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I saw some people roleplaying as Nathan Wallace/Repo Man, and wtf people. Seriously, if you can't role-play, then don't. Half-assed does not go well with Nathan. D<

So, here's a little help from Syns, the wonderful psychologist. Hurr, I'm so full of myself. Now, let me show you how it's done.

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It's that moon again, slung so fat and low in the polluted night, calling out across a curdled sky and into the quivering ears of that dear old voice in the shadows, the Repo Man, nestled snug in the backseat of the Dodge K-car of Nathan Wallace's hypothetical soul.

That rascal moon, that loudmouthed leering Lucifer, calling down across the cloud-covered sky to the dark hearts of the night monsters below, calling them away to their joyful playgrounds. Calling, in fact, to that monster right there, behind the oleander, tiger-striped with moonlight through leaves, his senses all on high as he waits for just the right moment to leap from the shadows. It is Nathan in the dark, listening to the terrible whispered suggestions that come pouring down breathlessly into his shadowed hiding place.

His dear dark other self urges him to pounce--now--to sink his moonlit fangs into the oh-so-vulnerable flesh of the far side of the hedge. But the time is not right and so he waits, watching cautiously as his unsuspecting victim creeps past, eyes wide, knowing that something is watching but now knowing that he is here, only three steely feet away in the hedge. He could so easily slide out like the knife blade he is, and work his wonderful magic--but he waits, suspected, but unseen.

One long stealthy moment tiptoes into another and still Nathan waits for just the right time; the leap, the outstretched hand, the cold glee as he sees the terror spread across the face of his victim--

But no. Something is not right.

And now it is Nathan's turn to feel the queasy prickling of eyes on his back, the flutter of fear as he becomes more certain that something is now hunting him. Some other night stalker is feeling the sharp interior drool as he watches Nathan from somewhere nearby--and he do not like this thought.

And like a small clap of thunder the gleeful hand comes down out of nowhere and onto him blindingly fast, and he glimpses the teeth of a nine-year-old neighbor boy. "Gotcha! One, two three, on Mr. Wallace!" And with the savage speed of the very young the rest of them are there, giggling wildly and shouting at him as he stood in the bushes humiliated. It is over. Six-year-old Shilo stares at him, disappointed, as though Nathan the Night God had let down his high priest. The rest of the children skittered off into the dark once more, to new and more complicated hiding places, leaving Nathan so very alone in his shame.

Nathan did not kick the can. And now Nathan is it. Again.

You may wonder, how can this be? How can Nathan's night hunt be reduced to this? Always before there had been some frightful twisted predator awaiting the special attention of frightful twisted Nathan--yet here he was, stalking an empty Chef Boyardee ravioli can that is guilty of nothing worse than bland sauce. Here he was, frittering away pecious time losing a game he had not played since he was ten. Even worse, he was IT.

"One. Two. Three---" He called out, ever the fair and honest gamesman.

How can this be? How can Nathan the Demon feel the weight of the moon and not be off among the entrails, slicing the life from someone who needs very badly to feel the edge of Nathan's keen judgement? How is it possible on this kind of night for the Cold Avenger to refuse to take the Repo Man out for a spin?

"Four. Five. Six."

Rotti, Nathan's wise employer, had taught him the careful balance of Need and Knife. He had taken a man, so desperately struggling with himself with an unstoppable need to kill--no changing that--and Rotti had molded him into a man whom only killed those who did not deliver their payments on schedule; Nathan the no-bloodhound, who hid behind a human-seeming face and tracked down the truly naughty residents who were 90-day delinquent.

"Seven. Eight. Nine."

He had taught him how to find these special playmates, how to be sure the deserved a social call from Nathan and his Repo Man. And even better, he taught Nathan how to get away with it, as only Rotti could teach. He had helped Nathan to build a plausible hidey-hole of a life, a life unknown to six-year-old Shilo, and drummed into him that he must fit in, always, be relentlessly normal in all ways.

And so Rotti kept Nathan's secret from his daughter, as part of his payment plan for becoming his head Repossession Agent. He had killed his wife, and was now a monster. That much was certain. He couldn't let Shilo know what had happened that night. And so he did as Rotti told him, but it's not as though Nathan didn't enjoy what he did. It is because of Rotti that Nathan is able to supply Shilo with a large house and nice things. It is because of Rotti that he has become a monster, and is now honing that power to benefit himself, and Nathan was fine with it. So long as Shilo never found out. She would hate him. Or worse...

"Ten! Ready or not, here I come!"

Yes, indeed, here he came.

But to what?


TO BE CONTINUED. This is an excerpt from my fanfic. : D Notice that Nathan isn't all "YOU CANNOT GO OUTSIDE, HUURRR"? Well, all shall be explained. c: