Disclaimer: I don't own Repo! No matter how much I wish I did.
Author's Note: My first shot at a Repo! Fanfiction. The idea has been in my head for some time now, and I happen to really enjoy the pairing of the Graverobber and Shiloh. Hopefully, this will meet the standards of all you Repo! lurkers and lovers out there. Read and Review, please.
He's not addicted.
No, he wasn't stupid enough to be addicted to the Zydrate. Because he's seen what it does to people. He's seen how it turns beautiful women into three dollar whores, intelligent youths reduced to pale husks of men living only for the next fix. No, he wasn't addicted to Z.
But he needs it. He doesn't need it for the money. Even before he began peddling the drug, he'd always found a way of living, scrounging up enough food to keep from starving, enough shelter to hide from the authorities and stay out of the bad weather.
'I'm not addicted.'
But as he looks at it, watches the neon liquid slosh lethargically inside the crusted and cracked vial, he knows it's a lie. The sort of boldfaced lie he's gotten good at telling over the years. The ones that fooled his customers and sometimes even convinced himself.
But not even a lie of that caliber could erase the ugly truth.
Because he needs Z. Zydrate. The Miracle drug. He needs it more than the average prostitute or street scum, and maybe, one day, he'll need it even more than Amber Sweet.
He needs Zydrate for the memories. Not the stupid ones; Not the ones where he remembered the last look on his mother's face before she was dragged away by the Repo Man; not the one when he vowed never to get a surgery; and especially not the one when he gave up his mediocre life to slang drugs on the street.
He needs it for the memories of her.
The memories that came on the few instants where he fell asleep beneath a trashcan, or attacked him when he left his mind unguarded. The memories of the girl that had been so naïve, so gullible, and so obstinately foolish that he had wanted to rip his hair out because he had to save her so often.
The memories of the girl that had somehow captured his lonely heart.
The girl who simultaneously ripped open and patched close the hole in his chest. The girl who he longs to touch but pushes away from him in shame and disgust. The girl.
And so he turns to Zydrate. He fiddles with the vial, twisting and turning it about his fingers, watching the little vial dance along his filthy fingers, feels the warmth of the mysterious liquid heat him up.
He loads the gun with a deft motion born of practice, and taps it against the exposed portion of his arm. There's a slight 'chick' sound before the expected release of the liquid.
And as he feels it begin to course into his veins, feels the world around him begin to pulse and dance, as his skin begins to prickle and burn and freeze at the same time, he sings.
"Zydrate comes in a little glass vial….."