The Alone

You were standing in the wake of devastation
And you were waiting on the edge of the unknown
And with the cataclysm raining down
Inside crying "Save me now"
You were there, impossibly alone.

"Iridescent", Linkin Park.

~DKR~

Crane was silent as I sat down, which worried me slightly. When dangerous and brilliant men are quiet, it usually means they're plotting. Since most of his latest plots seemed to result in me being injured in some way, I was, understandably, not comfortable with the idea. Though I'd prefer injuries to kissing.

Light streamed in from a small window high above the table, a window I hadn't noticed on my mad dash for the door two days earlier, illuminating hovering pieces of dust and the darker flecks of blue in his icy eyes. For a moment, neither of us spoke or moved, each trying to get a feel for the other. When he did finally reach down to pick something off of the floor, I flinched, then mentally cursed when his lips twitched upward in a smirk. Knock it off, Maestro, that's the second time you've done that today.

He pulled up a white paper sack, the bottom of which was spotted with clear grease, and I hated the way my mouth instantly began to fill with saliva.

Hungryhungryhungry! My brain reacted with single-minded desire at the scent that wafted through the air, and it took every ounce of restraint I had left to keep from yanking the bag from his hand. Fortunately, he didn't make me, either because this was another move in his favorite game of "Mess with Maestro" or he simply wanted to get on with things, and tossed the sack carelessly in my direction. I caught it with the delicacy of someone handling fine china, before practically ripping open the bag to get at the burger and fries inside. In that second, I didn't care that I was taking food from the man I hated. If I refused it, I would probably drop from weakness, and that wouldn't help me. I doubted I had the willpower to do say no at this point anyway.

The sandwich was literally the most delicious thing I had ever put in my mouth, and I'm not sure I could tell you everything that was on it; I practically inhaled it as Crane looked on in amusement.

"The Great Maestro deigns to eat in my presence. I'm flattered," he commented wryly as I crumpled the wrapping that had once covered the burger and tossed it back on the table, having now sated my hunger enough to eat the fries one at a time, as opposed to just shoving handfuls in my mouth as I had been tempted to do at the beginning.

I shot him a dirty look but said nothing, as conversing with him left a bad taste in my mouth and I wanted to enjoy these last precious bites of food. It was gone all too soon, however, and I finally pushed the last of my trash away and sat back, stomach moderately full, before looking at him expectantly. When he said nothing, I sighed and made a "continue" motion with my hands.

"Well?" I demanded in a rasp, quelling the spark of annoyance that reared its head at the sound of my damaged vocal chords, "You wanted to get inside my head, right? So get on with it."

His eyes flashed with sick amusement. "What, no thank you?"

I gave him a look of cool annoyance but said nothing. A sandwich is the least you owe me, creep.

He released a mock-sigh at my silence and sat forward, before placing a recording device on the table and switching it on. I looked at it, and then him, incredulously. "You're joking."

"I assure you I'm quite serious. I record all of my sessions for later study," he responded, and I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.

"Where is my mask?" I asked, not really expecting him to tell me, but at least he seemed surprised at the abrupt change in topic.

"Why? I've more than seen your face," he pointed out, studying me with those deadly blue eyes of his.

I glowered. "Not the point."

"Ah. That I can certainly understand. However, you don't get it back just yet. I'm not interested in Maestro; she's deluded herself into thinking she's on the same level as the Batman and is therefore not worth my time. No, I want to talk to the other one, the girl behind the mask. The one whose face I can see," he said, leaning just the slightest bit forward.

"She's dead," I spat, feeling the lie on my tongue but determined that he would never know the truth, "she's been dead for years."

"Somehow I doubt that. I've seen her, and I think she's still in there somewhere."

"Not all of us are made up of more than one person," I snapped back, anger rising.

He gave me a look then, one I couldn't interpret and, frankly, wasn't sure I wanted to. "No, not all. But you and I are."

"We're nothing alike," I snarled through the burn in my throat, my fingers drumming out a furious pace on the table beside me. His eyes tracked their movement intently before flicking back up to meet my own.

"I think you'd be surprised," he murmured, before blinking and shifting back in his chair before I could reply. "I believe it's my turn for a question?" he inquired, and I frowned, realizing I'd accidentally used up one of my own. We hadn't specified a limit, but I made a mental note to stick to the most pressing matters just in case. Besides, the more I asked, the more he asked, and I was eager to keep him as away from my private life as possible.

