Title: Bloodied Scalpels
Author: ShadowDemon-Gengar
Character Pairings: Shilo/Nathan (Repo!Nathan)
Genre: Romance/Drama/Horror
Rating: T-MA+
Warnings: Incest, Gore, Profanity
Disclaimers: I own nothing REPO! The Genetic Opera
Summary: LJ's "30 Distractions" challenge for the Shilo/Nathan pairing.

Recommendation(s): Keep story's width at "3/4"; adjustment settings are at the top-right corner of the site, where the different font styles and sizes are located. "3/4" is the original width that this story was written in.

Author's Note: Freaking wow. Much thanks for the reviews! I've never felt so pressured to do my best before, and I know I've quite a few people I want to convert into Nathan/Shilo supporters. The opinions actually had me re-do this second chapter because I couldn't shake the feeling that something was off about my version of Repo!Nathan. Not to mention that it's difficult as shit to write Shilo. I'm trying to keep her naïve and vulnerable while tossing in a new sense of rebelliousness. Please, don't hesitate to tell me off if this starts turning out bad.

Distraction XXIV: Out of Place

She had always sensed that there was something off about her father – something eerie and out of place – and that feeling had only intensified the older she became, the strangeness having grown into a nastiness; a horribleness. Like a stain that only seemed to darken and spread out over time.

And it had only been on that terrible night at the Opera House that she had learned that her father was . . . ill.

"Go away . . . ," she whispered, eyes wide as absently scooted farther down the bed, her heart pounding.

He continued to leer at her, his winter-green gaze glinting with something cruel as he tracked her every movement. A light eyebrow lifted, and he cocked his head slightly in the surrounding pillows.

"'Go away'?" His was voice raspy and gravelly and so unlike her father's gentle, soothing one. His mouth took on a tilt, but his eyes held no amusement as he drawled, "Make me."

The blatant dare was like a dig at her still fresh, emotional wounds, reminding her that she was still not in control, even when she deserved to be.

There was a bit of bite in her words as she glowered at the stranger inhabiting her father's body. "Who are you? Why are you here?"

A slight smirk. "I'm your father."

"You are not my father!"

"No?"

"No!" She glared at him, unconsciously gripping the bed covers in her small fists, her heart beating harder with anger. "You're not my father! Y-You have to be – no, you are the reason why he did . . . did all those things. You're the reason why he's been poisoning me; why he lied to me about Mom an-and Blind Mag and R-Rotti Largo; why he kept his Repo life a secret from me, making me believe that he was . . . was actually helping people – not killing them!"

Her chest was burning, her emotions running high between hate and anger and hurt confusion. For the two whole weeks she had been taking care of him, she had spent her time trying to come up with reasons to justify or explain her father's conduct, but the most plausible one could put together was this. . . this illness of his. It just wasn't possible for her father to do all those unspeakable acts and . . . be of sound mind!

. . . Right?

Tears scorched the corners of her eyes, but she rebelled from them fall. She found comfort in glaring at the man appearing almost lazy and at home in her father's bed, lounging there against the thick pillows and in her father's open shirt – in her father's skin.

His cool-green gaze was unblinking – studying her.

A cold chill crawled up her spine, and she felt suddenly naked under the hard, scrutinizing stare.

But she met it straight on, despite how much she just wanted to hide from it. She wasn't going to be afraid of him. He was the one bedridden, here. He was in a state of vulnerability.

Then, there was a twitch of his lips, and he seemed to relax deeper into the pillows, saying in a snide tone, "Fishing for excuses to give Daddy, precious?"

She sucked in a breath, her eyes flaring indignantly as she demanded again, her words shaking slightly as she fought against the need to hit him, "Who are you? We can't you just leave us alone?"

For a moment, he just continued to stare at her, appearing almost thoughtful. Then he replied, his voice rough and raspy. "I'm the emotions your daddy keeps buried; the memories that he wishes to forget; the needs he has denied himself for seventeen years." A sickening, almost grim smirk tugged at his lips. "But I'm not the reason behind the decisions he makes."

Her lips thinned stubbornly as his words hung in the air. An instant sense of understanding tried to rise in her mind, but she slammed it down – refused to accept it. She didn't want to understand. If she understood, then it would mean . . . it would mean that her father truly had been aware of what he'd been doing. She didn't want to believe it, she didn't! Her father was a wonderful, loving man who cared and worried about her; always at her beck and call . . .

A pained growl had her snatched from her thoughts and she looked up in time to see him trying to push himself into a sitting position.

"Don't!" she gasped, her hand instinctively reaching out to stop him, but she quickly recoiled back, remembering that this was not her father . . .

He paused and glanced at her with a sneer. It effectively reminded her of why she felt so uneasy whenever her father got upset . . . Because beneath that calm and collective resolve of his lurked an untamed beast ready to wreck havoc and horror . . .

"Y-You're still healing . . . ," she explained, swallowing hard. "If you, you know, move too much, you might . . . tear the stitches . . ." This less-than-sane, brutal man was sharing her father's body . . . and she didn't want him doing anything careless during its much needed time to heal.

His unwavering gaze seemed to sharpen and become aware of something . . . and she repressed a shudder, the hair on the back of her neck rising. What was about this man that . . . made her so uncomfortable? She could practically feel the darkness oozing off of him . . .

He reluctantly eased himself back into the pillows, shifting lazily and settling deeper into them, a small smirk playing at his lips.

". . . Thank you," she mumbled, finally dropping her eyes from his, feeling a bit of relief. If he hadn't complied . . . really, what could she have done? Her father was much taller and heavier than her, and possessed muscle strength that was frightening.

". . . You look just like her," came the rumbling voice that wasn't her father's, and it sounded thoughtful – even a bit amused.

She dared to look up again.

Something almost . . . unholy was set in those light green eyes; a glint of something that made her skin crawl.

"Who . . . Mom?" she inquired softly, figuring that that's what he was talking about. Everyone told her so. Dad, Rotti Largo, Blind Mag, Graverobber –

She gasped, her gaze flying up at the wall clock.

Ten after eleven.

Graverobber!

She flew off the bed and quickly went around the room cleaning up – emptied the basin, shoved ropes of used bandages in the nearby trash bin, picked up dirty laundry and dumped them the hamper in the corner – God, she forgot that they was harvesting tonight!

"What are you doing?"

She paused near the medical tray sitting at the foot of the bed, glancing up at the clearly annoyed expression on her father's – no, not her father's – face.

Her fingertips brushed over the syringe lying amongst the rolls of bandages, gauze and bottles of sanitizing alcohol. The cylindrical glass was smooth and cool to the touch, its liquid contents glowing a bright, alluring blue.

She picked it up, clenching it tightly as she forced herself to move closer to the head of the bed where danger and brutality eyed her.

"I have to go to . . . um, work," she murmured, keeping her gaze steady on his. "And you need to get some rest."

A sardonic smirk crossed his lips, his voice rough. "You can call me Nathan, sweetheart."

She nearly dropped the syringe, first shocked. Then she felt her blood boil slowly as she stood over him. There was a wickedness in his eyes as he stared up at her.

Tossing out her wariness, she angrily grabbed his arm and stuck the steel needle with practiced ease into the soft tissue of the crook of his elbow, ignoring the grunt and raspy laugh, and she squeezed the prescribed Zydrate into his veins.

"You're not my father," she reminded him firmly as he fell victim to the immediate effects of the drug, drifting back to sleep.