Disclaimer: Repo! The Genetic Opera was never mine, and it never will be. I just write the fanfictions, y'all.

Author's Note: This takes place before Chapters 18 and 19 of Chrysalis, so bear that in mind before you read or re-read the chapters in my other Repo story. Thanks!

The First Repo Man's Journal: The Final Entries

21 December, 2056

Night falls over the snow-covered landscape of Crucifixus Island. A thousand neon lights make the darkness almost equal to daylight; a series of colorful beacon-topped buildings signaling their services to wandering souls sailing past their doors. I am fifty years a resident and forty-seven years a citizen of these shores, and I suppose it is more than evident in the way my accent has faded somewhat over the years. Britain has become just another island to me, a slightly larger land mass that served its purpose as a starting point to my life, nothing more. Only dark memories linger there, for I have long left its borders behind me. As they would say in the old science fiction novels, Crucifixus is forever my place.

A trail of snow zigzags its way across the cold ground, and with it, my memories drag me back and forth between the past and the present.

I am fifteen years old, weak, exhausted; the firstborn recipient of a hand transplant and bone marrow combination whose pain is regularly dulled by injections of Zydrate. In between my arrival to the island and my arranged custody into the hands of two strangers, I have the luck of making Rottissimo Largo's acquaintance. There marks the path that will take me through the next fifty years of my existence, and if I am so very fortunate, it may just last me fifty more if my good health remains where it is.

I am sixty-five years old, still in good health but not as quick or nimble as I once was. In between my retirement from GeneCo and the time of this walk through the snow, I have had the bad fortune of receiving regular visits from a strange friend known as Arthritis. I expect my housekeeper, Mrs. Kearney, will prescribe the usual treatments even though she is no licensed physician—a dose of ibuprofen or some exposure to hot water, perhaps. A long soak in that water might be welcome, especially with the weather as chilling as it is tonight.

I sit beside my younger brother during a forbidden trip to the cinema, preparing to watch the film's villain perform surgery on a fully conscious, fully terrified victim when the man in front of us starts to cough into a handkerchief. The plague he's carried along with him into this crowded space is about to change both of our lives forever.

I stand in front of a fully conscious, fully terrified victim of my own; shoving the sharp end of my boxcutter right into their thoracic cavity so that I may collect the heart they had so much trouble paying for. They knew the cost would be high, yet they made no attempt to pay any of their debt off, choosing instead to sit around their apartment, chat with their friends over the phone, and rarely go to their part-time job when they had the chance. One flick of my blood-stained wrist, and the tool I've carried along with me into this dead-end alley ends their life forever.

I lie comfortably on a double bed belonging to a scarlet-haired whore, breathing quickly in anticipation over the way she plans to initiate me into the world of adults. 'Relax, baby, it'll be easy,' she purrs into my ear, stroking my hair with one hand while the other skillfully undoes the zipper of my denims.

I sit uncomfortably on a hard hospital bed, staring in disbelief at the newspaper article that tells me my Scarlett is among the mountains of corpses initiating the world into the great organ failure epidemic. 'Forget her, Chapman, she's just some slut,' the orderly growls into my face, jabbing a large syringe of Zydrate into my left arm while my right is roughly fastened into restraints.

I am watched over during my recovery by a fair-haired man and a black-haired woman masquerading as my parents. They've done a good job matching me up with these strangers, but they've got the key genetics wrong. In my weakened state, I dream about my real, black-haired father lifting me into his arms and flying me back to London all by magic alone, where my mother and brother wait with a treacle tart so large, it covers the entire kitchen table.

I have flown back to London, but it's not to go home and stay there. Instead, I watch in silence as I pass by my father's casket, no longer seeing him the way I remembered him. There is a shriveled, white-haired corpse lying there, and for a moment, I wonder if the undertaker has made a mistake. Only when a lifelong Englishman and Repossessor comments on my having gone Italian do I realise the truth—by keeping in Rotti's company for so long, I have the Italian language memorised in my mind; the Italian culture absorbed into my heart; and during this long, long time, I missed the fact that my father's life had been coming to an end. After the funeral, I try going into a coffee shop in the hopes of buying a slice of treacle tart, but alas, anything over 200 calories has been outlawed so that the surgery addicts don't get as big as a table.