I was glad I no longer needed to ask why he'd chosen to spare me; it would have been far worse if he'd had to tell me himself instead of me figuring it out on my own. Something told me he knew I knew, and I was relieved when he didn't bring it up.

"Why do you call yourself 'Maestro'?" he began, and I shifted, relieved at the simplicity of the question.

"I like music."

"Why 'maestro'?" he pressed, no doubt used to having to drag out answers from his patients, "Surely there were any number of musical aliases to choose from, since your own name clearly meant nothing to you," he commented dryly, and I couldn't keep from smirking at him.

"The maestro is the one who gives the orders. He or she is the one totally in control of every section of the masterpiece being presented, which is oftentimes something of his or her own design," I replied evenly, my smirk widening as I watched understanding dawn in his eyes.

"The name is an assertion of your power. It's arrogance."

My grin broadened sardonically. "I have many wonderful traits, Doc, but humility isn't one of them."

"And I suppose asking you your real name would be pointless?"

"At least buy me a drink first."

He studied me again, seeming to turn something over in his mind. "I'll get it out of you eventually, you know."

I shrugged, inwardly slightly amused. The Batman doesn't even know my name. What on earth makes you think I'd ever tell you?

"We'll see, won't we?" I asked, attempting to sound bored and not as though the thought of him using his toxin to make me scream my name flashed before my eyes. Because it did. And, cue the fear... yep, there it is, right on schedule. Lovely.

"So what should I call you in the meantime?" he asked quietly, in a way that made it sound as though he were talking more to himself than to me. I figured he probably had a lot of experience in that area.

"Well, I'd prefer not to be within speaking distance of you, but you could, I don't know, use my name," I spat, growing more and more irritated that he wasn't getting the picture.

"No, I already mentioned it doesn't suit you," he replied almost absently, and I fixed him with a challenging glare. Suddenly, his face lit up. "Songbird. I think that fits quite well," he said, sitting back and taking in my reaction. I probably didn't disappoint; I tensed with unease at the nickname that was obviously supposed to be demeaning. That's way too close...

Still, I lifted my chin and glowered at him scornfully. "Cute. Infantile, but cute just the same. Now, it's my turn, unless there's anything else about me you'd like to criticize?"

His eyes flashed in cruel amusement. "I'm sure it can wait. By all means, continue."

"Does Bane know I'm here?" I asked immediately, sitting forward in anticipation of the answer. I hadn't seen hide or hair of any Goons since I'd been here, which was both unsettling and relieving since I'd learned to look over my shoulder for them every day for over a month.

He sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose under his glasses, seemingly very annoyed at the mention of the terrorist. I was reminded that Crane was an extreme narcissist; the thought of having to take orders when it came to the courts, (despite his continued claims that Bane truly held no power there) probably irked him to no end.

"He was told that you fell through the ice. I merely allowed him to assume what he wanted," said Crane softly.

I raised an eyebrow. "You didn't tell him you took me? What about the Goo- his men?"

He gave a small, superior smirk, which, for the first time since I'd met him, wasn't directed at me, and his eyes flashed conspiratorially. "Bane assumed that they were more afraid of him than of anything else, and as a result they would never hide anything from him. He was wrong. They fear much, much more than him."

I didn't doubt it and suppressed a shiver at his tone. That... is actually brilliant. Scary and sick, yes, but also brilliant. "So he knows nothing about the gunfight or my failed escape attempt?"

"All he knows, and might I add I just made this point not five seconds ago, is that the ice collapsed under you, and you fell through. It isn't really an unusual fate among those sentenced to exile," Crane said, looking very much like he wanted to roll his eyes.

I snorted despite myself. "That's not even a lie."

"Sometimes even I have to deal with the disappointment of having to tell the truth. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement, if you stop and consider it. I get to keep my life and test subject," he smirked darkly again, and I was jolted out of my brief moment of amusement at the reminder of just who I was conversing somewhat civilly with, "and you get the 'masked menace', as your brats call him, off your back. He can't target someone he believes to be dead."

I sneered at him. "So I simply exchanged one deluded psycho for another. Lucky me."

His gaze was cruel and cold and mocking. "While we're on the subject of the delusional, let's talk about the Batman." His sudden scorn was almost tangible, and I shot him a glare that had been known to hospitalize weaker men, letting him know he was treading on dangerous ground.

