AN: Not much to say here...Except that the plot will thicken like that gross sludge Mrs. Lovett used in her pies! Yay!

Mrs. Mooney is introduced, along with Edward Mooney, her son. Can you ever guess who his character is based on? (Hint: It's a Tim Burton/Johnny Depp collaboration.)

Angst, angst, angst!

But who's to say we can't have a bit of dark humor in there?

Nobody, that's who!

Now, boldly forward, faithful readers!

"And the power's out in the heart of man, take it from your heart put in your hand. And there's something wrong in the heart of man,take it from your heart and put it in your hand!"

--- Neighborhood #3: Lights Out by The Arcade Fire

"If the red slayer think he slays, or if the slayer think he is slain, they know not the subtle ways I keep, and pass, and turn again."

--- Brahma, a poem by Ralph Waldo Emerson

Part III: The Other Pie Shop

London itself seemed much the same as it always had, and Mrs. Eleanor Lovett thought it to be quite a disappointment in this regard.

The streets seemed as filthy as ever, filled with the beggar women (no matter how many were killed, or how many died, they would persist, much like an insect) and packed with all every spectrum of classes: the poor orphans, the middle class merchants, the rich aristocratic folk who walking at leisurely paces, dressed in fine clothes, and glowing with color on the dank streets, as if they had strode out boldly from an oil painting on a lovely spring picnic, and into the streets of this horrid city, looking as if nothing was wrong.

She wonders how they can act as if nothing is wrong, but cannot bother asking any of the couples that she passes by, walking easier now, with more precision and balance. It wasn't too difficult, this business of re-acquainting oneself with moving about, and Mrs. Lovett felt her spirits rise at the pride of her accomplishment. She pauses, however, when she reaches the corner of the once so familiar Fleet Street.

It is like a wall, a barricade, and people turn away from it, in their paths toward their destination, or scuttle through an alleyway, darting across the cobblestones and off, away from the street where Mrs. Lovett's Meat Pie's once was, and where Sweeney Todd had sliced many a throat, sending the dying men plummeting into her cellar bellow. Upon stepping out, onto Fleet Street itself, she almost laughs.

It is nearly empty, save a old man, huddled outside in an alcove by the grocer's. He's sleeping soundly, shivering from the winter chill, and she passes by him, without stopping. She has heard the tales in America, of the West, and deserts, and towns once inhabited that have been abandoned, left as if everyone simultaneously decided to leave. Her home is like one of those little ghost towns, silent as the grave.

Perhaps, Nellie thinks, it is fitting for it to be so quiet, so empty and feared. She's a little thrilled, to think she's a legend.

Walking past the grocer, and the printer's shop, she sidles onto the end of Fleet Street's sidewalk, which dead ends directly in front of her, but continues on to her right as Swift Street. She hops onto the slippery stone of the actual street, and makes a direct line to the small shop which sits at the dead end.

It is shabby, painted a peeling black, with chips of paint littering the ground beneath it. The shop has alleyways on either side, leading to the areas of London beyond, but they are seldom used, and only the cats inhabit such a place. Or they used to, at least. Upstairs is what seems to be a small flat, with a cracked flower pot sitting on the window sill, the carnations inside it withered and dead.

The sign above the display window of the shop (empty, save for cobwebs and dust) reads:

"Mrs. Mooney's Infamous Savory Pies"

Shaking her head, Mrs. Lovett sighs. Some things really did not change.

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Alaizabel Mooney had wanted nothing more than to be a playwright. She felt she had always had a distinct flair for all that was dramatic, and all that had to do with the stage. She knew she had the Prescience required of her to act as a heroine, as a villianess, as a misunderstood mother. She had the confidence required of her, the passion that was so helpful, and her parents had had the money to educate her.

But Mrs. Mooney had fallen in love.

Being one who believed in all things thespian, Alaizabel had been the strongest believer in love. She believed so strongly in love's power, and benefits, that she ran away from her parents manor in the outskirts of London to move to the city, and marry Thaniel Mooney, a young man with blonde hair and soft eyes, whose smile produced an erratic beat in her heart, and sent her mind racing. Oh, how love had seemed so perfect then.

Thaniel, however, had turned out to be a failure as a intellectually heightened artist and poet of leisure (as well as a man on complex mental complications), and the new Mrs. Mooney, heartbroken and disillusioned, did not miss him when he was killed by an unidentified man during the nighttime, only four years after their son was born.

