Sydney Prescott tried to back as far away from Mickey—and more importantly, his gun—as possible. Her mind was still reeling from his gleeful confession that he was Ghostface, that he had killed Maureen, Cici, Randy, Hallie, and Derek. Derek. Derek, with whom she finally thought she'd found a second shot at love, now strung up on a crucifix in the campus auditorium only feet away from her. It was almost too much for her to bear; she felt her grief threaten to reduce her to a puddle on the floor. But she steeled herself. There was no way that the bastard who had killed her boyfriend was going to take her out too. She had been through worse than this and come through.
"I'm gonna blame the movies," Mickey was still babbling. "This is just the beginning, the prelude to the trial. These days, it's all about the trial."
Keep him talking, keep him distracted, Sydney coached herself.
"You're psychotic," she spat out, trying to gauge how far away the door was. Could she make it if she made a mad dash? No, it was too far. There's no way Mickey would miss. All she had was the necklace still clutched in her hand. The necklace…
Mickey just grinned. "That'll be our little secret. I've worked hard to give the audience what they want." He raised his gun, pointing it at her forehead. "It's all about execution!"
Sydney braced herself, letting the chain slide further down from her hand. "You forgot one thing about Billy Loomis."
Mickey lowered his gun, intrigued. "Yeah?"
"I killed him!"
She struck with the chain, whipping Mickey across the face. Started, he stumbled back, grabbing at his forehead. Sydney kicked his hand, knocking the gun out of it, and kicked him again in the gut for good measure. She tried to dodge past him towards the door, but he tackled her, dragging her onto her feet and throwing her against the wall. She elbowed him in the chest hard, then punched him in the jaw. He stumbled backwards but sprang up almost instantly, popping out around one of the stage's columns. Sidney tried to dodge around him, but he mimicked her every move until finally she grabbed his arms and jerked, smacking him into the stone. He fell to the ground, latching onto her ankle as she did, so she went sprawling with him. As she scrambled to her feet, she saw with sick dread that he was already standing—and he was once again holding the gun.
Without thinking, Sydney dodged behind the crucifix, trying to at least shield herself a little from Mickey's range. But he pulled out a dagger, barring her path.
"You've got this whole Linda Hamilton thing going on," he said, wiping some blood from his mouth with a dark chuckle. "I like it."
Suddenly, the crucifix was raised off the stage, leaving Sydney standing face-to-face with the murderer.
"Now who's doing that?" Mickey asked playfully. "Could that be the mystery guest, waiting in the wings? Told you I had a partner, Sid—a surprise cameo, just for you."
Behind her, the door creaked open, and Sydney's heart fell into her stomach as Gale Weathers stepped through the opening.
"Gale?"
But Gale shook her head, eyes wide with fear, and someone stepped through the opening behind her: Cotton Weary.
"Surprised to see me, Sydney?" he asked with a wicked grin.
"Cotton? What are you doing?" Sydney demanded, heart hammering.
Cotton just grinned more widely. "After a year of being accused of being a murderer, I thought I'd try out the real thing and see for myself."
"The two of us are gonna be famous," Mickey piped up from behind Sydney. "Your story's gonna be nothing compared to ours."
"Yeah, about that, Mickey…" Cotton looked almost regretful. "A story's a lot more compelling if there's only one hero."
He pointed his gun at Mickey and fired, catching his partner in the chest. Red bloomed across Mickey's chest as puzzlement stretched across his face, and he fell to his knees. Instinctively, he fired off his own gun. The bullet caught Gale in the side, and she stumbled forward, pitching off the stage into the orchestra pit.
That left just Sydney and Cotton.