, and nowhere near the level of what I can write nowadays. The original will remain onsite for a while, if anyone's curious about how bad a writer I was when I was fourteen.)

Just another night. Get the drug, sell the drug, don't make eye contact, go home. Easy.
Graverobber walked slowly, keeping as far away from the milling crowds of junkies as possible. Most of them didn't look towards him, and the eyes of those that did seemed to be staring right through him, as though he were no more than a ghost. He preferred it that way.

No more than a few feet away, concealed behind a pile of crates, lay a woman. She fixated her eyes upon him, scrutinising him as closely as she could with her blurred vision. Could he be trusted? At this point, she didn't think she had a lot of options. Her eyes drifted from him to the crowd of Glowed-up junkies. She wanted his attention, not theirs, and anyway she didn't think she had the strength to yell. Numb fingers trailed along the grimy concrete until they closed around a small stone. Concentrating hard, she threw it.

Something small and hard bounced off of the side of Graverobber's boot, and he whipped round, immediately on alert. He shot a cursory glance down the alleyway, seeing nothing that looked like a threat. He was about to turn away and go on walking when a spectral form lurched out from behind a heap of crates, one hand raised. He took a step back, half-anticipating an attack.

"Please," it croaked, looking towards him helplessly. "Help me." He pulled a mini-torch from inside his coat and flicked it on. Harsh white light filled the dank alleyway, throwing the scene before him into stark relief. Revealing the figure cowering in the shadows to be both female and badly injured. A dark blossom of fresh blood spread unchecked across her torso, and her breathing was heavy and laboured. Upon seeing that she had his attention, she attempted to stand but immediately fell down again, stifling a cry.
Well, what the hell do you expect me to do about it? I'm not a doctor. Against every instinct he possessed, he found himself approaching her. She attempted to struggle upright when she saw him, and made it halfway before dropping back, and he reflexively caught her to stop her head from hitting the ground.

"Repo?" he asked. She shook her head weakly. She's still in possession of all of her vital organs, idiot. She suddenly jerked, coughed, and a tiny yet frightening amount of blood sprang to her lips.

"Shit," she hissed to herself, clutching at her chest. Her eyes were wild with pain, nails digging into her palms.

"I can help you," he offered foolishly. How? "Drop you off at the hospital, or…" She cut him off with an urgent shake of the head, and coughed again. This time, there was enough blood to run down from the corner of her mouth.

"…Too late for that," she murmured. He knew. He'd watched enough people die to know when they were reaching their last few breaths. But it seemed too heartless to say that to her.

"Don't talk like that, kid. You'll be okay." She shook her head again, and this time there was the hint of a sad smile on her face.

"I've been running… too long now. It has to end… eventually." Her body stiffened with a wave of what must have been pure agony, and he found himself giving her his hand. She squeezed it, her grip vicelike in spite of her failing strength.

"What's your name?" He was trying to distract her from the pain, to make her final minutes slightly more bearable. After all, what was he supposed to do? Say 'too bad, sugar, you're dead meat' and just leave her? Her breathing quickened and her eyes began to roll back, so he gave her a brief, sharp slap across the face, trying to keep her with him for a few moments.

"Alessandra."

"That's a pretty name." The smile that spread across her ashen face at his words was one of the purest things he had ever seen.

"Thank you." The spasmodic movement of her chest had begun to slow. Not much longer now. "Listen…" Her voice was now little more than a harsh whisper, and he leaned in closely. "Put me someplace…safe." She said no more, but he understood what she meant. A corpse was a valuable thing out here. Zydrate could be harvested from it once it had decayed enough; before that point, the organs were prized treasures, hoarded by backstreet surgeons. The corpse's possessions: money, clothing, jewellery…they all became fair game. He understood why Alessandra wanted to be protected from that. Hell, when he died, he wanted someone to do the same for him. He nodded, and she smiled again. Her eyes had taken on a distant look, and the movement of her chest was barely there at all.

"Promise?" she rasped, reaching out with renewed strength to grab his wrist.

"I-I promise." She nodded faintly, and very slowly released her hold on his arm.
It took him a few minutes to realise she had died in his arms. Her eyes – an unnatural, Zydrate-like shade of blue – were wide open. He reached out a blood-slicked hand and shakily closed them.

He sat for a while, staring at the body of the stranger in his arms. He'd known her for mere minutes, and he still found himself driven to fulfil his promise to her. He'd take her somewhere quiet, he decided, somewhere few people would think to go. Give her the burial she deserved.

Stiffly, Graverobber stood, Alessandra's still-warm body cradled carefully in his arms. He turned smartly on his heel, and carried her away.

-End-

(Whew. That was a trip down Memory Lane. If anyone is interested, the original is called "Pact" and can be found on my profile. I had a lot of fun rewriting this, and I'm somewhat impressed with the end result, so friendly and/or constructive feedback would be greatly appreciated. Also, just because I admitted that the original piece was bad does not give any of you the right to go and flame it, 'kay?