She had opened the pie shop on Fleet Street almost immediately afterward, thinking herself a good enough cook to attract customers, and a woman whose education in the ways of sharp knives and objects was more extensive than some, for her father had been a military weapons manufacturer, who had allowed her to read all his books and manuals.

Of course, business had been lovely for years, thanks to her special ingredients, and help from dear Edward, her only son. And there had been other means of income, of course. But then, Mrs. Nellie Lovett had re-opened, and suddenly, when Alaizabel Mooney came in from the bakehouse in her small back courtyard, tray full of pies ready for the lunch rush, she found her little shop to completely empty.

As was such, she had neglected the shop since then, rejoicing briefly when hearing of the horrible slaughter at the shop of her rival, only to be hit worse when the rumors about Fleet Street started. Demons prowled the street, and wild animals roamed the rooftops, waiting for any unsuspecting man to walk by at night, blind by the dark. People were afraid of her pies, Mrs. Mooney's pies, which were perfectly harmless, and simply delicious as well, because of that damned fool Nellie, who had to go and take this one step further, and bake grown men into tasty dinners. It had all but ruined business for Mrs. Alaizabel Mooney, and her son.

Sitting at her counter, absentmindedly carving the initial M into the wood counter-top, she was startled by the cling of her door's bell, an indication of a customer. Ears perking at the sound, the friendly grin spreads across her face, and she puts down the knife.

"Welcome! Wot may I get you, today, then? What sort of pie were you lookin' for?"

The customer is a woman, lean, and pale, dressed in an odd nurse's uniform that buttons to her neck. Sitting down at the table in the corner of the room, this figure nods a greeting to Mrs. Mooney, and then murmurs:

"Ale, if you please."

Alaizabel sighs inwardly, disappointed that this customer (the first in weeks) is not even going to order one pie.

"No pie, then? I assure you, ma'am, they're quite delicious, simply a treat for yer mouth--"

"No, thank you, Alaizabel. I would, if I were not privy to the knowledge that those famous pies yer speakin' of are nothin' more than alley cat baked in toast. So, if you'll not be mindin' me...I'll have my ale, and just that."

The woman's face, previously veiled by her hair, and the darkness of the shop's interior, comes into focus when she raises her chin, light from the smudged window illuminating the wide brown eyes, and that smile that's so very familiar...Alaizabel swears quietly under her breath.

"Good lord...Nellie?" It's barely a whisper.

"The years, I'm sure, have changed me some, Alaizabel. But, yes, it's me. Nellie." She drums her fingers on the tabletop, eyes alight as if she's only been gone a day or two, not five years. Back from the dead, or...?

"I ain't some hallucination, Alaizabel, and I ain't some sort of ghost, if that's what you're thinkin'."

Mrs. Mooney is temporarily speechless, instead nodding slowly, and running into the back room to fetch some ale. Her thoughts are racing. What sort of purpose did Eleanor Lovett have, coming to her, after so many years? She could guess, surely. But why would a woman like her need that sort of thing?

Hustling back to the front area, she sees that Mrs. Lovett has made herself at home, putting her feet up on another empty chair, and fussing with a small flower arrangement on the table. Upon Alaizabel's return, however, her look changes from a quiet, musing expression to one of business-like seriousness. She sits straight, staring at Mrs. Mooney directly, and folds her hands.

"I s'pose you know why I'm 'ere, then."

"I reckon I don't, Nellie. Lord above, how'd you...? We all thought--"

"-- I am in need of a weapon, Alaizabel. And yer the best one for the job."

Mrs. Alaizabel Mooney drops the mug of ale, and it clangs to the floor, spilling the alcohol all over her shoes, and the floor. Her heart pounds, and a sudden wave of regret fills her. She sneers, turning back around and proceeding to knead the dough on her shop counter vigorously, as if trying to exorcise demons from it. She shakes her head.

"No, no. You know, as well as anyone...I no longer make that sort of thing. I took an oath. My husband..."

"So, he used your knives to kill all those poor girls. He was daft in the head and--"

"No! No. It was my fault..." Alaizabel's eyes fall to the floor, and she feels tears forming. Her Thaniel, her love...Why had he descended into madness? Her love should have been enough, but--

Mrs. Lovett stands, reaching down and picking up the empty pint of ale. She frowns, a strange light coming to her eye as she takes the drinking cup to Alaizabel's counter, setting it down loudly. The clank of the metal is too resounding in the room; the tinny ring wavers as Alaizabel stares at this woman in front of her...She is not Eleanor Lovett, certainly.

This woman looks like Mrs. Lovett, but her eyes are cold, and full of fury. Her shoulders are stiff, and seem ready to shy away from touch, her lips set in a tight-lipped expression of determined purpose. Not the same as the bright patron of her rival shop, whose smile lit up rooms, and whose humor and innovative thinking had made her well-liked throughout this quarter of London, even with such horrible pies.

There is a almost invisible struggle in this woman, between the resourceful, generally upbeat Mrs. Lovett of now, and this icy, shell of a woman. There is the look of revenge, a sparkle in the eyes, gleeful at the thought of blood split, and a sadness, a longing for what once was. She has had everything taken away from her.

And Alaizabel Mooney understands.

"Yer gonna kill 'im. Sweeney T--"

"Do not say that name. Do not even think about it. He..." At this, she pauses to run a hand through her tangled mess of hair (at least this hasn't changed), a pained look on her pale features. Collecting herself, Mrs. Lovett leans forward, jaw set.

"If you won't agree to make me one...I'll take one for myself, and leave you less than at your best. And you can trust my word on that."

The widowed Mrs. Mooney sighs, sticking the knife into the table, shaking her head. Times have not been kind to her, and have been even less merciful to this woman, who had been her friend, once. There was a time, that she recalls, when Edward was only about three, sleeping in Albert's old chair, as she was sitting in the parlor of Nellie Lovett's house, the two of them laughing and laughing, sipping gin and splitting a small box of toffees. Back when Albert Lovett had been alive, a skilled butcher, and a good man. Back in the days when her own husband's eyes were still lit with kindness, and love, and his heart had not blackened, spreading a sickness of the mind into his limbs and face, making him grey and cruel. In the time when everyone was happy, and London was bright.

She too had loved a murderer. And although she'd probably never know, Mrs. Mooney knew that her friend and rival still held him in some sort of regard. She always would.

The thing with a man like that was that they never left, and however briefly their hands touched yours, however quick and hasty the kisses were, and the words of love, their burning eyes, full of wicked things and hate, those eyes never left you, even when you sat in the dark, reeling from the force of all that love. Two shining lights in pitch black, beckoning for you to follow. No-one could help loving who they loved, Mrs. Mooney had concluded long ago.

Turning to Mrs. Lovett, she nods curtly, in acknowledgment.

"My past as a weapons maker obviously precedes me...I will have your set ready in two months. Until then...I suggest you prepare yourself for what you have to do. And I have just the teacher for the job."

Nellie looks up, curious.

"Edward...?" She asks, seeming not at all surprised.

Mrs. Mooney smiles at the thought of her brilliant son, the apple of her eye. "Edward," she confirms.

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The ocean is loud in his ears, as he stands in the sand, bare feet tingling at such a sensation.

Sweeney Todd was more used to feeling hard, hot dirt beneath his bare feet, than soft sand. Australia had been too hot, and his legs had suffered, the scorching earth burning the soles of his feet, and numbing them. He had hated walking, at the prison camp.

Today, it is a cold January morning. The sun is obscured by many rain clouds, only visible as a line of light on the ocean's horizon. Folding his arms, Sweeney looks back and sees his boots, nestled in the sand a few yards away. He thinks briefly about returning inside, but then decides against it. Why should he, when the wind is so cold, it tingles his skin, waking him up from slumber and whipping his hair about? Today should be good, he thinks.

But he is distracted.

He did not think being distracted would be such a problem, now that the Judge is dead, and his thoughts of revenge are sliding away, freeing his brain up for new thoughts, new questions. Today, he ponders her.

Brown hair, brown eyes, and the pale skin. She was almost frail, now that he thought of it. Like something about to break. Perhaps she seemed to unreachable, so out of range of his violence and rage, that she had appeared invincible. Of course, she wasn't. She had died.

"Nearly," he corrects himself, and the idea makes his heart pound, and his worry to increase. How could one deal with such a situation?

The best idea he could come up with was to do nothing; after all, she knew nothing about where he was living, or how to get here. Or even if he was in the country at all. He really needn't worry...But Sweeney Todd worried all the same, for it was in his nature to do so.

How would she react, upon waking up, and realizing how she had got there?

He imagines her heart would break, if it had not already broken, that night, five years before. Trying to kill the woman who loves you was definitely not a good way to leave a person...He imagines she would be furious with him.

