A/N: Alright, this is just a sneak preview at one (yes I will be writing multiple fanfics) of the stories I will be starting after I finish Where the Skeletons Lie. As well as a reminder to lovova that I did not forget that she passed this story onto me and I did not forgot to write it or put any thought into it.

Yes, this is a story originially started by lovova, however, she handed it over to me upon my request. The idea of the return of the box was lovova's idea, however I did change the story slightly, as you'll probably notice. I just want to see how people like my telling of this story, so please, I insist that you review this. PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE! Even though an update may not occur until after WSL is finished...well, maybe...reviews may persued me otherwise...

Just so you're aware, The Box was one of my favorite episodes, so I'll try and keep the integrity of that episode alive within this story.

This ones for you lovova to...ENJOY!

In A Box

Prologue: Four Lines

No one really noticed as the slim dark figure approached Third Street Elementary School. If they had they'd of taken note how odd it was that this person was entering the school past office hours, nearly at seven o'clock in the evening, when most respectable people in the town had already eaten supper and were curled up on their carpeted floors in front of their glowing television sets with their families. They also would have taken note of the odd appearance of this figure, a tall and gangly woman whose blonde hair, looking more so like a wig, curled in to frame her pale face. They'd also have noticed that her lips were painted a gaudy red color, that no one in the town would have appreciated, and her eyes were hidden behind a noticeably expensive pair of sunglasses. As well they would have seen that this slim woman was dressed in a dark black trench coat that served to engulf her entire form, and whoever took such note of this figure would think it was odd simply because it was, in fact, the middle of Spring, and rather warm to be wearing such a garment. But as was clearly stated, no one really noticed that slim dark figure entering the chain-linked fence of Third Street Elementary School.

Perhaps if someone had noticed, they would have asked this dark figure, this gaudy woman with the red lips and doted mole on her left cheek, her name. She would have replied, of course, "Anita Baxter." And whether it was her real name or not would never be debated. A conversation would undoubtedly ensue because that was indeed the type of person who would live in that quiet neighborhood in that cozy little town. Not the type that was nosy, but more so, the friendly type that was only being neighborly in noticing that this woman, this Anita, was new and most likely lacking in friends at that time being, and they, whoever this friendly noticing passer-by neighbor was, would think that a nice get-to-know-you chat was all Anita needed to feel welcomed to the neighborhood. The first question would, of course, be, "So where do you come from?"

And Anita, in an obvious rush to get rid of them, would simply answer, "Back east." And this friendly questioner would nod as though it were evident, or as though they extended some sort of sympathy.

They wouldn't exactly miss the haste and annoyance in Anita's voice but overlook it as nothing more than distaste for chatting with strangers. And this kind, friendly neighbor would feel, what better way to erase this unnecessary unease by talking some more and shedding this "stranger" title Anita most likely shoved upon whosoever had come across her.

"And what brings you to our fair town," this kind, unabashed, and cheerful whomever would ask and Anita would tap her foot in impatience and state that she was only passing through and had no intentions of staying or making any friends. She would emphasize the last part. And once again, this friendly, rather sweet and considerate neighbor would nod, maybe stroke their chin, and relay how understandable her sentiments were. They would go on to talk of how miserable it was to come to such a fair town and make good friends when all you plan to do is to pass through, and it's never a fun day the day you have to say good-bye to any friend you make in life. Anita would then pucker her lips in anguish, uncertain of how to kindly tell this friendly person to get lost, and the conversation would indubitably continue. But, of course, no one did come across Anita, and no conversation did ensue.

So Anita made her way with a purposeful stride across the playground without interruption, clicking her tongue impertinently at the rusted jungle gym and peeling paint, the dirt patched grass, and poorly maintained, more than half-empty sand box. She paused, admired the freshly scrubbed brick wall at the side of the school, but frowned once more when she noticed an underlying of chalk dust not fully cleaned off.

From looking at her, one could tell that Anita was a strict woman raised, most likely in a strict environment. She was, once again from her appearance, one that had every opportunity to succeed in life not so much waved in front of her face as thrust upon her in the most forceful of manners. Her pale, young face depicted one carved almost from stone and lost within a permanent grimace. She held her body stiff, and moved with anchored power. If first impressions were everything, then Anita would have truly impressed any onlooker with the notion that this woman had some sort of straight, metallic or wooden, object surgically grafted to her spine.

Anita's true reason for being on that playground was clearly evident from the way she paused at a certain area on the blacktop, her face tilted slightly giving the impression that she was staring intently at the ground. She finally reached up and removed the sunglasses, revealing to any who would have seen her at that moment, bemusement playing in sparkling blue eyes, paler than her sallow skin. She bent, which an onlooker would have decidedly thought was a painful experience considering her unalterable stance, and squatted on the ground.

