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: Rotti Largo's death has marked a time for change, but change isn't something that happens in a day – unless you're Shilo Wallace. Between her mentally unstable father bedridden and needing her attention day in and day out, a notorious grave robber as her employer, and corrupt men seeking to steal the crown of GeneCo, Shilo's beginning to regret ever being curious about the world.

Recommendation(s):
Page Width: 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.

Light/Dark: This chapter is best read on the dark background setting because it deals with nighttime and dark thoughts.

Author's Note: Just wanted to say sorry for the long, long wait, and that you need to know that the feture updates will probab;y just take as long. I just want to work now on one of the novels I've been piecing together for months now. :] Thank you all for the awesome, positive and detailed reviews! (I also want to say to my latest reviewer that the plan was to show both sides of Nathan evenly. ;])

Chapter Three

"It ain't no trick to get rich quick. If you dig, dig, dig with a shovel or a pick, in a mine! In a mine! In a mine! In a mine, where a million diamonds shine!"

She paused over her selected corpse, the needle of the syringe stuck up its nostril, her hand poised and ready to extract the natural chemicals inside. Blinking, she lifted her head and peered over the rough edge of a tombstone . . . and watched as her 'boss' jigged over his own corpse, jubilantly singing and whistling as he 'mined' the body of its value.

A snort of laughter bubbled up before she could stop it. How disturbing was it to sing a Disney tune and dance as you desecrated graves and pillaged the rotting bodies they harbored?

She ducked a little, smiling, when he stopped and glanced over his shoulder, a smirk riding his darkly painted lips. She heard amusement in his voice when he called out to her.

"You almost done, kid?"

"Almost," she replied, her breath puffing out into the freezing air as her small smile slipped, and she turned back to the job at hand.

She bit her lower lip, grimacing as she slowly pulled on the syringe's plunger, the glass cylinder immediately filling with beautifully luminous, blue liquid.

She gave the needle a little jerk to free it and she sat back in the damp, freshly dug up dirt from the grave, staring down at the full syringe, slowly rolling it back and forth in her gloved hands, its glowing contents taunting her – reminding her.

Zydrate . . . the story of her life, really. As well as the irony.

Here she was, harvesting the very thing that was fed to her every day for the last seventeen years by the one man who was supposed to care for her and protect her. Instead, he poisoned her – thinned her blood – and made her an unwilling addict to the substance.

Now she was assisting one of the very men who distributed the very same drug to others while trying tp overcome her savage withdrawals of Zydrate, day in and day out.

God, could things get anymore twisted and turned around?

"Hey, kid, you feeling okay?" murmured a deep voice above her. "Do you need your . . . er, 'medicine'?"

She tilted her head back, smiling a little up at her boss, her gaze meeting the ocean-blue eyes staring down at her. He was leaning over the tombstone, gloved fingers braced against the rough stone, his pale features expressing a bit of concern as he absently tucked away three vials of newly withdrawn Zydrate.

Sighing, she looked away again, murmbling, "No, I'm okay. Just . . . never mind. Here."

She gathered up her little stockpile of gently glowing vials, the smooth glass clinking against one another and sounding almost sweet and melodious, and then offered them up to him.

He picked them from her hands carefully, almost lovingly, his bout of worry wiped away the second his eyes landed on her night's reaping. A pleased grin spread across his strong, male features and he lifted his hands to the velvet-black night sky, allowing the silver moonlight to spear through the vials and enhance beauty of the liquid's natural glow.

"Damn, you're becoming quite a natural," he murmured, seemingly entranced by the graveyard's treasures.

She smiled shyly, huddling deeper into the heavy leather, fur-lined coat he had given her two nights before, having smoothly said, "Getting colder these days. Consider this a gift for all the help you've been, kid."

She absolutely adored it. Not because it was something great – it was anything but. It was overly large, stained in spots by something she didn't care to know about, the faux fur was discolored and coming off in small patches, the hems were ragged, and it smelled a bit mildewed.

But it was incredibly warm and she had already grown attached to it – it was from her first real friend, a friend who actually seemed to care, if only a little bit.

"Well, I think we're done here," he announced offhandedly, busily, strapping her night's share of vials to his thigh. "Time for me to do my rounds and for you to get back to your old man."

"Yeah . . . " she murmured, feeling her heart drop a little, and she pushed herself to her feet and patted the dirt off her pants.

I don't want to go home . . . She instantly felt ugly and horrible. Her father needed her . . . no matter how much she still burned to just hate him and leave him to survive on his own. She was frightened of his other more vicious personality and she was still crying herself to sleep because of the anguish of the betrayal his true personality had caused her.

She just couldn't stand looking at him . . . at least, not look at him and not be assaulted by a horrid torrent of cruel, dark emotions.

"Kid? You coming or what?"

She blinked and looked up, seeing the multicolored-hair street pirate across the moonlit cemetery, leaning against the open, iron-wrought gate, a small frown pulling at his dark lips.

"Sorry!" she called, a blush warming her cheeks, and she started toward the entrance, deftly maneuvering around slanted and cracked headstones, mounds of grave dirt and various litter.