Sweeney Todd's mouth turns downward in a scowl of discontent; he dislikes the thought of her being upset with him immensely, perhaps out of a natural habit. She would always scold him when he didn't eat the food she gave him or didn't sleep all night. Frowning, she would gaze at him, disappointed and not amused. And he would feel guilt, for making her worry so, for making her fret all night, when she worked all day.

Of course, this was only during rare moments of clarity when he noticed the others around him, especially her. An instant where he would forget his thoughts of blood and razors, and remember that there was someone living below who had waited fifteen years for his return, and...

No. No, she had lied, and he had killed Lucy. It was Mrs. Lovett's fault, and she hadn't loved him. Not at all.

He was dozing in his barber's chair, fitful and sweating, his dreams full of nightmares. Sitting up, eyes wide and heart pounding, he had found a blanket, tucked up to his chin, and a tray of soup and ale, with a side of bread, waiting for him on top of the wooden trunk.

Sitting on a stool in front of him, Mrs. Lovett was dozing quietly, her sleep peaceful.

He ignores the food, and lies back down, pushing the blanket away. But as he closes his eyes, he can hear the rustle of her skirt, and a warm hand reach up, pulling the cloth back up to cover his shoulders.

The hand gingerly touches his cheek, fingers caressing the jawline, delicately, as if handling china. A whispered good night, and she's gone.

This is what it must feel like to have someone who cares for you, if he could feel anything at all.

Sweeney Todd sits cross-legged in the sand, head in his hands, trying to banish these reminders away from his thoughts.

Try as he might, she never seems to go away. Even in death, the woman insists on interrupting every moment of peace.

He curses, and the waves crash on the sand, covering the sound.

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Edward Mooney sits in his chair in his bedroom above the bakehouse, staring hard at the contraption before him.

A master technician, aside from simply being good with his hands, Edward has always enjoyed tinkering with little gears and bolts.

This is his greatest work, though, he thinks, reaching for a wrench. A metal frame of spindly wires, tightly wound together, overlapping and crossed with another to form a series of small pulleys, each responding precisely and intricately. A leather lining on the inside of the frame, and straps to hold the thing in place, and at the end, the wires end in sculpted iron fingers, with scissors in place between the ring finger and the smallest, the middle finger and the index finger, and another between the index digit and the thumb.

A masterpiece.

And each pair of scissors in interchangeable with any other tool, or knife of sharp object. Even, perhaps, once he makes the proper modifications, pens, pencils, tea cups, or gardening tools.

The possibilities are endless.

Edward is startled by the sound of shoes on the stairs leading up to his attic room in the stable that he and his mother converted into a bakehouse and ironworks. Although, the anvil and the fireplace had long since been covered in dust. His mother, a master blacksmith, had specialized in knives and butcher equipment for many years, but had always kept her identity secret from her customers. Edward had always thought it was the taboo of being a woman; it was not proper for a wife to be a blacksmith, more skilled than any man could hope to be. Then again, he had walked the streets, and seen such worse professions for women to hold. His mother only made knives for her dear son now, and he hadn't asked for any new ones since eight years ago, when on his eighteenth birthday, he had received a present of an entire set of butcher's knives and tools from his only parent, who had smiled and told him that since she was making them for him, and she knew her dearest son would never use them for violence, she did not consider it breaking her vow to never manufacture a killing tool ever again.

The shoes make softer steps than his mother's do, and Edward straightens in his chair, his leather boots squeaking as he shifts, trying to work kinks out of his shoulders, which have been hunched over his new gloved scissor-hands for about a half hour now. His black hair falls in his eyes, and he gives a jerk of his head, flipping it back, away from his face. The door gives a screech on its hinges (he reminds himself to replace these as soon as possible) and in walks Mrs. Eleanor Lovett.

His usually emotionless face quickly brightens, and he gives her a small smile.

"I was sure you'd come back," he whispers, "I knew...you weren't dead." He has never been good at speaking loudly, even around such people as Mrs. Lovett, who he considers a friend, as well as his pupil. At this, she chuckles, and sits down on a fruit crate he has opposite his work desk, eying the scissor-hand device.

"Yeah," she drawls, "I'm lucky to be alive, I think. I dunno what really happened, or anything; the doctor who treated me, I didn't really get to speak with 'im about it all...But, you always did think on the brighter side, Edward. And you're the only one what believed I'd come back."

Edward nods, continuing with his work. The spring in-between the wrist and palm is too tight...His thoughts roam elsewhere, and pausing, he throws her a curious gaze.

"I knew...you'd come back," he murmurs, reaching for a small coil of metal spring in his box of tools, "But...I think...I know why. And I don't know...if I should help you."