"What about him?" I asked, attempting to sound casual despite the ever-present rasp in my throat.

"He's obviously your hero; he probably saved your life which explains your need to idolize him. But he's gone, Songbird, and not for the first time. Why would you put the person who keeps abandoning you on a pedestal?" he asked, something in his tone telling me he knew how this conversation was affecting me. I chose my next words carefully and fought a rising tide of anger at his continued use of that stupid name.

"I guess because I don't see it that way."

"Oh?" There was boredom in his tone, but the gleam behind his eyes told me he was paying close attention.

"I don't see someone who leaves. I see someone who has always come back. Despite how much he's hated, despite the number of people who keep trying to kill him, despite the fact that this city has spit in his face time and time again, he has always come back. And I know he will again, because that's the kind of ang- person he is. He's always been there when we needed him most." I felt my face color at my minor slip even as I tried to play it off, and something in Crane's eyes told me he knew exactly what I'd been about to say. They tore a hole straight through me, stripping me of every defense I'd put up until he reached the epicenter of who I was.

"You mean he's always been there when your parents weren't."

My eyes widened. How could he have known about that? Maybe it was some kind of superpower psychiatrists had, and he had just never turned it in when he turned in his sanity. "What makes you say that?" I asked casually, training my eyes on my chipped nails.

"Simple psychology; the loyalty you have for him is reminiscent of the way a child is loyal to his or her father: he's an 'angel' that can do no wrong and will always be there. You're projecting because you feel alone," he said, sounding bored again.

I bit back a snarl. My dad was no angel. "My turn," I said, too quickly for it to be anything but obvious that I wanted a subject change, "where are we, exactly?"

He cocked his head at me. "Why does it matter? You aren't going anywhere."

"Humor me," I spat back, growing irritated.

"We are currently in the basement of the penthouse building where I live," he replied smoothly, and I blinked.

"Bane let you have a penthouse? Just because you send people to their deaths with a few bangs of your hammer a couple times a day?"

A snarl formed on his lips. "He didn't let me have anything. I've lived here for years."

Right. Narcissist. Forgot about that. "Where in the city are we?" I asked, pretending that was my question all along. In reality, just knowing that I was in a basement was calming, and the very fact that there was a window let me know that I wasn't buried in some secret lab five miles underground. Because that? That would suck.

He raised an eyebrow. "That you certainly don't need to know," he responded, and I made a face but let it slide, knowing that it really wouldn't have made a difference anyway. "Tell me about your parents," Crane continued, shifting in his chair to get more comfortable and adjusting the recording device on the table out of what looked like habit. There was something like... well, not quite excitement, but interest, on his face.

"No. Try again," I replied without hesitation. I tried to keep my voice calm despite the fear of refusing him that had suddenly settled in my stomach. Something flashed dangerously in his gaze, but he merely pursed his lips and rolled his shoulders before reaching for the recording device again.

"As you wish. It looks like our session has been concluded."

"No!" I repeated, reaching out and grabbing his wrist without thinking, "I've still got questions."

With an almost inhuman speed, his free hand lashed out and grabbed my own in a vice grip, and my life flashed before my eyes as I recognized the Scarecrow. I should never have touched him.

"I told you, Songbird," he hissed, his eyes and voice significantly darker and I trembled, too afraid to even attempt to pull away or become irritated with the name, "the more questions you answer, the more answers you'll get. How well did you honestly expect your so-called 'right to pass' to go?"

I didn't answer, petrified as his hand tightened around my wrist. There would be bruises there tomorrow.

He sneered at my silence. "The Great Maestro, the one who runs her mouth almost constantly is suddenly at a loss for words? Contact the Gotham Times."

He paused and looked at me, really looked, and for a moment I believed he would release me as I tried not to tremble beneath the intensity of his gaze, to no avail. Instead, he tightened his grip even more and yanked me closer to him, our faces very close as I leaned across the table, too terrified to struggle. How had this gone downhill so fast?

"You don't want to talk about your parents because you believe your story is unique, special. Well, let's just see how many stereotypes you fit, shall we? You definitely come from a broken home, your type always does. You run an adamant anti-adult campaign, but I'd bet anything it's men you don't trust because daddy left you when you were young, am I right? Abandonment and trust issues galore, how sad. Because of this you feel the need to project your need for male attention elsewhere, in this case, onto the Batman, where your affection is sadly and pathetically unrequited. Now mommy's tricky; this could go either way, abusive or angelic. But I'm willing to bet she probably died the night I heard you scream and that you loved her very much, am I right? But the Batman saved you, cementing your loyalty to him for eternity. So that's where your sad little quest for vengeance or justice or whatever they're calling it now began, and you've been alone ever since. But how does the Bat connect to her?" he mused aloud, and I cursed myself mentally for the sheen of tears that now clouded my vision, refusing to let them fall as something black and hate-filled clawed and tore at my soul, begging to be released.