Life, like this small path of snow and this scar upon my wrist, has moved in a constant zigzag ever since that plague that struck London so very long ago. I come across people along the way, sometimes future friends; sometimes future lovers; sometimes surrogate family members. I slip into their little worlds, I become used to them being there, and I let myself get close to them, only to watch them drop like flies when the organ failure epidemic sweeps over the entire planet. As it was in the West End, so also does it eventually happen in Sanitarium Square, New York City, Washington, D.C., Bismarck, Los Angeles, Seattle, and so on and so forth, until once more, GeneCo stepped in and settled things down.

Two whole plagues, and not a single part of GeneCo ever faded away. Even with all this sickness, death, public unrest, government meltdowns, martial law, new resolutions passed, debt management, and constantly changing positions within the offices, somehow GeneCo always managed to keep on top of its daily operations, surviving and working in the midst of the darkest, highest levels of chaos. It was there to bring me to this island when I needed a new hand, and shortly after the first plague, no less. It was there to rescue me from certain death during the second plague, giving me a new liver in the nick of time and thus extending my life by twenty-six years.

Is it any wonder that I came to see that creation of steel, glass, and neon bulbs as the only true home I would ever have, invincibly withstanding the tests of time, age, and disease? Is it strange that it would play both the roles of mother and father before too long, giving me the medicines and operations I needed to stay healthy and keeping that boxcutter in my hand so that I could pay for it all…? It was, is, and shall always have a strong influence in my life. It came for me when all others forgot my name, my face, my life story. Why, then, would I not try to give it something back in return?

And so, for twenty-seven years running, I repaid GeneCo with one repossessed organ at a time, slice by slice, kill by kill, a mountain of the dead at their doorstep that became a mountain of gold once those organs were given to people who could properly pay. I was the first of the Repo Men, the original, and I set the standard for all the individuals that came after me.

For these twenty-seven years of service plus the six more I spent reporting the results of my transplant, this company continues to keep an eye on me by recommending good workers to my household staff. Mrs. Kearney tells me there might be a Miss Hines or a Miss Hensley arriving soon to help pick up a little of the domestic chores soon. I believe a good typist might be welcome, at least, if only to take care of the bills and other documents I am starting to have trouble with. Of course, typist or domestic, I know that some aspect of GeneCo will be more than happy to cover all the expenses for me.

This, then, is the number one reason I plan to protect GeneCo from those who would abuse its services and keep its life-saving products around merely for their personal pleasure. There are three faces in my mind I know far too well, for I have seen the way they act in private and the infamous behavior they use to achieve their ends. It took their father thirty-seven years to tell them all what he truly thought of their decadence and lawlessness. How long will it be before the entire island sees what he once saw? Shall I show them all and prove to them the true faces of their 'leaders' this instant, or should I take the slow path instead and take each one out behind the scenes…?

The fast way would be much too easy, unfortunately. I would be ignoring my own advice to the hot-headed one, and giving them the way with the least amount of pain. No, no, in this case, pain is exactly what all three of them need. Why not start with the ones closest to them first, and so work my way up from there?

It is now my understanding that, thanks to some careful observation on my part, a certain Madam Vecchio has shown interest in caring for the daughter's illegitimate spawn. Under the guise of coming in to prepare the elder son's final documents for work, I witnessed her putting together a small knitted blanket in the corner.

Why so much regard for the product of immoral behavior, I ask myself?

So far, a few individuals I recently spoke to claimed no memory of ever seeing a Roger Graves at the last Genetic Opera. If they did not see him, then how can that 'Sweet' woman name him as the brat's father? Could there be some other sort of fornication going on behind the scenes that only a few are aware of?

She's with her elder brothers in public often, I'm sure, if not also in the company of Rotti's former bodyguards. All three have been known to bicker and curse at one another whenever they get the chance. I saw it before in the past, and no doubt I may see more in the future. Why, then, would she be so willing to continue to allow them to follow her, if not to suggest some other reason than family unity? Was there a tiny clue in the way the second brother suddenly couldn't resist poking and prodding her face? Did he want one of her castoff faces merely to replace one of his own, or could this have symbolized something else completely unknown to the rest of the world?

On the other hand…whereas the second prefers scantily-clad GENterns, in which direction does the firstborn son lean? All these nights with nothing but sharp objects to share his time, and I'm supposed to believe he 'just hasn't got any fucking time' for women? Could it be that, instead of the half-dozen girlfriends of the second son throwing themselves at him for extra attention, he needed a different sort of holster for a knife of another kind…?

A little blood test might be enough to prove my theories, but in order to do that, I'd have to let the little abomination get its first breath of polluted air. After that, any attempts to punish all three for their vile acts committed separately and with one another would come to nothing. Either one, two, or all three would get attached to the brat, and there's an end.

Then again, ignoring the problem; allowing them to flaunt their immoral behavior; and parading the product of that immorality before the news cameras simply would not do either. Brothers would force themselves upon sisters, mothers would marry their own sons, and the world would have its worst cases of inbreeding since the time of Oedipus Rex…and all because they 'wanted to be just like the Largo family'.

Is it a problem, then, that this impending birth makes me sick to my stomach?

Even though no woman hidden behind a white veil ever came to meet me at the altar, there are still some things I hold to be true about relationships. I've seen quite a few couples come together in my lifetime, and even though half of those unions fell apart later on, one thing about them remains clear to me—none of the wives were conceived by the same man that sired their husbands, and neither did they live in the same womb that bore them. Why, then, should I smile, applaud, and approve of this abomination growing before my eyes?

The way ahead, then, is this. Madam Vecchio has within her possession a pair of designer kidneys, standard size, that narrowly saved her life during the Plague while her husband and three sons weren't so lucky. For twenty-six years, she's kept herself alive through direct employment by the Largo family, which in turn has guaranteed approximately three hundred and twelve regular monthly payments on the twelfth of each month. And although the youngest Largo child and only daughter wasn't born to her, she came to look after her from time to time from her first year of life through the present. No doubt her only ill-begotten spawn has made Madam Vecchio so very excited, since it means she'll be able to relive her days as a mother with a second newborn to watch over and bring up.

It probably might also distract her from more important matters, such as, perhaps, a check disappearing in the mail, or a bank card ending up in the wrong hands. And, dare I say it, three instances of these blunders will be enough to force a default to Madam Vecchio's name. I will, therefore, require a few visitors to the Largo house to assure that these checks go missing; or better yet, that every form of payment this nursemaid-to-be owns gets permanently stolen and destroyed. An unexpected break-in could take care of that need right away, especially with the correct amount of planning and the most suitable person available to tell me the location of Madam Vecchio's purse, wallet, and checkbook.

The ones to choose for this task, however, are not so easily found. For this, I shall need a total of four individuals that possess good backgrounds in the public eye and criminal records in the private databases of GeneCo. They will also have to have interesting personalities and a touch or two in common with the eldest Largo child. What better way to guide him into letting them into the mansion than to befriend him first? I can see that he requires better company lately than the rest of his family, as sweet or as perfect as they believes themselves to be. In order to set this ideal trap, I will need the best bait possible to carry it out.

But who to enlist, I ask myself? Who among my students would be willing enough to do this, and how could I assure that their behavior is never traced back to me…?

As if to answer myself, I instinctively make a left on Main Street and cross over into the city limits of the graveyard, population two hundred thousand and counting. The first epidemic victims are nothing but ashes at the ground level of this dead man's paradise, while the newly repossessed are packed like sardines into the cold stone cans otherwise known as crypts. This island has pushed the boundaries of this once-tiny cemetery until it stretched up right against the houses, skyscrapers, and other aspects of the local neighborhoods. I expect they'll take another bulldozer to the place before too much longer, and then case it up in yet another layer of concrete. I just hope they don't disturb the largest of these crypts out of their need to make room for the next sorry fools to die. It's the place where my friend has found peace at last, eternally free from the sting of cancer and all the problems it caused him.

Here lies Rottissimo Giovanni Largo, B. 1993, D. 2056. 'Where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.'

He would know exactly what to do about this whole sordid fiasco, and he would have no guilt about the consequences. Whichever of the two brothers did the deed would be castrated by Rotti's own medical team, and then perhaps exiled to the mainland if not to the other side of the planet…as long as the operation didn't kill them first. There would also be no inbred offspring to deal with, because he would have demanded an abortion procedure at once, and if worse came to worse, he might have even taken care of it himself with the good old-fashioned coat hanger. Yes, yes, Rotti would have known exactly what to do about this complex situation—he would have eliminated it head-on. This is the way I must tackle this endeavor, and this is the way I must follow to assure that the old order never changes beyond my recognition.