"Four lines on a blacktop," Anita said rather pleasantly, a smirk playing across her flashy red lips and anyone within listening distance would have taken note of the deep confidence in Anita's husky voice, "Hm...a simple trick of separation and isolation to the mind," she noted, then with a malicious mocking chuckle, "For simple minded people." A clatter, as anyone would have described the sound that startled Anita to her feet, was found to be nothing more than trashcans unsettled by a retreating feline. It was, however, the hulking figure following the cat that aroused Anita to liveliness and forced her into hiding within the shadows of the playground.

Miss Finster was a well-known face on that playground, and seemed no more out-of-place on that blacktop than the slide and swings themselves, but to Anita, who knew this woman no more than she knew the old man that lived across the street, found Miss Finster not only repulsive, but unseemly on the dark school grounds. Feeling it necessary to appropriate an escape route and leave the perimeter in the most soon-as-possible fashion, Anita began to calculate her situation only to be drawn away from that plan when she noticed this humbling monstrosity pause and look down quite distantly at those four lines on the blacktop that only moments before Anita had been studying.

"My box," this massive creature moaned, "My sweet brainchild. So faded, like the discipline you once reaped on that hooligan Dettwieler." Anita sensed a prickling at the back of her neck, one she recognized all too well. A kindred spirit stood before her. A woman of ambition, striving to change the world for her better and no one else's, one small mind at a time. And in this woman, this horribly hideous woman, Anita saw her plan for the future, for her future, fester. Now, Anita realized that she needed to approach this obviously wounded beast with caution. Slow movements, and more particularly, simple words were the way to go. Anita stepped forward, sensing an immense, and in Anita's opinion misplaced, pride in this haggard woman, and, of course, saw her ticket.

"So this...this brilliancy," Anita began and the sobbing woman was brought to her feet in a start, searching the darkened shadows and finding Anita with ease, "This..." what had the woman only moments ago referred to it as? "This...box," Anita spread her arms wide, motioning towards those four lines, "Was your doing?"

"Who the devil are you?"

"Anita Baxter," the name rolled of the small woman's tongue with unhesitant ease, "But that is a small, trivial matter compared to who you are? Which would be...?"

"Muriel Finster," came the snappish reply, like wind and hurricane, "What are you doing on these premises?"

"Admiring," Anita replied as though that were as obvious as the stars in the sky, "Admiring this...magnificent creation."

"My box?" Miss Finster questioned, showing a lacking in the once furious standing she'd held mere seconds prior, "But it's only...well...it's only four..."

"Four lines on the pavement?" Anita suggested, quickly filling in the blanks, "But no doubt a depiction of the isolation necessary to break the spirit of any, even a strong-willed, mutineer or anarchist. Divide and conquer, an age-old ideology. You've read the Art of War, haven't you?"

"Well..." Miss Finster chuckled sheepishly and a flicker of a smile slid onto Anita's face. People were easy, and this old woman was no exception. She was already crumbling. "Maybe once or twice," Miss Finster shrugged, "But, this box failed. It was supposed to be a disciplinary object, but...that darned TJ Dettwieler and his friends..." Miss Finster clenched her fists, and it was more than evident of how infuriated this knowledge made her from the bone white of her knuckles.

"Well, it's a brilliant start, this box of yours," Anita nodded, continuing on the path she'd started upon, stalking around the box, eyeing it eagerly as though it were a mug of gold, and rubbing her chin in deep concentration, "But you're not going to end this endeavor...this genius endeavor, are you? One failure is certainly no cause to give up." Anita waited patiently for the answer, stopping and glancing at this Miss Finster with a casual observance.

"I...I guess there's no success without a little failure," Miss Finster surmised, and Anita felt a full-fledged grin spread along her cheeks.

"Ah, I have an interesting proposal," Anita started, "I may not have as brilliant an idea as this box, but I do have a degree in psychology..." She raised an eyebrow, "Perhaps I could be of assistance on this project of yours." Miss Finster looked thoughtful, almost as though considering backing out of the conversation all together and unraveling all the hard effort Anita had just put into the elder woman. "Well," Anita, playing her next move like a master chess player, went on, "I suppose you could just try another box...and who knows, this TJ Dettwieler, may just make another fool of your box."

"You got yourself a deal missy," Miss Finster spat so fast Anita barely had time to relish the moment. And as they shook hands any onlooker would have told Miss Finster the following day that he or she were either going completely insane or they saw her under the silvery moonlight that night sealing a deal with the devil. But, of course, there were no onlookers.

END A/N: Hmmm......who is this Anita Baxter, and what, if any, are her ulterior motives? Why was she originally at Third Street and what does she really plan to do with Miss Finster's box? Ah...so many questions...and not one answer as of now....

PLEASE REVIEW, so that I'll know if you would like me to continue with this one or not. REVIEWs make my world go 'round, especially the long ones. I do read them. I read them, I relish them, I make love to them...well, not really....dum de dum....REVIEW! I especially expect to hear from you lovova, a long stunning REVIEW criticizing everything I changed and everything I wrote and your opinions on every sentence! This was originally your idea so your opinion is incredibly important to me.

Thanks for Reading, and please excuse any grammatical and typing errors.