She's here, he assumes, to learn how to kill Sweeney Todd, formerly known as Benjamin Barker. Edward himself was only about six when the man was taken away, but he can recall the fuss that came with the man's removal from Britain. How Mrs. Lovett (a widow of about three years then) had shown an odd indifference to his mother's insistence of discussing the news of it; how she had gazed up at the ceiling, eyes pained with loss much more keen than the loss she had showed when Mr. Lovett had finally succumbed to death.

Yes, Edward had always been observant, and he had known, very early in his life, that Mrs. Lovett was madly in love with Mr. Barker, or Mr. Todd, or whoever. The man's name did not matter, really, for his student loved the man, not his title, and she had loved him unconditionally. And now...now that he's almost killed her, left her dying in the bakehouse, bloody and in agony, he knows that she will try and kill him. Revenge is such an unpleasant thing.

Her hand, thin, but strong, reaches across the table, and grips his, her eyes pleading.

"Edward...I've been trying to run away from my ghosts all of my live. And when they finally caught up with me...Well, I nearly died. This has to stop, and in order for me to end it...He has to die. I...I can't go on, with him out there, ready to pop up and kill me for good...I can't stand him, in my thoughts and dreams. Surely you know..."

"Yes, well..." Edward mumbles, looking away.

His father. Thaniel Mooney, better known as the Black Knife, a serial murder who had passed many a trait onto his son; the art of knife-work, patience, and memories of the madman who had retreated into his mind, and had not been able to escape. Edward's only fear, the only real terror he has always been so cautious to avoid is the fear of becoming like his father.

He recalls, as a small boy, his father taking him to an alleyway, grabbing up a beautiful bird from the fence to their right, and drawing out his knife...The alley had flooded with the crimson blood from the small thing's body, and his father had looked up at him, smiling as if the two were standing in a field of wildflowers on the most perfect day.

"Look, Edward," he had whispered, rasping, a madman's voice, even then. "Look at how beautiful it is."

He had ran home, and cried, not knowing exactly why, but knowing a deep sadness had filled him, seeing that pretty yellow bird, lying there, lifeless.

Never able to fly.

Edward bites his lip, staring at Mrs. Lovett.

"You convinced my mother...Didn't you?"

"Yes. I was hoping you'd do this favor, for me, but I've got orders from your mum. She wants you to help me, while she's makin' me the stuff."

He sighs. Mother...She is good to him, in the way that over-protective mothers are, and he loves his mother...But, she can be so foolish. How could she allow Mrs. Lovett to do this? Not a care for he well-being, or Mr. Todd's? What happened love, and forgiveness?

Edward picks up the wrench, and the wire clippers, snapping off the too-tight coil, and delicately replacing it. Mrs. Lovett sits, silent, and somewhat fascinated by his intricate work. Finally, satisfied with the new spring mechanism, he looks up.

"You can stay in the guest room, above the shop...Or...At your shop, if you're not too afraid of ghosts, I suppose. I'll start tomorrow...Right now, I'd like to finish this--"

Nodding, she whispers her thanks. She beams, and stands, bowing to him before turning about and exiting as quickly as she came in.

The people around me, Edward thinks. They are all as fleeting as the wind.

He slips his hand into the device, and moves each individual digit. The scissors make a swish noise as he moves his hands, satisfying and crisp.

The sound of success.

Proud of his handiwork, he strides over to the faded curtain hanging in the window, and frowns. He has never liked them...

There is a flurry of motion and snips, the sounds of fabric tearing, and the soft sigh of the cloth pieces falling to the floor. Edward's face twists in concentration, and his hand moves, fast and in light, curving motions, precise. Stepping back, he smiles.

In the curtain, the silhouette of a bird is cut, flying over the sea, and a sun sets behind it, grey light from London's skies illuminating the cut shapes. The bird is soaring over the waves, wings spread wide.

Free, and unharmed.

AN: Sorry if this seemed really repetitive...Mrs. Lovett has everyone doing her work for her, ha ha.

It'll get better in the next chapter. We'll learn more about Edward and Alaizabel Mooney.

And if you didn't guess Edward's origin...You are obviously not of this Earth.

Alaizabel and Thaniel are names of the main protagonists in The Haunting of Alaizabel Cray by Chris Wooding, a fantastic book that takes place at the same time as Sweeney Todd. Sort of a tribute to those characters.

I might re-write this...I'm not too fond of it.

Next chapter:

Part IV: Revenge Isn't a Straight Line