And with each step she made, she felt a weight in her chest seemingly grow heavier and almost intolerable.

She really didn't want to go home . . .

Disgusting, unsightly little Italians, he thought, his genetically-altered, stone-gray eyes cold and glittering with malice despite the charming smile sitting on his lips as he analyzed the false heirs to the world's savior, GeneCo.

"Boujour, Mademoiselle Sweet." He swept low into an elegant bow, the length of his thick, black ponytail slipping over a shoulder as he peered up at the trio behind the dark, heavy mahogany-wood desk, a touch of arrogance seeping into his smile. When he straightened, he gave a polite nod in the directions of the males standing on either side of the surgically beautified woman. "Messieurs Luigi Largo et Paviche Largo."

"Who the fuck are you?" spat the deceased Rotti's eldest son, his narrow features twisted up into a sneer.

"No need to be so crass, mon ami," he coolly responded, his smile freezing on his mouth as an ugliness began to churn just beneath, wanting to twist his lips into a snarl. "Allow me to introduce myself: Juis sui Dionte Adolphus, founder and président of Artillerie D'anatomie, or Anatomy Artillery. We advertise and manufacture –"

"Bio-weaponry," Luigi rudely interrupted, looking insultingly unimpressed as he idly fingered the tip of his knife.

He felt a tick in his jaw as he ground his teeth together, his voice low with forced patience, "… Oui. Extensive, highly successful redesigning of the skeletal et muscle structure to include technology and armaments. Advanced personal defense, if you will."

"That-a is all well and good," the face-stealing son spoke lightly, his stainless silver, gem-encrusted mirror gripped daintily in a pale, slender hand as he regarded him through the empty sockets of the female face, "but what-a does GeneCo have-a to do with-a you?"

"Yeah," the beautiful, surgery-addicted woman finally spoke, her voice cool and aloof. "What the hell do you want?"

He felt a tight, hot curling in his gut, his disgust becoming almost too much to keep contained. Repulsive, hideous trolls!

But he quieted his raging thoughts as a cold, calm air settled over him, his reflective-gray eyes unblinking. "I am here to buy GeneCo and make it a part of my own company."

He watched as the Largo children glanced at each other, as if silently speaking to one another, before their eyes fell back on him. And they erupted together in laughter.

"Get the fuck outta here!" Luigi howled, grinning maniacally.

"Whata comedian you-a are, good sir." Pavi then turned his attention to his mirror, lifting it up and out, getting a better reflection of himself, clearly having dismissed him as anything further interesting.

"I'm not selling shit to you," Amber cooed, a falsely sweet smile on her dark crimson lips as she leaned her elbows onto the finely polished surface of the desk, resting her chin on her threaded fingers.

His own smile morph into something arrogant and confident before he wiped it away, a dramatic sigh falling from his lips and his shoulders dropping as he stared up at the shadowed ceiling. "Oh, but that is where we have a bit of a problème, ma chère."

He felt triumphant smolder slowly behind his serious, insincerely-concerned frown when the three's mirth practically died on the spot and they considered him suspiciously; warily.

He simply lifted a long, slender finger, wrapped in the black leather of his glove, and pointed it at them one at a time, his tone matter-of-fact as he spoke calmly, "Neither one of you are in the position of telling moi what you will or will not sell . . . because neither of you are the true successors to this company."

"What?!" Amber shrieked, her beautiful features contorting horribly as it curled into an ugly sneer, and she threw back her chair when she jumped up, slamming her palms down on the desk. "How dare you! I am the heir!"

His demeanor remained collected, even when the hot-tempered Largo son tensed and started to round the desk, the blade of his knife glinting threateningly under the dim light, his sharp, long features expressing his infamous, easily provoked rage.

He flexed his fingers seemingly absently, but his knuckles emitted an ominous cracking sound that seemed to echo loudly off the high, dark walls. A soft whirring then accented the cool air.

His stone-gray eyes were still and unblinking on Luigi, even when the slender man paused at the corner of the desk, his sneer falling into a deep scowl, guarded awareness flashing in his ash-blue eyes.

Slowly, he drew his eyes from the man and swept them over the other two, his playfulness gone and seriousness having taken over as he growled lowly, a small snarl curling his lips and eyes narrowing. "Non. In fact, I did not come here to speak with either of you. I came here on the assumption that Shilo Wallace was here. The legal beneficiary."

"That skank disappeared from existence. Everybody knows that," Amber hissed, her cat-like eyes narrowed into seething slits.

"Nevertheless, she is the heir, written specifically as such in your father's last will and testament. If she's not here, then I clearly must look elsewhere, non?" he inquired, smiling nastily at the glaring, quietly furious Largo offspring. "My business is obviously done here. Au revoir, mes amis."

Bowing low once more before straightening and turning on his heel, he strolled back toward the open elevator, haughtily flicking his long, swishing ponytail back over his shoulder, a snide smirk on his lips.

Tiny-brained Italians. One way or another, this company is mine.