Would he, therefore, start looking for people who share the same violent tendencies and degenerative personalities as his firstborn so that he would be the last person to ever suspect their true intentions?

As my mind wanders, I notice that there is a padlocked gate here that keeps my friend's body safe from the grave robbers and other forms of human vermin that would seek to dishonor his final resting place as well as his memory. I can't help but smile to myself as I understand the connection—even in death, he remains a man apart, far above the rabble of the general populace to ever be corrupted by them. Upon this gate, many more sophisticated well-wishers have hung photographs they had the fortune of getting taken with Rotti, sympathy cards worthy of that Crown symbol of old, farewells, flowers, and, in a rare display of superstition, portraits of family members not yet cursed with repossession in the hopes that Rotti's spirit might help them to avoid it. It is there that I see a particular photograph taken shortly before my friend's passing, in which the two of us sit side by side while Repo Men of the past and present gather around us like a private army. My pulse suddenly quickens as my mind snaps into activity, pulling two faces out from the crowd and, subsequently, each of their names.

First comes Victor Van Zandt, a lucky survivor of the Second Plague and the recipient of a fully-functional set of lungs. He was the first of the next wave of Repo Men during the Great Epidemic, and because the hiring age was lowered to bring in more living souls eager for a job, he'll have served about two years longer than myself when the time of his retirement arrives. Some of his coworkers believe he's out to end his career on a high note beforehand, for he's all too willing to pick up the extra cases and take care of them when all the others have finished their assignment lists. What better way to end a long, glorious career than through protecting the very company that hired him…?

Second comes Anna Yates, the only female Repossessor since the year 2048, established so that GeneCo could finally answer all gender inequality issues voiced by the public. She's the same age as that whore of Crucifixus who dared to claim GeneCo for herself, although she needed only one lung transplant procedure to save herself from the epidemic, and thankfully hasn't put herself repeatedly under the knife to turn herself into something she will never be. I hear that she is muttering to various sources that will remain anonymous on how she feels she doesn't get as many assignments as her male cohorts. Perhaps I should step in and, as some consolation and extra attention, convince her to undertake this operation for a special pay bonus? She will know that I don't plan the same reward for Victor, and so that might stroke her ego positively enough to make her give in.

Yes, it all could work as effectively as one of Rotti's endeavours, as long as I direct both of these individuals carefully as they make their way inside the mansion. They will be the ones to infiltrate that place and gain Luigi's trust; then passing on key information about the mansion to two more individuals standing on the outside. I feel my fingers start to itch as my mind continues to plan, for I know that no one else but Tom 'Dog' Walker and Daniel Dawson would be ideal candidates for the actual break-in. Like Victor and Anna, they have no withstanding criminal record; and like Luigi, they have a taste for the fight. All it would take, therefore, would be for them to act as though they are on their best behaviour, and once inside, take all forms of Madam Vecchio's currency into their possession while making it look like a burglar got in from the outside. That would keep their true role in this matter secret, for the GeneCops and any other officer would be searching for common criminals instead of a handful of the best killers I've ever taught. And with all four of these Repossessors remaining silent about the parts they play in this little opera, the investigations will most likely end as quickly as they started, for there will be no valid results to implicate anyone. I suppose I have Miss 'Sweet' Largo to thank for that…our private disasters are or will be credited with people that never existed. All the better to never find out the truth, right, little Carmela?

I look upon the doors of Rotti's tomb one last time, and through the gate, I see the flicker of his holo-image smiling back at me as he did frequently during his life. His spirit remembers the way these vultures spoke of him as though he were already dead the moment he received his dark diagnosis. His old age became the scorn and humor of the young, for they never understood the pain of the treatments or the stresses involved of assuring that GeneCo continued long after his death. How quickly the tables will turn upon all three of them, for their youth and naïveté will become my scorn and humor as I give them the punishments he never could. I killed delinquent customers for my friend, I devoted almost half my life to his business, and now, I will save that business for his sake. Never again will they dare to laugh at an old man, for this old man standing at the gates will be their undoing.

The zigzagging wind blows across the snowy streets again, and I slowly follow its path back to my home in the West End. It's time for that long soak in the hot water that I promised myself.