The Escape

I'm leaving my cage on the ground
When I take my bow
I'm watching it burn to the ground
See my feet flying up through the clouds.

"Cage on the Ground", Flyleaf.

~DKR~

The window was my ticket out.

I decided this as I was rummaging around in the kitchenette, ignoring the fact that it was a security window, designed for confinement, and had something that resembled chicken wire in-between the layers of glass. But I would address that problem when I came to it. For now, I needed to find my mask. The Goon who had taken it in the courtroom would have almost definitely given it to Crane; it was too much a part of who I was for him to not want it.

I opened every drawer, save for one that was locked, and peered inside every cabinet. It was nowhere to be found, much to my own irritation. If he had it on him when he left, then there was no chance of me getting it back.

It wasn't like I didn't have other masks back at the base and my apartment, but I wanted Crane to come back and find it gone, to know that I'd not only defied him, but that I'd done it as the Maestro and not... her. With a grimace and a muttered curse as I tenderly rubbed my injured shoulder, which still hurt terribly, I turned to go back to the room where I'd awoken four days ago.

Four days. I paused suddenly, counting in my head to be sure. Had I really been a captive that long?

The day I was taken, the two days I was unconscious, and today. Yep, that makes four, provided Crane wasn't lying about the time frame, which he totally would. Crap, I should have considered that sooner! I increased my pace. Who knows what could have happened to my Young in that amount of time? I need to get out of here.

The thought propelled me into the back room, and as I entered I couldn't help but expect Crane to jump out at me from behind the door, toxin in hand and aimed directly for my face. Yeah, and maybe he'll shout "Boo!" while he's at it. Get a grip.

The table to the left of the door still had many of the same chemicals and tubes as it had when I'd first regained consciousness here, but a few of them were different colors and some of them were no longer bubbling, so I assumed he'd been in here working at least periodically while I was asleep. The thought made a chill race down my spine, but I ignored it in favor of searching the room.

There wasn't much space to hide anything in here, really, unless you counted the crates beneath the table of chemicals. It was doubtful my mask was in there, but I figured it couldn't hurt anybody but Crane if I snooped around a bit. Shoulders heaving with a sudden and unexpected round of coughs that left a stabbing pain in my chest – I thought I was over the whole hypothermia thing? – I crouched down, and, with some difficulty, pulled one of the crates forward.

I gasped as vials and vials and vials of his colorless toxin in liquid form were revealed, each labelled with a specific shade of tape around the stopper, ranging from light green to a deep purple. There looked to be about five trays of this stuff, stacked in this exact order, one on top of the other. A small manifest on the side appeared to show the level of chemical potency, with the lighter colors having the least effect and the darker ones being the most dangerous.

I was looking at a crate full of fear. Fighting back a rising wave of nausea, I nearly toppled the entire thing over and smashed the vials to bits, destroying what I was certain was months – possibly years – worth of work. Crane's expression when he got back totally would've been worth the sight of his face.

Except if all of that is weaponized and gets into the air at the same time with no filter, my mind would never recover. The likelihood of a heart attack or some other terror-induced death was also not completely out of the realm of possibility either. I shivered.

Another idea was to pour them down the shower drain, but I didn't know how long that would take and the last time this stuff had gotten into the water main, things had ended badly for everyone. And with the cops in the sewers... No, I didn't dare risk it.

There was another crate like this one, with a manifest on the side detailing its contents, but a slight difference on the remaining two boxes caught my eye. Neither crate in the back had anything specifying what it carried, but one was slightly open. Frowning, I bent down and pushed the lid all the way off, examining the cargo therein.

It was filled with vials of the same colors, except these were slightly smaller and the liquid inside was cloudy. There were still five trays of the same shades stacked top of each other, but on the top tray, a vial in the corner where I estimated a bright yellow would be was missing.

That's weird. He's pretty organized, so why would a vial be...? I checked the first crate I'd opened and discovered the corresponding yellow was missing there as well.

A suspicion was forming in my mind, and I glanced up at the table above me quickly for confirmation. Sure enough, two vials with bright yellow stoppers lay on the surface next to a pair of beakers. One held murky liquid, the other entirely clear. It looked like they had been refilled fairly recently. A notebook lay open next to it, filled with what looked to be notes in typical doctor's handwriting.

He must have gassed me with the yellow vial. The cloudy liquid is the antitoxin, and it corresponds to the gas with the same color stopper. Without even thinking about it, I grabbed both vials and the notebook and stuffed them into the pockets of my windbreaker, not exactly certain what I was going to do with them but knowing they could be important. The objects weighed heavily against my side, reminding me of the power I could hold over someone if they only breathed it in.

Something connected in my mind right then, something crucial, but I lost it just as quickly as it appeared, repulsed as I was at my own thoughts. But I didn't put the vials back. Instead, I righted the lids of the crates and pushed them back under the table before striding out of the room and back into the kitchenette, covered in chills and yet strangely sweating. Ugh, I really hope I'm not still sick, because I seriously don't have time for this.

Speaking of things I didn't have time for, I glanced at the window and decided I was lingering too long. I needed to get out of here; the more time I spent trapped was more time my Young could be drawing ever closer to Bane's clutches. I couldn't let that happen.

There was one last thing I hadn't tried. I faced the locked drawer in the kitchen, studying it for a moment with my good hand braced against my hip. I was fairly decent at picking locks – perks of being a street kid – but I didn't have so much as a bobby pin with me. Maybe I could find something in Crane's lab and try to jimmy it?

I glanced back at the window. Screw it.

Raising the heel of my boot, I grabbed the counter to balance myself and kicked at the side of the drawer, feeling it give way almost immediately. Two more kicks and the wood completely splintered around the metal, the drawer coming off its track, and I yanked it open hastily.

"Yes!" I did a little victory dance on the spot. My white, gold, and music-lined mask stared back up at me, and I stroked it gently before placing it on my face. I could feel myself regain the control I had lost these past few days, feel her slip back into nothingness as Maestro reappeared. And this time, I would make sure she was here to stay.

Beneath my mask had been utensils and other necessary sharp objects he probably hadn't wanted me to be able get my hands on, and I almost regretted leaving before getting a chance to use them. The idea of stabbing an unsuspecting Crane in the hand with a salad fork was almost too good to pass up. Almost.

Well, Doc, looks like it's time for the curtain call. A wicked idea sprang to my mind as I laid eyes on a pen, and I ripped a blank page from Crane's journal before scrawling a message and signing it with a few music notes and a bat symbol. I left it on the cot near the door where he couldn't possibly miss it, grinning briefly when I thought of his reaction, before turning my attention once again to the window.

Now then, how am I gonna do this? The window was positioned where the wall met the ceiling, the seam where the two planes touched being the top of the frame. It was about a foot wide and three feet long, so I would have no trouble getting my skeletal figure through the opening.

The only problem was creating an opening. There was still the matter of that troublesome security glass.

I glanced at the table, placed immediately beneath the window, and then to the two chairs on either side of it. All three objects were made out of thick, sturdy wood. Well, it's worth a try.

I stepped on the chair nearest me and then onto the table, before pulling the surprisingly heavy piece of furniture up after me and placing it directly in the center. I then stood on the seat and peered out the window, realizing that its base rested directly at street level and looked into an alley of some kind. There was an opening at both ends, but beyond that I couldn't see much besides a few dumpsters, so I had no way of knowing where in Gotham I was. Hopefully, I'd be able to find out in a matter of moments.

I stepped off of the chair and bent down to pull the other one after me, wincing since I had to use both hands this time and feeling the barely-mending skin around my wound tear slightly. Crane's hit earlier certainly hadn't helped the healing process, and, with a grimace, I stepped back up onto the first chair and closed my eyes a moment, knowing how much this next step was going to suck. And probably hurt.

Then, with a small cry, I grabbed the back of the chair Crane had occupied and raised it, before swinging it with all my might at the glass in front of me. My shoulder wound broke open completely as the window shattered, but did not provide an opening, and I cursed loudly and creatively as I felt blood begin to seep into my bandage and through my shirt. Now I was racing against the clock. At this rate, I'd start losing blood fast, and it was likely I wouldn't be able to lift anything with that arm or at all in a matter of minutes. I had to do this now.

Ignoring the burning in my shoulder, I raised the chair again, twisting it in midair so the legs were aimed at the window. This time I was marginally more successful; a few pieces of glass fell away, in the alley and in the basement, and I could see that part of the wiring had become dislodged from the frame, having rusted away over time.

My arm was going to give out any second. I had one last chance, and if this didn't work, I wouldn't have the energy to do anything else except lay on the floor, bleeding, until either Crane came back and saw my pathetic attempts to escape or I died. But if I got out, I'd have access to a first aid kit at my apartment, and I could easily patch myself up in time, provided I wasn't too far away.

A new determination welled up inside me, and I pictured my mother's face as vividly as I could, remembered her voice with a clarity that I knew would never fade. Give me the strength to do this. Just one more time. I raised the chair.

SMASH!

One of the legs broke completely through the top right-hand corner of the glass, and I let the chair tumble loudly to the floor, nearly weeping with relief as the cold outside air brushed against my face. Thank you.

A few more hits with the flat of my good arm broke the window enough to get at the wiring inside, and I bent it back as far as the remaining glass would allow. In the span of a minute, I had a hole big enough to wedge my body through, but the fragments of metal from the wiring as well as the remaining shards of the windowpane would make it tricky. I'd have to maneuver very, very carefully to avoid becoming more injured than I already was, all the while sheltering my now-useless right arm.

But I'd take a few scrapes and cuts over being stuck here and running the risk of bleeding to death any day. I studiously ignored the voice in my head reminding me that Crane had essentially warned me not to do anything "stupid" for that specific reason; he'd predicted my admittedly remarkable ability to do serious damage to myself when trying to escape sticky situations.

I braced my hands against the window's edge, trying to avoid the glass, and hoisted myself up, my lower body dangling only briefly against the wall behind me before I kicked back against the chair I'd been standing on. It toppled, and I used the momentum to slide myself further through the opening. I could already feel the sting of several cuts along my body and face, feel the cold winter wind kiss my skin through newly-made holes in my clothing. I was nearly there.

Just a bit more... I clawed at the ground in front of me with my good arm, praying and cursing and thrashing like a hooked fish, and finally managed to get my entire body clear of the window.

I was out. For a brief, near-disbelieving moment, all I could do was lie on my back on the asphalt and breathe, reveling in my freedom. How's that for liberation? Eat your heart out, Bane.

I landed a few more kicks to the window for good measure, breaking the glass further and scattering the shards across the interior of the basement, and got to my feet. As I did, I caught a glimpse of several familiar buildings and gave a quiet whoop of glee. I wasn't too far from our base, or my apartment for that matter. Hold on guys, I'm on my way.

I didn't look back.

~DKR~

I'm not gonna die in here.

It had become Bruce Wayne's mantra lately as he worked and pushed and strengthened his battered body, and it was, for now, the only truth that mattered.

In the beginning, the pain had been almost unbearable, shooting icy lines of white fire up and along his spine, burning more and more fiercely with each beat of his pulse. His head had spun, and he could swear he saw Ra's Al Ghul standing before him more than once, his face triumphant and satisfied. But none of it was anything compared to what he knew deserved for allowing himself to be in this position. His city was burning, possibly worlds away, and he was here, in this godforsaken hole in the ground.

He deserved death, he wanted death, and, eventually, he knew it would come.

But I'm not gonna die in here.

"Why build yourself?" the doctor who had helped him in the beginning inquired, sitting back and watching him with an almost amused expression as he pushed off the ground and lowered himself again, taxing his injured body to the limit.

"I'm not gonna die in here." The words rolled off his tongue without thought or effort. It echoed like the slam of a gavel, and it consumed his thoughts, wiping out everything that didn't involve his escape. Speaking it aloud only made it real, made it solid, nearly tangible in its rightness.

"Here, there, what's the difference?" the doctor replied lazily, having long since been resigned to his fate. He would die in here, there hadn't been a question of that for quite some time.

But the difference was everything. The difference was Rachel and his parents and all those who had died and were dying because he wasn't there to help them. If he died there, it would mean there had at least been a chance; there had at least been hope.

I'm not gonna die in here.

When the time came, he slung his bag of supplies across his body and left his cell, his blood and brain humming with a single-minded determination. He was close; healing had been the first major hurdle and he had cleared it, albeit much slower than he would have liked, but now it was time to rise up and escape this place.

The rope was tied around his body, and he was climbing almost before he could think. His fingers found handholds in impossible places, dust falling in his eyes. His entire body hurt, his back was nearly numb with pain.

But still he rose. And then he was standing on the ledge, the one he had seen the first man plummet from lifetimes ago, breaking his back with an audible snap. Below him, they were chanting something. He didn't know what it meant, and at that moment, he didn't care, because he was escaping as the child had and he jumped

I'm not gonna die in here.

And then he was falling and there was pain, such pain in his back as the rope pulled taught, but the roar in his mind was one of fury and failure and the smallest twinges of fear, and that was more painful than anything.

~DKR~

I could tell before I reached the base that it was empty. There were no scouts that I could see or hear anywhere nearby, and the block was unnaturally quiet. I entered the factory cautiously, the pain from my cuts and shoulder quickly catching up to me. I was losing a lot of blood and shaking from the cold, but I didn't have time to focus on it. My rebels came first.

There were no signs of a struggle, chaos, or bloodstains inside the factory, no sign that anyone had been here at all. So what did that mean? Surely Crane would have heard if they'd been captured, and surely he would have wasted no time in tormenting me with the information if it had been true. Right?

Of course, I also wouldn't put it past him to not tell me, to allow me to parade around with misguided confidence until he found the perfect moment to place the final nail in my coffin.

I looked around for something, anything, to give me a clue what had happened. There.

There was something written in white on the stand where the planning table had been. Carefully, listening for any sign this was a trap, I made my way over to it.

When I finally got close enough to see what was scrawled across the surface of the platform I nearly collapsed with relief: it was a half note written in chalk, the tail end facing south. The meaning was clear: they were fine and had moved to a base in the direction the note was pointing. My lieutenants and I had decided on this code a while back, once we first started taking on members. An eighth note meant they had scattered and that it wasn't safe to regroup, a quarter note meant they had disbanded entirely and given up, and a whole note meant capture and/or a trap. We'd decided on that one because it was the easiest to draw in a hurry.

A series of painful coughs that felt like knives driving into my chest overtook me, and I doubled over in agony. Regrettably, this gave me an eyeful of just how awful of a shape I was in. For the most part, there was blood, and a lot of it. I had cut myself up pretty badly on that window earlier, and I was covered in lacerations of varying depth from head to toe. I grimaced, my head spinning from blood loss and pounding with a migraine at the same time, and I sneezed.

Alright, apartment first, Young after. With a sigh, I turned and left the former factory, hoping there was still time for me to make it to my apartment before I passed out. With the way my day was going, I seriously wasn't counting on it.

~DKR~

I was shaking and coughing uncontrollably by the time I made it back to my apartment, and I had never been so glad to see anything in my entire life. The thought of caring for my injuries next to a heated generator nearly made my mouth water, and I quickened my pace as much as I could.

The fire escape looked daunting in its height from all the way down here, but I pushed through the pain and climbed as fast as possible, eager to be home. I hadn't realized how much I'd missed it until now, but my instruments and the musical scores covering every inch of my walls would be wonderful to see. It was my own space, and I was comforted by the fact that I was the only person around.

With a sigh that was almost contented, I stepped gingerly over the tripwire I'd installed on the fire escape, the first of many booby traps I planned to set up around my apartment. This particular trap was connected to the already loose screws of the stairway, so if you triggered it, the entire thing would collapse. Risky, but it satisfied my paranoia so it was alright with me.

A sound like something hitting a set of cymbals inside my apartment reached my ears from where I was standing a floor below my open bedroom window. Muttered curses followed, too quietly for me to be able to tell whether or not I knew the voice, and this was followed by a sneeze of all things. One thing was for sure, it wasn't Savvy, the only person who knew about this place, which meant I had an intruder.

This has really not been my week. Moving quickly and stifling another round of coughs, I balled my fists and climbed up the next flight of stairs, my boots making no sound on the metal surface beneath me. The barest traces of footsteps on carpet reached my ears from inside, but whoever was in there didn't seem to be finding what he or she was looking for.

I counted this as a good thing and quietly ducked into my room. After a cursory glance to make sure my mother's violin was still in its place, I darted to the far wall and slid along it to the doorway, peering out cautiously.

Not in the living room then. That left the kitchenette, the (basically worthless) bathroom, and the spare room I used to store all of my instruments. I was just hoped that whoever it was wasn't messing with or trying to steal anything incredibly vital to my composing.

I spared a moment to look down at the clothes that were becoming increasingly more stained with blood. I needed to take care of this guy, and fast.

Quickly, I left my bedroom and crossed through the living room, craning my neck to peer into the kitchen. No one there, and there was literally nothing of importance in my bathroom, which left only one place aside from the hall closet.

The music room. Just my luck.

Faraway footsteps confirmed my theory, and I swept up a spare baton from the counter before heading cautiously towards the sound. Whoever it was, it wasn't a Goon, because they were notoriously heavy walkers in those huge boots.

A sudden thought made me stop and press myself against the corridor wall. What if it's Matchstick snooping around? What if she found this place? Worse, what if she told someone?

I felt the vials on my pocket, seeming to weigh tons all of a sudden, and suddenly wished they were as potent in liquid form as they were in gas.

I clenched my hands tighter around the baton, banishing the thought, and slunk farther down the hall. The string of a guitar, my acoustic, was idly plucked, and tensed at the thought of someone coming in here and violating my seclusion this way.

I was at the doorway. Now or never. With another quick prayer to my mother and a silent acknowledgment of how much this was going to hurt, I whirled into the room and sprang at the intruder.

~DKR~

John Blake sighed as he looked up at the tall, dilapidated apartment complex that had been condemned for as long as he could remember. It stood alone, invisible, and yet proud in its seclusion, much like the single tenant it housed.

He seemed to recall it being a rather nice complex in its time; the rooms were supposedly small, but cozy, and affordable for those with an honest living and poor income. But after Thomas and Martha Wayne had died, the area deteriorated alongside the rest of the city and several buildings like this one had been shut down, the tenants evicted into other, cheaper accommodations. Even when Bruce Wayne had returned and regained a semblance of control over his company, he hadn't shown a great amount of interest in rebuilding his father's projects. Then again, considering everything else that had been going on at the time, Blake didn't really blame him.

It had been difficult to get Savvy to talk about where Maestro stayed, and even harder to meet her questioning stare and answer why, exactly, he wanted to know. He didn't have a direct answer to give her, honestly; he just knew that he had to see what this girl was, what drove her, and how she'd survived on her own for who knew how many years. Scout knew next to nothing and likely wouldn't tell him if she did, Jazz simply glared at him with disdain when he tried to ask, and only Savvy seemed to have any sort of interest in helping him at all. The answer he'd given her, however, had been fairly different from the one he had just given himself.

"I want to see if I can find anything about her connections with Crane," he'd explained, playing the detective, "she made a comment a few days ago that makes me think they have a history, and maybe I can find something about his whereabouts if I know what I'm looking for." It was a long shot, and an almost ridiculous suggestion, but he'd realized as he'd said it that it couldn't hurt to try. The look on Savvy's face had also lead him believe they did have a history, and even if she didn't know all the details she knew it wasn't a pleasant one. With a guy like Crane, it wasn't hard to imagine why.

It had taken some pressing, but finally she'd written down an address, one he'd briefly thought was a joke, and handed it to him. "I've never seen the inside," she'd said, her dark eyes blinking at him from behind a mask she was never meant to wear, "but I do know Maestro, and if you touch anything, she'll find out about it and probably snap your neck."

"You're telling me she lives here? I know this address, it's been abandoned for years," he had protested, thinking she was sending him off on a wild goose chase.

Even with the mask, the sheer amusement on her face had been easy to read. "Can you honestly picture Maestro paying rent or having neighbors?" And then it had made sense. Now, as he stared up at the building that loomed like a storm cloud above him, it made even more sense, because this, he thought, had the rebel composer's taste written all over it. She was completely alone, and it seemed to make her perfectly content.

With another sigh, he entered the front door to the lobby of the complex, which was hanging half off its hinges, and made for a staircase that stank of urine and trash. However, it wasn't any worse than a sewer, where the majority of his colleagues were now imprisoned and had been for quite some time, so he merely held his breath and continued on without complaint.

Her apartment was located on the top floor of the five-story building in the very last room on the right, further evidence of her desire for solitude. He double-checked the address in his hand to make certain it was correct before quietly turning the door handle.

It didn't give. With a mumbled curse, he tried again, knowing it wouldn't work. Well then, Plan B.

A quick search of a bathroom in the open apartment next door gave him a pair of hairpins, and he picked the lock with ease. It was a trick every foster and street kid knew; when people locked up something you wanted, like food or money, you had to learn how to get it yourself. He didn't doubt for a moment Maestro had the same trait imbedded into her.

The door swung open and he entered cautiously, instantly taking in the walls that were lined with musical scores from top to bottom, most of which looked to be of her own composition. A small smile touched his lips; he'd heard wonderful things about the melodies she created. Someday he hoped to be able to hear one himself.

The living room contained several stacks of blank score sheets, sometimes reaching three feet tall, a mic stand or two, a set of cymbals, an old, ratty couch, and several snakelike black cords strewn all over the place that looked as though they hooked up to amps. There was nothing of use in here, so he moved past the living room and into her bedroom.

The only instrument in here was a violin that looked to be very old and very expensive, resting in the far corner. On the desk were a few scoring sheets that were half filled in, several candles of varying heights, and, to his surprise, dozens of books. Along the side wall, directly next to the open window, was a small cot that didn't look as though anyone had slept in it for quite a while, and if they had it hadn't been for very long. The thought concerned him, though he knew it probably shouldn't. Above her bed was an old, faded poster for a Broadway showing of Phantom of the Opera, and he wondered if she'd actually gotten to see it or if she had acquired this another way. She probably relates herself to the Phantom, he thought with a small smile. But except for a few cardboard boxes that held her clothes, there wasn't much else to the room.

He made a small noise of frustration. Didn't this woman have anything personal besides a poster? The only remotely homey thing about this space was the violin, and somehow that seemed too timeless, too intimate for him to examine.

With yet another sigh, he turned and exited the room. Or at least, he tried to. One of the black cords in the living room caught his foot, and he tripped, flailing wildly before knocking a mic stand into the set of cymbals. The noise rang through the apartment, effectively shattering the eerie silence.

He cursed as he caught himself on the couch, and then sneezed as the dust flew into his nose. Smooth, Detective.

His face heated, though there was no one to see his blunder, and he quickly righted the mic stand and the cymbals before moving on. The kitchenette was bare save for a few of her batons, (he'd decided to look through the drawers later on) and the bathroom was completely empty, the mirror above the sink shattered into fragments that had been dispersed across the sink and floor. The sight of it saddened him, somehow, though he couldn't put his finger on exactly why.

Once he left the bathroom, he checked the hall closet, (entirely empty) and moved to the last unopened door in the apartment. He prayed this one would reveal more.

Apparently someone heard him, because as he crossed the threshold, he could do nothing but gape. The room was filled with instruments, (were those bagpipes?) the desk along the wall to his right was organized and filled with baubles and pictures and sheet music, and what little bit of the walls he could see beneath the playbills, posters, and music scores were painted a light, cheery blue.

Unable to resist, he raised a hand and plucked the string of a nearby acoustic guitar that appeared to be very well taken care of – they all did. The twang echoed through the room, and he smiled lightly. It was just as he'd guessed: the instrument was perfectly in tune.

A window on the far wall, cleaned of grime, faced the cityscape, and the light that streamed in illuminated a massive white bat that had been painted on the ceiling, composed entirely of music notes.

He was standing in a room that must have taken hours to get exactly right, a room that must have mirrored something she'd either had or wished for in her childhood. He'd found the personal side of the Maestro, something no one ever got to see. It was enough to make his smile widen.

And then there was a loud cry from behind him and he felt a body collide with his own before he even had time to go for his gun. Survival instincts kicking into high gear, he turned mid-fall and made to slam his elbow into his attacker's temple, but whoever it was recoiled too quickly for the strike to make contact. Instead, he landed on his back, the assailant straddling his chest and pressed something wooden against his throat harshly, a knee on his wrist to prevent him from reaching for his weapon.

And then he caught sight of the blonde hair and bottomless black eyes, and he stopped struggling immediately.

"Maestro?"

~DKR~

Gone.

The girl was gone.

Crane only caught the barest glimpse of the basement before Scarecrow came soaring into control in a wave of fury, expletives leaving his mouth at a pace that would have made a battle-hardened soldier cringe as he toppled the table his captive had obviously used to make her escape.

We underestimated her, he tried to placate before his other half destroyed what was left of his basement in a rage.

Speak for yourself,Scarecrow hissed, I was all for keeping her chained to that bed and writhing in fear, but no, you were so sure you had weakened her-

I did weaken her. We had her where we wanted her. The combination of everything should have rendered her immobile, Crane snapped back, irritated with his miscalculation and unwilling to concede that he had been wrong, because he wasn't.

That's what you said the last time!

It was just as true then as it is now. The fact remains that she is stronger than we, and possibly she herself, could have guessed. Desperation is also a factor; she's deluded herself into believing she has something to live for. Just look at the window. She willingly allows herself further injury in order to get back to her brats. It was true; there was a significant amount of blood on the broken glass.

He scowled; this was a major setback. He had searched for years to find one to match her scream after that night, her pitch and fear – distinctive as a fingerprint – intermingling to make a heady rush of something more intoxicating than any drug or stimulant could ever be.

I think you've got a crush.

Crane took advantage of Scarecrow's cooling temper and wrestled control away from his counterpart. That was happening entirely too often for him to be comfortable, and it was almost always because of her. She literally brought out the worst in him.

He had a sarcastic reply ready to fire back at his other half when something on the cot attracted his attention. It was a simple slip of paper resting in the exact spot she'd been in when he'd left, and he quickly strode from his place at the window to retrieve it. It would be just like her, in her mad haste to escape, to actually take time to taunt him. But where had she gotten a pen? Writing utensils could be used just as effectively as a knife, and he'd made certain to keep all remotely sharp objects locked away in a drawer – a pen to the throat was not something he was willing to risk. In fact, it was the same drawer where he'd placed her –

No. He darted into the kitchenette and saw that his fears had been confirmed; she'd snooped before she'd left, and her mask was gone. He swore. I was so close... I had the girl behind the mask in my hands...

With a growl (he wasn't quite sure at this point whether it came from Scarecrow or himself) he opened the note clenched in his fist.

Interesting fact: Aside from making beautiful music, did you know that Songbirds can also fly? They use this ability to escape from psycho creeps with dual personalities. Who knew, right?

Thanks for the toxin,

~M.

Barbs aside, the note puzzled him. He had been expecting the general sarcastic tone of the letter before he'd read it, but the last part made him furrow his brow. Everything in it was meant to be a direct insult, and yet her parting phrase did not make sense. Why would she thank him for testing his toxin on her? He couldn't think of a way that would be a cutting remark towards anyone but herself.

And then he noticed just what kind of paper the note was written on, and everything snapped into place. He swore again, more violently than last time.

That little rat! I'll drag her screaming to her grave! Scarecrow's roar echoed in his ears as he all but sprinted into the room where he kept his lab, noticing the lack of his notebook immediately, as well as the vials of toxin and antitoxin he'd used on her.

Oh, he'd been so, so stupid. Curses left his lips one after another as he knocked aside the heart monitor he'd had hooked to her chest a few days ago, pacing twice before running his hands through his hair. That wasn't his only notebook, he hadn't been that foolish, (a fact for which he thanked his lucky stars) but it was the only one that had recorded the details on a new batch of toxin he'd been perfecting, as well as the effects it had had on Maestro and the notes on her scream.

He needed that notebook. She looked half-dead when I left her... Her wound had been exacerbated, she was under incredible emotional stress, and looked to have the beginnings of pneumonia. She should have been incredibly weak...

He grimaced as her voice sprang, unbidden, into his mind.

"I got news for ya, Doc, anybody who's made that assumption pretty much ever has wound up regretting it." He was, much to his own annoyance, starting to see why.

We have to go find her. We'll drag her back by her hair until she's begging us to stop, and then we can make her scream until her throat bleeds and she drowns in it...

No. Crane's response surprised even himself as a series of clicks went off in his head. He was drawn to her because of the impact she'd had on their intertwined pasts; her scream had marked him. She was undoubtedly drawn to him for the same reason; she may have been normal before his Fear Night, but the Maestro had been created as a direct result of it. She would need him now that she'd made contact with him, because he reminded her of why she had begun her sad little quest in the first place. Which meant...

He smiled quietly and set about to righting the basement. Which meant she would come to him.

A/N: I don't own DKR, but I do own Maestro and any OCs. The recommended song for this chapter is "Cage on the Ground" by Flyleaf.

Special thanks as always to my Beta for this story, Amai-chan1993, for the incredibly helpful editing and feedback! She's so cool. :)

A special thanks also to (deep breath): takara410, QuirkyRandomChika, WarriorDragonElf54, PolyjuicePrincess, MockingjayWolf, Eva Sirico, Meg, Katherine, DeathstrokeTerminator, MyDarkeGuardianAngel, the random bat, ElfinCleona, Chocoholics Unite, BlueWillow29, and especially to Jacqulyn for your lovely and kind reviews! Thank you also to those who fav'd or alerted. You guys rock my socks.

Don't forget to leave a review! It would seriously make my life. :)

Sincerely,

Starcrier.