Nathan said goodbye to his last patient, a pregnant teenager, and hoped to God that Shilo would never find herself in such a predicament. He shook his head and chuckled a little; what nonsense, where would she even meet a man? Other than himself, of course, and he didn't count. When the time came to introduce Shilo to the world – and, as she grew older, he sensed that time was rapidly approaching—he would teach her the ways of men, and to stay away from them. The problem with young women these days was a lack of parental supervision and instruction; the problem was that children could not be left to their own devices. Shilo was certainly no exception.

Goodbye to his secretary, sent a message to his boss, Mr Largo, and into his car, through the dead streets to the warm embrace of his home, where his hidden child waited, nestled safe and sound in Marni's old bed.

Out of habit, he checked his phone. A message from an hour ago, from his own Shilo; strange. He played it back as he hung up his coat and keys and heard silence, then footsteps and a rattling within the lock. She cursed softly and hung up, leaving him listening to static. He felt a hand grip his foolish heart.

And as he wandered up the stairs, each increasingly desperate call of her name ("Shilo, please answer me!") returning only awful silence, his thoughts berated him: How could he have left his darling girl alone?

What relief he felt to find her door closed. Perhaps it had been a dreadful mistake, after all. Nothing to worry about, old man, no reason to fear her improbable departure. Nathan sighed, gritted his teeth, and fitted the key that generally resided in his pocket to the lock to twist and grant him entrance.

The room was cold and dark, the window flung open, the wind sending shivers through his unprepared body. A cursory glance informed him that she was in bed where she belonged, and he chuckled that she'd fallen asleep with the window open. He'd berate her for it later and lie, tell her that the outside air could damage her. On his way there:

"Nathan?"

He whirled. Marni—no, it was not his beautiful Marni who emerged from the bed to saunter on black booted heels toward him. The woman standing before him had not aged by one wrinkle or spot in the ten years since they had parted ways, and so in horror he recoiled from Eleanor Gothel.

"Where…"

He ripped aside the curtains on the window, the curtains on the bed.

Shilo was gone.

Gothel tutted when the father continued his search, growing more frantic, tossing aside stuffed animals, throwing back blankets and pillows. "Uh-uh, I'm afraid you won't find her here, Doctor."

All of his terror transformed into rage in that instant. There was a white hot blaze behind his spectacles, a pounding inside his skull that drowned out all other noise and thought and sensibility, that she could not have done this, that she had no reason. No room for caring for this fellow human, he turned on her, breathing hard.

Nathan snarled "Where is she?" and, driving her down onto the bed with frightening force, and slammed his strong arm against her throat. He knelt over her. "You tell me where she is!" he growled at the woman choking and gasping beneath him. Despite the conditions in which she found herself, she managed to undulate enticingly beneath his weight. He focused on the pulsing in her neck, on how satisfying it was to watch her struggle for air. Oh, how easy it would be to press harder and watch her eyes froth white and roll back in her head. How long would he have to hold her roughly here before she lost consciousness and became a doll helpless to his merciless whims?

It occurred to him that she was writhing, but not struggling. Struggling for air, yes, yet not for her freedom. Doubt crept in, uninvited. Peaceful from the lack of oxygen, her lovely face resembled Marni's in the throes of death, stealing the malice from her spirit, taking everything and feeding something to him in return. In a moment, he was reliving Marni's final moments as she choked on her own blood and he retrieved Shilo from her womb.

Shocked, he stumbled backwards and off of the strangling soul. That had been too close to him making a mistake. Gothel's hand flew to her neck and she coughed and sputtered, wheezing in air. A bit overdone, he thought wryly, before his thoughts flew back to the little bird that had fallen from her protective cage.

Turning, he strode from her bedroom, calling for her, not waiting for an answer. Her name rang through the hallway and down the stairs along with him. He stood in the foyer and looked helplessly around and shouted, "Shilo!"

No answer.

It would do no good to panic again. That would lead to error. Perhaps if he retraced his steps… no, that did not even make any sense. Shilo was not an object, she was a person; how did one misplace a person, especially one so weak and fragile?