I searched frantically for Maestro's walls and came up empty as Scarecrow systematically tore them down. Not even Jazz or Savvy knew these things about me and this man, this nightmare, this demon had unearthed them with a glance.

But the Scarecrow wasn't finished. "Did the Bat try and connect with you about mommy?" he asked, sounding disgusted, "Did he come and find you and tell you how sorry he was? Made you feel protected, safe? Did he make you feel like you had an angel at your side? He's no angel, Songbird, he's a man, just like me."

My world exploded into red fury and a need for violence, and I launched myself at him, ignoring my exhaustion and pain yet again and managing to land a strike against his jaw before he reacted. He landed a single, solid clip to my shoulder, pointedly hitting my weakest spot, and I screamed in pain before doubling over, stars clouding my vision. I felt him take hold of my form and restrain (as well as support) me against his own body.

All I could think was that he was so lucky I was injured, because otherwise he never would have taken control of the situation that easily.

"I wondered how long it would take for you to resort to physical violence," he said coolly, the soft tones telling me Crane had regained control, and my head spun as he slowly – almost gently, which was bizarre – guided my form to the cot against the wall I'd seen earlier.

"You're wrong," I managed through the buzzing in my head as he released me, allowing me to fall carelessly onto the cot.

"About?" he asked, sounding faintly amused as I leaned back against the wall, overwhelmingly dizzy and suddenly nauseated.

"The Batman. He's not just a man, he's more than that. And he's nothing like you," I replied, closing my eyes and feeling the truth of it, allowing it to strengthen me, to soothe me. (Secretly, in the darkest, most remote part of my mind, I wondered if I really was projecting onto him. It was a concern I would never, ever voice aloud.)

"You should sleep," Crane said, as casually as though the last thirty seconds had never happened as he switched off the recording device and placed it back in his pocket, rubbing his jaw where a bruise was beginning to form, "you've had a very trying day, and I've got to get back to the courthouse, lest your masked menace come knocking."

I didn't want to sleep, I wanted to stand and yell and hit him, but the pain in my shoulder was agonizing and I was cold again, so I curled up against the wall and rested my forehead on my knees. I was so tired of mind games.

For a moment, there was utter silence, and I could feel his icy gaze on me. Then there was a hand fisted in my hair and hot breath on my ear, and I tensed, fingernails digging into my jeans. I didn't dare look up.

"You are a very remarkable specimen, Songbird," Crane murmured, and I wanted to hit him again but didn't dare, "and if I were to lose you now, after how well we've come to know each other... well, I'd be very put out. So be a good girl and don't do anything stupid."

It occurred to me that he wasn't talking about escaping, he was talking about me killing or injuring myself further if I tried. There was a brush of something smooth and warm that passed over the shell of my ear, there for the briefest moment and gone the next. I went rigid, blood boiling.

"Drop dead," I hissed, so quietly I wasn't sure if he heard me.

His only reply was a dark chuckle, and after another moment or two, I heard the door to my right open, shut, and then lock.

I was alone.

I was cold.

I was angry.

I lifted my chin and turned to look at the window, right above the table where the horrible conversation had taken place, and gave a small smirk.

I was getting out of here.

~DKR~

There were four of them.

Men with guns, that is.

They slammed through the hospital doors, fired a few rounds in the air, and moved swiftly along, only leaving one man behind to guard the staff in the lobby who were now crouching on the ground.

Stitches sank next to the cart she'd been using to deliver meals to patients, her mind and heart racing. There was only one person important enough to kill here: the very same person that had been attacked and admitted only a few nights ago and had always smiled at her when she brought him his meals. Commissioner Gordon.

She didn't know what prompted her next course of action. Looking back on it she never would, because she had never been particularly brave; that was always her sister's area of expertise. Maybe it was the fact that she was close to the ward where she knew a back staircase was located, one that would give her a direct shortcut to Gordon's hallway. Maybe it was the thought that no, a man like him didn't deserve to die, not like this. Maybe it was the fact that she knew her mother, nowhere near the lobby, would have no idea that there were armed men in the building. Maybe it was the fact that she just knew she had to move.

