Disclaimer: Disclaimed. What little that is recognizable is copyrighted by Tim Burton, Caroline Thompson, Fox and so on.

Gothique was sent to live in Suburbia with her aunt under protest. Joyce had greeted her with smiles and sunshine and very, very bright colours. If her lenses weren't transition, Gothique was quite sure she would have gone blind. As it were, they were tinted to seem nearly black at a distance almost constantly.

There was one small blemish on Suburbia, of which Gothique frequently rested her tired eyes. It was, of all things, a large castle. Whenever she seemed to even begin to broach the subject of the abandoned building, Joyce would primly tell her not to be stupid: it wasn't a castle; it was a mansion, and that was that.

Therefore, it only made sense for Gothique to ponder exploring it through the school hours and cheerleader practice (apparently, they were quite relieved to have a new one as another one, Kim, had moved away recently). She pondered and pondered until she got up the courage to impulsively go up there. That meant packing a survival kit.

Come one sunny Saturday, Gothique exchanged her slippers for some grungy, duct taped sneakers, and changed her wardrobe to a more outdoorsie pair of slacks and white dress shirt, she not being the type to own actual, normal clothing. Strewn on her dresser were a bundle of crumpled tissues, a flashlight, pens and paper, and several types of granola bars. Through sheer force of will she stuffed them all into her purse.

"I'm going out, Aunt Joyce!" she yelled to the house in general, not knowing where Joyce was.

"What?!" came the shocked and rather disbelieving voice of her aunt a door down, in the kitchen. "Where to? With whom?" She poked her fiery head into the hall. "And wearing that? You're not very good at the whole affected nonchalant thing, are you?"

Gothique shifted from foot to foot. "You heard me. Just out to wander the neighbourhood and such. Alone, everyone else lives in town. Yes. No -- I mean yes -- er. . . what was the last one?"

Joyce tapped a long fingernail on her temple knowingly. "You can't fool me. You are not allowed to go to that dusty, creepy mansion, okay?"

This caused Gothique to frown. In the ensuing silence, tires could be heard turning into Joyce's driveway. "Who's that?" she asked evasively. Fortunately, Joyce didn't object to the new topic.

"The plumber, again," Joyce giggled.

"Then oughtn't I be getting out of your way?"

Joyce mulled it over for a moment before speaking. "Go visit that new family -- the Henrys? Harvards? Oh, whatever. Just don't get into trouble. Now scat!" Joyce said, making shooing motions with her hands. It wasn't like she was the girl's actual parents, so she didn't bother pretending to be.

Gothique apparently had very selective hearing as the moment she was out the back door, she went into the next yard over then made a round-about to go to the cast-- mansion. She found that what at once seemed like a full-fledged expedition was actually an afternoon stroll and some minor breaking-and-entering. Not one to appreciate beauty in any sophisticated manner, she didn't bother to contemplate the symbolism of the hedge statues, especially the one with the upturned hand. No symbolism to be found. Then, it occurred to her that someone with shears had to have done this, and no sane person would trim another's hedges without payment. It meant only one thing: there was a lunatic with sharp things somewhere, more than likely somewhere nearby.

. The sound of metal wedge against metal wedge reached her ears upon this revelation. Oh god, she had interrupted his hedge-art hour! That sounded more like something found on PBS than something a psycho, ax murderer would participate in, she thought in the less terrified part of her mind. Alas, Gothique somewhat doubted that a camera crew was up there with her.

Her hands flew to cover her mouth, because she was a curs'ed mouth-breather, and a loud one at that. Her hearing wasn't quite up to par, either, and she couldn't find the direction of the snips. They seemed in fact to circle her like vultures, or starved sharks, or something equally terrible. Gothique backtracked quietly, feeling lightheaded and breathless as she was essentially smothering herself for the sake of silence.

Her knee hit the snipper first as she passed a stone bench. Without even glancing down, Gothique leapt backward, shrieking, "Jesus H. Christ!" The snipper jumped, head knocking against the bottom of the bench. Gothique, in a slightly less eloquent fashion, stumbled backwards over a decorative rock and conked her head on the thick base of a sculpted bush.

Poor Edward was beyond confused when he slunk from the house to investigate the scream only to find two girls unconscious and/or dead in the courtyard. A sun shower began sprinkling down on the three.

A/N: I honestly have no excuse for this. It's all very cobbled together, so inconsistencies abound. Flames accepted and probably deserved; reviews appreciated; concrit loved.