He'd found the door locked, the window open…

Nathan returned to Shilo's room, intent on detaining Gothel, apologizing, and extracting information from her smug lips. Instead, he found an empty room, an open window, and a still warm place on the bed.

"Now, don't be shy. Or afraid. Never, ever show fear. These people will mug you blind," Flynn warned her.

"What does that even mean? That's 'rob you blind,' you peabrain," she glowered.

He smirked. Oh, this was going to be so good. She'd go running for the hills, lickety-split. "It means be careful. You don't have any money on you, do you? No? Great!" He grinned in the face of her eye-rolling scowl.

"Why are we doing this?"

"I need money to put us up for the night. Unless…" He glanced sideways at her as they walked the streets, as he counted the streets quietly to himself.

"Unless what?"

"Unless you'd rather sleep in a tomb. They can be pretty drafty. Now, I speak from experience here, the dead are not great company, but they'll do in a pinch."

"Ugh… You're revolting."

"I take that as a compliment. Twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight—STOP!" He threw his arm out, catching her squarely in the chest and, he suspected, knocking the breath from her little lungs. She glared at him fiercely, but what did it matter? They were there: the alleyway, the black-bricked one that led through a sideways entrance into a cozy, smoke-filled and poorly lit den of zaddicts. Garbage strewn across the dirty concrete, posters fluttering on the walls, and a slot over the door he confidently strode up to and knocked on.

"Password?" a gruff voice said.

"Knock it off, it's me," Flynn replied with a laugh.

The door swung open and the music died with a shouted "SHUT IT!" In silence, Flynn entered the place. Shilo hovered out in the alleyway. He looked over his shoulder.

"I think I'll wait out here," she said nervously.

"Be my guest. Have fun getting mugged," he said nonchalantly.

He let the door close with a creak and a click.

She stood there. A rat squeaked by a dumpster; Shilo shrieked and dashed forward, opened the door and then she was over the threshold, clinging to Flynn's arm. His amused eyes met hers, but he kept his smile in check for their present company.

These were no ordinary zaddicts. They had lost everything, all home and dignity and even family, and come out the other side stronger and stranger, barely recognizable as human with their replaced, stretched faces and their unnatural proportions. Travelers, they kept a loose base of operations in this guarded building while sending out scavengers for new resources and new information on new procedures. Their power was growing in the underbelly of the city. And meanwhile, the folk whispered and fornicated and watched the news with bared eyeballs. Here, picking at her ear dumbly in the corner, a noseless woman with enormous lips; there, his mouth to a girl's unclothed shoulder, a man with a forked tongue and an awful shine to his reptilian orange eyes. And the further the pair ventured into the room, the closer and more frightening and tighter knit grew the crowd. Shilo would not let go of the arm that kept her grounded, kept her from panicking, kept her from breath from stopping short.

"Hey, dolls, it's Flynn Rider."

An old woman with red ringlets and drooping earlobes approached through a crowd that parted majestically (majestically, at least, considering the sorry quality of the people that made up the scene) before her. She grinned bright.

"Monsieur, what can we travelers do for you?"

"For me? Uh, yes!" And he indicated the girl clinging to his side, cheekily saying, "My wife and I are looking for a place to spend our honeymoon. A lovely night under the moon with authorities after us didn't seem like it would quite get her engine running. If you know what I mean by that," he said in a hushed aside against the side of his hammy hand.

"But of course!" she crooned. "Let's see, two individuals, one room…"

"Married," he interjected helpfully; Shilo had let go of his arm and backed a pace from him, hands clapped to her open, horrified mouth. So let her worry. Were he a monster, he could pressure her, but he was not. If she couldn't read his ruse, it wasn't his problem. "She's a little shy."

"The Albatross Motel should do. You know where that is?"

"No kidding, you guys own that shack-up joint? Nice going!" he said. He shoved his hand in his pocket, digging about for a wallet that wasn't even there. "So, what do I owe ya?"

"Owe us? Why, Flynn, you never repaid your debt from the last time… That tip-off about Amber Sweet," she tsk-tsked, shaking her head.

