Disclaimer: Still don't own Repo! The Genetic Opera...sadness.
Authors' Note: So, recently, I've been writing more and more about Amber, even though I didn't particularly like her in the movie. I guess this is what they call a writing fetish, eh? Haha, no matter. Anyways, this is really short, and, like most of my pieces, rambling. Hope you enjoy it anyways, though!
Nothing She Can Do
It's not fair.
It's not. Fucking. Fair.
Amber was prettier. In fact, wasn't she the prettiest? Hadn't she made sure of that, with the literal killing of her opposition? Hadn't that been the point of the knives, and the surgeons, and...and everything?
She sits high up in her throne of steel and power, breathing out anger. Isn't that what all of this was for? So that she, Amber, could be number one?
But still she sees them, the worthless, drug-eaten, lice-infested commoners.
Marching for her.
That skank, she seethes. Has been soprano. Mag the Hag.
And she can't understand.
Because isn't she prettier? Isn't she better? The new and improved edition?
So why? She wonders. Why her? Why not me?
And it makes her angrier because she knows that if it had been her, if it had been Amber in that casket, there would have been no one. Not one person. Not Luigi. Not Pavi. Especially not the bug-girl from the opera. Maybe the GraveRobber, but she would bet her life that he would do little more than spit on her coffin and smirk.
But what can she do about it now?
Not a single thing.
Because in the end, Mag still wins.