A/N: Had this idea a couple months ago and started it, then quickly lost the thread of it. I revisited the idea tonight and it went in a bit different direction than I had originally planned, but I think I like it. Let me know if you do too! :)
Disclaimer: I do not own Nathan, Repo, or anything else in the movie.
The whispers surround him. Not in his head, for once, but in the world around him. In the alleyways where he works, the whispers travel ahead of him, warning of his arrival. They scatter like ants from a boot, scalpel sluts and drug dealers alike, hiding in the shadows from him, from his blades. They avoid the evidence of his work, skirting around it until the clean up crew comes for it. It was taught long ago that his victims were not to be plundered. The first and last person who tried paid for his folly, first with his hands, then with his life. They keep a wary eye out for his traps, lest the wrong prey is snared. The whispers say that on his list or not, if he catches you, he kills you.
The wind carries the whispers away from him, out of his reach. They travel amongst the other repos, as they gossip in the bars, in the supply rooms, in the streets. These whispers are born from admiration, respect, and yes, fear, always the fear. He is their icon, up on a pedestal as the epitome of their profession. He is hard, brutal, precise. He never loses his prey, never damages his organs, never fails at an assignment. The repos joke about the questions they would ask him, the advice they would request. But secretly, in each of their minds, they pray that they never find themselves face to face with him.
Throughout the city, the whispers creep through windows and under doors, circling the living rooms and kitchens and bedrooms. Parents scare their unruly children into behaving with threats of him. The children wake screaming in the night, a dark shadow chasing them through their dreams. In other houses, dark and grim, with windows shuttered, those in debt shake as they voice their despair, their utter terror that he might be their fate. It is not mere death they fear; it is him. The wealthy speak of him in hushed voices in their parlors, discussing the latest victim with a certain horrified interest. They are safe from him, safe from the risks of debt and repossession, but in their hearts they fear that no one is safe. That one day, he will come for them, no matter how much money they have.
The whispers return and tiptoe around him in the building, as he delivers the fruits of his labor. Genterns back against the wall as he passes, averting their eyes. Assistants stammer apologies for being in his way and stumble over their own feet as they try to avoid his touch. Even the guards bow their heads respectfully, grateful for the dark lenses that hide the fear in their eyes. He pays no mind to any of them, passing them by as shadows on the wall. He enters the office, the door shuts behind him, the whispers abruptly cut off.
His presence fills the room as he strides across the floor, his eyes trained on the man behind the desk. The older man watches as he sets the bag down, loosening the latches and displaying his prizes. He steps back again, his eyes unflinchingly focused on his employer's face. Sitting on his throne, Rotti tells himself that he commands this power, that the tools work only on his orders, that he controls this deadly force. He is GeneCo. He controls everything. But his words sound hollow in his ears, his quickening heartbeat filling the empty spaces. He reacts instinctively, his insults and accusations lashing out as the whip against the beast.
And just like that, the beast retreats, snarling and hissing, withdrawing behind bars. The shoulders sag, the gaze drops, the lines of his face deepen. He ages years in an instant, his burdens weighing him down once more, his guilt hanging from his neck, pulling him to the ground. Nathan turns away, dragging his feet to the door. He takes the back way out, unable to face the eyes that await him in the halls, the fear, the accusations, the guilt.
The whispers have abandoned him now. He is no longer a legend. He is a broken man, downcast, the silence of the streets surrounding him in a bubble as he makes his way home. He lets himself in, pulls himself up the stairs and to her room. She is sleeping yet, her face peaceful. He looks upon her, eyes picking out traces of his beloved in her features. She is ever so precious to him, so fragile. He could break her so easily, halt those slow calm breaths forever. Some nights – most nights – he wondered if that would not be better for her. For what was there for her in this world? What could he poss–
Her eyes fluttered open, slamming the door shut on his thoughts, his fears. She gave him a sleepy smile, reaching her arms out to be picked up, cuddled, loved. He pulls her close without hesitation, holding her fragile form in his arms. She knows nothing of him, of what he does. She knows nothing of the lengths he's gone to keep her safe. She knows only that he is her father. He is her solemn protector, her provider, her comforter. He is her whole world and she hears no whispers in her world.