"Oh, that!" He forced a laugh. "I could've found her on my own, of course, but you said you had the dirt, and boy did you ever. Let's let bygones be bygones, what do you say?"

With surprising speed, the woman grabbed Shilo and held a knife to her throat. "I don't think that will be quite enough," she growled.

"Whoa there. Let's not be hasty," Flynn said, holding up his hands. "I'll pay you and we can all act like reasonable people." He was panicking… he was caring.

"You know, I had a son your age once. Of course, I traded him for some magic beans," she hissed to Shilo. "Oh, I can't hurt you, even for his sake." To Flynn, she snapped, "Be quick, boy" and let Shilo go, pushing her in his direction.

Instinctively, he caught her to his chest. She recovered from the shock there, her chest heaving, each breath a little more painful, and she could still feel the sharp metal on her skin. Like a little rabbit, she was afraid and wanted to run. All she could do was hold him, shameful and strange as it was. He seemed to sense her panic and rubbed one hand over her back, saying "shh, shh." To the woman he said, "Here." She felt him reach with one arm into his pocket and she panicked; he was going to sell her bug! How could he?

Instead she heard the jingle of coins. Her heart lightened and took off on wings. "I'll deposit the rest of your money tomorrow morning, after we rest," he informed the woman. "But you will get what's coming to you."

"Spit on what I'm owed if that makes you feel better, love," she cackled. "Have a good night, lovebirds."

"Come on, 'Lo. Let's get out of here," he said, taking her hand. She found the courage and the disdain to slap it off and walk ahead of him out the door.

It took them half an hour's walk to reach the slummy motel. Flynn made her wait outside the office while he talked to the nice man with the cigar hanging out of his big mouth. He left in rather a hurry, grabbing her shoulder and pointing her towards a room downstairs with an open door.

"Care to check it out first or must I?" Flynn inquired.

"You're such a baby," Shilo said, though her voice trembled, and she ventured forth and into the room.

Inside were sparse furnishings: television on the wall, a table and chairs in the corner, a bathroom with shower, not tub, closet near the door, and one bed. She stood at the foot of it, staring at it with quiet dread. One bed.

"Don't even think about trying to get into that bed, princess. I paid for this room and you're here as a kindness; you get the cot," Flynn told her, pointing at the closet.

Shilo wasn't sure whether to be relieved or angry or both, but she went to the closet full of wire hangers and no clothes, retrieved the folded-up cot, and set it up on the stained blue carpet. It would be just barely big enough for her. She sighed; oh well, it could always be worse.

"So, what do you think?"

"What is this stuff called? It's delicious!"

"That is a hot dog."

"Oh goodness, I'm eating dog?!" the girl shrieked and startled, and looked as if she might shortly be sick. Graverobber laughed, stepping back to avoid doing so in her face; he'd been standing very close, after all.

"It's the mashed up scraps of a cow. They just call it a hot dog," he explained to her, and her expression calmed into one of mild confusion.

This was followed by a five minute discussion on the strange names of food and the contents therein. Most of them she'd never heard of, for the outside world was new to her, and the whole day long had been spent in wide-eyed wonder on her part, while he yawned and tried very hard not to stumble, for he was not used to being up and awake while the smoggy sun was above the horizon.

And yet, that was what they had done the whole day long, was wander, him steering her about the city

He leered at her when she opened her mouth to slide in the hot dog. She paused the progression with mustard on her chin and asked, smiling, "What?" And a bit more worriedly when he did not immediately fix his expression: "What? Is there something on my face?" Graverobber made himself angelic.

"Nothing, my dear, nothing. I was just…" He contemplated if he dared chance that she would understand innuendo. The girl seemed terribly innocent… and terribly young, but that hadn't stopped him before, with others.

"What?"

She stuck the remainder in her mouth, letting it poke her cheek and fill it 'till she chewed, whence she resembled an attractive hamster. All of her expressions had come out animated and alive the further they'd gone from the tower at the edge of town. It was remarkable how she had gone from being demure and twitchily afraid of everything besides him—when, really, everyone was afraid of him, and she had no reason to take exception with that common sense rule—to skipping and pointing and laughing and breathing in the air with such gusto as he'd never seen in a citizen of their dreary town.