So she did.

She sprang forward from her stooped position and burst through the doors, her momentum and sudden movement giving her a massive head start over the man guarding the lobby. She had slipped into the stairwell and was halfway up before he even had time to pursue, and she knew he wouldn't catch up to her, not having seen where she'd turned.

And so she ran. Or flew, more accurately; her feet hardly seemed to touch the ground. Panic and urgency pulsed through her veins; she wasn't even sure why she was running with such desperation, but she did not stop or even slow. Something drove her up, up, up, and she chose to listen to it rather than think.

Finally, after precious long moments, she burst through the doors at the top of the stairwell leading to Gordon's ward. His room was at the other end; a quick sprint would get her there in no time and then she could... warn him, or do whatever it was her gut was telling her to do now. She had thrown logic out the window long ago, and stopping to plan had never even crossed her mind.

She sprinted towards the end of the hall; her sneakers pounded the linoleum as she desperately sucked in air, her lungs burning.

There were three of them.

Men with guns, that is.

They'd arrived on the third floor and were currently making a beeline to Gordon's room. Stitches was too far away; she wasn't going to make it before they did. She opened her mouth to shout a warning, feeling the words form on her tongue, when something happened that made her skid to a halt. Her mother.

She was coming out of Gordon's room, her attention fixed on her clipboard, oblivious to the danger she was in, and Stitches' words stuck in her throat. She couldn't move or breathe or even blink.

The rapid movement of the men suddenly caught her mother's eye, and the woman didn't even hesitate.

With the speed of a woman used to dealing with emergency situations, she registered the guns in the hands of the men and understood why they were there, and a look of fierce determination crossed her face. She planted her feet in front of the Commissioner's doorway, arms held out as though to keep the men at bay. Stitches knew this stance; she knew it well. It was the protector, the defender, the fighter; it was the part of her mother that had sworn an oath to do what was necessary to save her patient.

Two gunshots. That was it.

A simple double-tap was all it took to bring her mother, her strong, beautiful mother who had raised two children on her own after the death of her husband and simultaneously kept up a difficult job with odd hours, to the ground, and the men carelessly shoved her form mid-fall into an empty room nearby.

Belatedly, Stitches found her voice.

She screamed.

~DKR~

Scout was on her feet almost before she'd opened her eyes, stumbling away from her mat in the corner of the new base, yet another warehouse, as tears streamed down her face.

It had been almost four days now.

Four days since they'd brought her sister to her wrapped in an old tarp.

Four days since Maestro had been taken.

Four days since she'd been left alone.

Four days of the seeing the same horrific dream whenever she closed her eyes.

It was exactly the way Stitches had described; it had taken days of begging to get her to reveal anything about what she had seen of their mother's death, but when she finally did, her sister had been unable to spare a detail, weeping as she recounted the story. She supposed it was only fitting that the dream take on Stitches' perspective, rather than her own.

Scout was the one weeping now, trembling with grief as she avoided the rebels inside the base, as well as the lookouts on the rooftops when she burst into the cold afternoon air, maneuvering around them with an ease that came with being a spy. She didn't know where she was going, only that it was away, and that this was, in her mind, a good thing.

The streets were dark and ominous and eerie, but Scout paid no mind as she walked, pulling her wounded arm tighter against herself and allowing muscle memory to take over.

She was exhausted and alone.

"Scout?"

Then again, maybe not.

The tearful girl looked up to see that she had wandered in front of the restaurant where the commissioner's men had taken up residence, and that it was Gordon himself who had called her name. He was standing in the threshold of the doorway that opened into the alley, a concerned expression on his face.

"Hello Commissioner," she greeted quietly, brushing her tears away with the sleeve of her jacket and hoping she was too far away for him to notice.

Savvy had moved their base closer to Gordon's since she and Jazz were spending nearly all of their time there now, planning and scheming while their scouts rounded up any intel on the trucks and Maestro's whereabouts. They had done one or two small raids on the Goon patrols, emerging the victors each time with Gordon's armed men at their backs, but so far Bane had not retaliated. Perhaps he was still reveling in his supposed victory over Maestro. It was more likely he was lying in wait, ready to pounce when one of them made a mistake.

