Author's note: I'm back, and with a new, multi-chaptered story focused on the most fascinating relationship in Repo! Ah, yes, Shilo and Nathan. Complicated, twisted, and quickly resolved at the end of the opera. But what if that wasn't the end? At times, this story will get very, very dark, and is M for a reason. I would love feedback. Thank you so much for taking the time to read.

All he knew was pain. The figure in white, a halo of her love lighting the dark, was beside him. He wanted to follow her as she asked; the rattling pain kept him shackled to the ground, and her presence faded, leaving him alone in a void. He lay there an endless time, fading in and out of consciousness. She'd been calling him on, into the light, into a forgiveness and love that made him want, more than anything, to join her. He wanted to take her hand and follow her, if only she would come back to him...

A shadow stooped over him. He groaned.

"Well, what've we got here? Looks like this one's still alive!" an older voice, ringing with a Southern twang, crowed. His eyes opened just a crack. A little old woman in black with bright red hair shone a flashlight in his eyes, a spotlight in an all but empty theatre. He wished her away and longed for the acceptance of darkness, since he'd even failed at dying properly. She straightened and nudged him with her shoe. "Branko, get over here. Get his arms." Sound faded into her voice, a blur, an object carrying him, he didn't know where.

Not yet a woman, no longer a child, and with the foundation of her life in ruins about her, Shilo avoided an inevitable panic attack with some extremely unpleasant chores. Dad had left a slew of savagely rended bodies in one of the tunnels that laced and warped the exterior of their house. If she'd known they were here, she wouldn't have been in such a hurry to clean up after the Opera. Shilo couldn't leave them here. The place was already starting to smell. With him dead and... and, most likely, on top of a heap of gutted corpses, it was up to Shilo to dispose of the human waste. She was grateful for her mask, for once. Huffing and puffing like the wolf in one of her picture books, her hands in dead guy armpits, she dragged the cops one by one through the tunnel, into the living room, and out the front door, where the garbage collectors would see the heap and take them away. Frightened at the thought of them ringing the doorbell, she locked the front door and wondered why she hadn't done so before.

The obvious answer: she'd never had to. Tonight was the first time she'd used the front door to leave the house.

Now, how did people clean? She faced the prospect of renewing the condition of the hardwood floor, streaked with blood. Not to mention the rug. It was stained, and she didn't know the first thing about fixing that careless mistake. In the bathroom, she filled a sick bucket with bathwater and pumped shampoo into it until it frothed and bubbled like a potion. She used a towel, dipping it into the soap and pushing it over the mess until the cloth turned dark. It worked, mostly. The rug got wet, but the soap didn't take away the dark blotches in the pattern.

So her dad an actual evil lab in their sort-of-basement. It was clean and cold and had given her the creeps each time she'd had to go back through the tunnels to fetch another victim. Absently, she wiped her hands on her nightgown and could have smacked herself for staining it red. There was blood on her, and she'd spent an hour scrubbing blood off herself earlier.

The phone rang. She screamed and stumbled backwards, knocking the bucket over. Thankfully, only suds were left. She crushed those into the wood and admired the shine. It was an ungodly hour, almost four in the morning. She didn't recognize the caller.

That was the door. That was the front door. Branko knocked, and even with the headrest, Nathan struggled to hold his head up. It turned and opened, and the angel stood there, the halo of her love shining behind her. Her head was covered in a dark veil, and he wondered why Marni was in black. Was she mourning him?

"Daddy?" she said.

Oh, God. It was Shilo. Branko wheeled him in, and DJ Granny took the girl aside to speak to her, as if he couldn't hear. There was no halo, only the light in the house. She'd turned on all the lights. She seemed so small and frail, a dark ghost, and when he looked down at his hands, he saw that they were bloodless. Shilo hugged herself and nodded abstractly at nothing the old woman was saying. He tried to stand up, to go and comfort her, but his body wouldn't obey. He couldn't move.

"I thought he belonged with his family. If the Largos knew he was alive, they'd kill him for sure," DJ was saying.

"Thank you for calling me." Her eyes had lost all expression. "Is he okay?"

"He lost a massive quantity of blood. We had a friend look him over, and she said he'd be just fine. We'll release him into your care."

"Why? Why do I have to take care of him?" she fairly pleaded.

"Darlin', he can't walk. Why d'you think he's in a wheelchair? Think that was easy to get into the car?" She touched Shilo's shoulder, and the girl shrank back at the gesture, well-intentioned though it had been. "He needs you now."

She shook her head. "I can't," she whispered.

"He's your daddy. You only get one in this lifetime."

"I don't even know how to take care of myself. And he... Find someone else. Anyone. Please, I can't."

"If he leaves this house, he will die. He knows too many of their secrets, and he can't earn his keep anymore. Shilo, that's your name, right?" she said kindly. Shilo nodded. "You're his daughter. He could have died and nearly did. Don't you see this is a second chance, for both of you? He loves you."

Shilo turned her head, and he turned away. There was reluctance there. She didn't want him. Why should she? He was a monster.

"Okay. Is there something I need to sign, or is this it?"

"He's unofficially alive, dear. That's it. No papers." She turned to her stalwart, mustachioed companion. "Let's go, Branko." The door opened, quietly closed.

Father and daughter left alone. Where could they go from here? When they'd said their last goodbyes, how could they go on? Why should they? Shilo was an angel, taking him in. He didn't deserve a second chance. She leaned against the wall, watching to see if he would rise up and subdue her for daring to stand there. Shilo was wary and afraid. Of him. And she had reason. Ashamed, he did not try to talk, did not try to look at her.

It was Shilo who spoke first. "I'll put you in the den. Can you, um, move your hands?"

He lifted his left hand and gave a half-hearted wave. She walked slowly behind him and gripped the handles of his wheelchair, wheeled him into another room on the first floor. She disappeared and came back after a long time with water. "I didn't know where the cups were," she said apologetically, hastily setting it down in arm's reach. "I don't know where anything is."

Shilo. Impetuous, naive, and now she thought to make him feel guiltier than he already did. He became sullen the more she tried to make him comfortable. A pillow fluffed and placed behind his head, a blanket from her bed over his lap. Slight movements caused him pain. Her gestures caused him pain. He wanted to ask for Zydrate pills from his medicine cabinet, but he didn't want to talk to her. His silence was having a powerful effect on her. He was a burden, a trespasser in his own home, and it showed in her awkward, rigid movements. He wanted to touch her. He wanted to hold her. Bitter resentment and shame held his tongue and that gunshot held his legs.

She wanted him to acknowledge her. All he wanted was Marni and the rest he'd earned.

Finally, Shilo turned off the lights. "Goodnight, Daddy." She left him in the dark.