And, naturally, he had to corrupt that.

"Don't you realize what a lovely sight you make, dear, when you stuff your gob?" he teased.

And, naturally, he couldn't do it. Not yet.

It was then that Rapunzel acted quite strange. Stranger than before, anyway: she froze, then darted behind him, holding onto his arms, fingers digging in. "Don't move," she hissed in his ear. She was uncommonly tall for her age and gender, he just noticed, not that it detracted from her air of spritely, porcelain delicateness.

"Wasn't gonna," he hissed back. "What's wrong?"

"See that woman? No, don't look, don't look, don't let her see you!" she bade him, fear riddling her voice and rendering it squeaky and unfamiliar. His sight found a woman with curly black hair and swaying, generous hips... and really, she was generous all over, in a really good way. The girl had never been outside, so the woman could only be the mother he'd heard so precious little about.

From where they stood in the middle of the festively green park, there was a scarcity of hiding places, but he couldn't very well hand the girl back over to her captor. So he did the only thing he could think of: he turned around, looked Rapunzel dead in the eye, mouthed "I'm sorry," and picked her up, walking behind a fence and sitting down, still holding her. He realized what he was doing and let go of her, even if she was warm and pleasantly squishy. Unlike the rigid corpses he was used to. She held the pointed tops of the fence and drew herself up to peer over the top, then as quickly slunk down and hid.

"What is she doing here?" she said to herself. "Is she looking for me? She can't have noticed that I'm gone yet, not yet…"

The woman looked their way.

Graverobber clapped a hand over the girl's mouth and felt her continued mumblings in the form of hot breaths and quick motions. Her tongue flickered over his palm like a beating wing. He closed his eyes and attempted not to connect the sensations with his sick thoughts, in particular the thoughts of her mouth elsewhere. Lord, he was weak for this girl. He sternly reminded himself that this was no time for sexual shenanigans; she was at the mercy of the world, inexperienced in every conceivable way, and needed his help badly.

He would be only too happy to assist, even though there was nothing he could ask for in return. She had no money, nothing to give.

The woman sniffed, said something about how she must be hearing things, and sauntered on her merry way.

They both let out a breath. He dropped his hand, wiping it on his jeans.

"That was a close one," she said, and threw her arms around his neck.

As Gothel strolled the emptying streets (they emptied as the area darkened), she contemplated whether she'd done the right thing in leaving Nathan to be consumed by his overwhelming grief; a thought she hurriedly dismissed. What a strange and silly and, well, intriguing man he was proving to be. His emotions were right on his flowery sleeves no matter how hard he tried to hide it, for good and for ill. It had taken her no time at all to unmask him, but once their acquaintanceship had been severed and her daughter's health secured, there had been no reason for her to stalk him. He had seen fit to keep his distance and nurse his daughter in sullen separation from the world. That much she knew. And if it at all hurt her pride that he had not even once gone after her and simply let her slip through his fingers, she would certainly never admit it.

Unbeknownst to her, some higher power was watching, stalking along the abandoned freeway overpass as she meandered beneath, presumably to seek shelter from the rain that began to fall. No, not any deity that she didn't believe in anyway. This figure was masked and impossible to deny.

The masked man swooped down, leather cloak rushing to brush the wet ground. He towered over her all garbed in black, an imperious figure, a Repo Man, doctor's bag in one hand, the other free to do what it would: grab at her throat and guide her to the wall. Adrenaline pulsed in her veins along with a good dose of manageable fear. After years of evasion, years of hiding and lying, GeneCo and one of its debt doctors had her at last. She made no attempt to resist; if this was her time to die, at least she would die young, before her dear, sweet Flower's gift could wear off. At least, as it was said, she would leave a good-looking corpse.

That is, she thought as much until she met and recognized the eyes. Intense, yes, and on the wrong side of insane… but, when she searched them, she recognized his beautiful weakness. It was, in fact, exquisite, and her salvation.

"Hello, Nathan," she murmured.

His intention had only been to find her. She understood that now. But had he meant to go so far as to physically press and threaten her life? No, that could only be his training taking over, and the mode switched off, and he stood there limp and safe.

Eleanor reached up and around, unclasping the mad doctor's helmet, and lifted it up, tossing it aside with a clunk.

"I'm so sorry, I should never have," he began to apologize.

"Shh," she said, placing a finger to his lips.

And so it was that Repo Man observed them from where the helmet had fallen on the ground as she wound herself closer and kissed him, safe from the rain, safe from the knife, safe in his arms. No almosts or might-have-beens truly mattered. All that did was that they were in this pursuit together.

Shilo sat in a chair by the window, gazing gloomily out at the rain while Flynn watched the television for news of – what else?—himself and counted out the remainder of his money. The girl turned around, curious.

"Why'd you do it?" she asked.

"Do what?" he said.

"Keep my bug. That'd have paid off your debts, wouldn't it?"

"Don't tempt me, doll. I could still go back and get my money back." He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "I wouldn't. You got me. What is wrong with me? It would have been so easy. It's right in my pack, I could've… I fully intended to!"

"You're a softie, you terrible man you," she said, getting up from her chair.

He smiled at her faintly, a smile that dropped off when she approached. Something came over her and she didn't know what, but something new. She bent and pecked his cheek. He stared at her in bewilderment and raised a hand to his cheek as if she'd slapped him. Shilo felt herself glow warm inside.

"What was that?"

"Don't get any smart ideas," she started, but suddenly she began to feel a little green.

Her stomach writhed and coiled like a serpent. It compelled her to dash, push open the bathroom door, drop to her knees, and vomit her little heart out. After a minute of being mercifully left alone, the noises and splatters stopped, and Flynn stepped in to check on her, though he looked uneasy and as embarrassed as she felt.

"You okay?"

"I'm… I'm sick," she said pathetically, using toilet tissue to wipe vomit off her face. It was bad enough when her own father saw her this way, let alone a near stranger. "I… have a blood disease."

"Oh. Oh no. Your medicine?"

She nodded. "It's all back at the house. I hadn't thought about it, but I need it or I'll keep having episodes: not being able to breathe, or seizures, or getting sick like this."

"Here, let me help you." For she trembled as she stood. "It'll be okay. I'll figure something out."

"You don't have to," she wheezed, her throat hoarse from retching. In spite of her protestations, he insisted on assisting her to the bed. "But I thought it was yours."

"Hey, you're sick. It's okay." He pulled off her shoes even though, really, she could do it herself, she wasn't exactly incapacitated. But then a bout of coughing took her and he used the lull in her talking to slip her under the covers. She snuggled down. "If you touch something wet, don't look at what it is." He turned the TV off and went to the radiator. "Mind if I turn this on?"

She shook her head. He fiddled with the device and hot air slowly sighed into the room, creating a coziness that stood up well against the rain.

"Hey, it's Flynn, isn't it?" she hesitantly piped up. He spun about.

"Yeah, that's right."

"You can sit on the bed with me, if you like."

Awe in his face and reluctance in his steps. It was as if he didn't trust himself. More likely he didn't trust her, after the stunt she pulled kissing him. What had gotten into her? That had been immature and irresponsible, and it would be best to just forget it.

"Thanks."

He added his weight to the cheap mattress. It creaked.

"About that kiss earlier…"

"I'd really rather not talk about it," she cut him off.

"Understood. So tell me something, 'Lo…"

"Anything."

"What happens, say, if we don't get your medicine?" he asked seriously.

"I die."

"Oh."

There wasn't much to say after that; he turned the TV back on and he sat at the foot of the bed. She asked for the remote. He passed it to her. She put on Blind Mag's performance and then the weather channel, when the hour grew later. Shilo explained to him that it helped her sleep. Somehow or other, he ended up lying down, without really intending to, she knew, and she put her hand on his hair, playing with it while she watched TV.

Outside, the rain fell and fell.