"Are you alright, kid?" the commissioner asked just as quietly as she had spoken, snapping her out of her thoughts.

She nodded, stepping farther away from him so he couldn't see the grief on her face. "Fine, sir. I was just out for a walk."

"It's awfully cold out," Gordon replied with the characteristic concern of a parent, "Why don't you come inside?"

Scout hesitated. Had Maestro been around, she would have refused out of loyalty if nothing else and turned to go back to her base and her leader.

But Maestro wasn't here. Scout was alone.

With a nod, she stepped across the threshold and avoided looking at Gordon's face, instead gripping her wounded arm with her good hand and keeping her head down. The kitchen, dubbed the "War Room" by Savvy and Jazz, was void of people, and Gordon guided her to a chair before placing his jacket over her shoulders.

She sneezed suddenly, making the commissioner jump and her realize how cold it had actually been outside.

"Sorry," she apologized sheepishly, before looking back down at the table. He gave her a small smile and began rummaging around behind her. The sound of pouring liquid reached her ears, but she didn't turn to look.

"I didn't mean to bother you," she continued softly, looking at one of the maps on the table that was covered in red X's, each representing a target, "I wasn't even planning on walking by. It kind of just... happened."

Gordon placed a Styrofoam cup of something that steamed delightfully in front of her and sat down quietly. She smelled chocolate, and, for a moment, a single instant in time, her face brightened and she lunged for the cup, sipping it almost blissfully. It had been so long since she'd had something so sweet.

"Are you alright?" Gordon's voice interrupted her internal monologue for the second time that night.

She shrugged. "I was on night patrol last night, so I was trying to sleep, but I couldn't, so I went for a walk instead."

"Are you having nightmares?" he inquired, and she snapped her head up to look at him in surprise.

"How did you know?"

He sighed and sat back. "I deal with a lot of people who lose loved ones. It's common in trauma victims. Do you want to talk about it?"

Scout looked down. Maestro would tell her to say no, that she didn't want to talk about it, and why didn't he mind his own business, anyway?

But Maestro wasn't here. Scout was alone.

"I keep having the same dream. I'm Stitches, and I'm in the hospital the day… the day Mom died. I watch it happen, and then I wake up. But it doesn't feel like a dream, it feels like she's actually dying, over and over and over again, and no matter how many times it happens, I can't do anything to stop it. I can't save her," She sniffed, choking back a sob and feeling her eyes fill with tears, "No one saves her."

There was a sigh from the other end of the table, one that was grieved and weary, and she looked up to see pain in the commissioner's eyes. Pain for her.

"Scout," he began, his voice never rising above a murmur, "before she died, I gave your sister my word that I would make sure you both were taken care of. I couldn't keep my promise to her, but I'm keeping it to you," he sighed again, and sat forward, folding his hands on the table as he looked at her with a fatherly sort of gaze. "You aren't alone, alright? I know it feels that way, but trust me, you aren't. I'm here for whatever you need."

Trust me. Scout stared at him as soon as those two words left his lips. Maestro never would have trusted him; he was an adult and a cop, and, in her mind, a liar. She reserved trust only for a precious few, only for those she deemed truly worthy.

But Maestro wasn't here. And Scout...

"I do."

Scout trusted Gordon.

He seemed confused at her statement. The "trust" part of the conversation hadn't been his point, she knew, but it was the most important part, the part that mattered more than anything else.

"You do what?"

"Trust you." It was both a warning and an assurance, and something changed in Gordon's eyes.

And while the pain for her sister was still fresh, and her fear for Maestro still thrummed like a second heartbeat, Scout didn't feel so alone anymore.

A/N: I don't own DKR, but I do own Maestro, any OC's, and the plot. The recommended song for this chapter is "Iridescent" by Linkin Park.

Special thanks as always to my Beta for this story, Amai-chan1993, for the incredibly helpful editing and feedback! This story wouldn't be near as good as it is today without her help. :)

A special thanks also to (deep breath): WithNoFear, Eva Sirico, AlainHotCoco1, Solstice White, Deathstroke Terminator, VivieAnne, WarriorDragonElf54, MockingjayWolf, Cara Mia Caramel, ElfinCleona, dEnIsE tHe StRaNgE, SilverBulletAngel, a random bat, DesdemonaEmo13, Andyouthoughticared, and the outsider19 for the lovely reviews, as well as anyone who favorited or alerted! You guys are wonderful!

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Sincerely,

Starcrier.