Disclaimer: As before, see chapter one's. Oh, and the song "I Move On", is of course, also accredited to Kander and Ebb, in case my first disclaimer didn't cover that. As always, all comments are appreciated!

A curtain of darkness and near-silence had fallen over the place. The void circled in on itself, redoubled, and bounced off of the steel back wall, extending through the bars on the three other sides. It was the time of morning twilight when such stillness encompasses most of the eastern country, perhaps four-thirty or five A.M. Yet in Chicago, complete peace is never attained. In the corner of a particular cell in the Cook County Jail, a figure sat, balled up and rocking slightly, atop the measly pallet which served as a bed. Every few minutes, a ragged sobbing breath, having escaped from her lips, punctuated the air. She was not sleeping, though somehow this struck her as foolish. After all, tonight was her last chance to lie on a bed such as this. Tomorrow, there would come a much longer sleep.an endless one, even. Roxie Hart wiped an ever-yellow strand from her head, and with it, much of the morbid thought. She might as well not think of her fate until it was necessary -- until the guards fastened the noose around her neck and led her up the cold, steel stairs -- she felt a convulsion in her throat, but no tears came. She was beyond tears. Bereft of any more hope, Roxie shook her and continued to tremble. She had done everything in her power to avoid it coming to this. She'd attempted to keep her rage in check since her initial release -- yet it seemed that some unappreciative b-stard always managed to find his slimy way toward her. Then there'd been her fall from vaudeville glamour, and then Daniel -- and -- and Velma! That had been the final straw. Was it truly her fault that the underhanded couple had deceived her in such a way? Surely, it wasn't all her fault. Okay, so maybe in the end, it had been. Fred had been plugged by the gunshot from her hand; Dan and Velma had fallen victim to her steel blade, cold as their hearts. Still, Roxie knew she shouldn't die. She COULDN'T die. This act was "Survival", and Roxie was the champion. She'd outlasted Velma and was doubtless destined to outlast many more. But destiny must have made a wrong turn somewhere. A solitary tear descending her flushed cheek at last, Roxie glanced up to the barred window high on her cell's back wall. Faint pink and orange hues were just beginning to tint the horizon. Dawn was breaking, slowly but steadily, and before long it would be time for Roxie to finish the life-act with which she was so familiar. Unsteadily, she rose from her mattress and walked over to the bars of her cell, peering between them. Minimal lights, designed for the benefit of the guards who worked that ungodly shift, winked back at her, and took her back to that theatre, somewhere deep within the throes of her consciousness, on whose stage she'd so often performed while pining to break into "the Biz". There she stood, graceful as ever, on the blackened thrust, a small orchestra giving her an introduction to a song her heart new well. As always, Roxie was dressed splendidly for her performance, in a short-skirted dress of blue silk and a lighter chiffon scarf. An onyx-dangling lavaliere and some earrings carved from an identical material completed her ensemble. Her hair, which she'd allowed to grow out slightly over the past few months, framed her shoulders in a halo of white gold. "Ladies and Gentlemen," announced the bandleader -- was it just her or did he seem a bit saddened? -- "Miss Roxie Hart sings.her swan song." She began, sincerely regarding her audience. "While truckin' down the road of life, although all hope seems gone, I just move on." Now who could she make out in the audience? Her mother and father, both looking amazingly well for their age. Her aunts, uncles, and cousins, too. None were laughing or jeering at her fate, rather all were clapping and cheering for her performance. There was Mama Morton.come back for her show, and there was Billy.egotistical, manipulative, greedy, yet incredibly attractive Billy.she sighed and sang the next line of her song directly to him. "When I can't find a single star to hang my wish upon, I just move on.," She noticed Amos -- her former husband, smiling up at her as if he'd believed in her all along. She winked towards the old lug. "I move on." Vaguely, Roxie felt her wrists being taken by two strong hands, heard a grinding sound, and felt her body being nudged forward. She let this force move her, flowing with it as if it were just another dance routine. "I run so fast, a shotgun blast can hurt me not one bit," Some new faces appeared in the theatre's front row now. Not pleasant faces; visages twisted in ways far fiercer than Roxie remembered. Fred Casely, Velma Kelly, and Daniel Lissy attempted to cut her down from their places, silently chanting "Swing! Swing! Swing!" The rest of the audience was oblivious to the specters among them. Roxie knew she'd conquer them as well. She gracefully shifted about the stage, putting in a cute brush-step where she could. Pointing sharply at her unwelcome visitors and narrowing her eyes, she continued. "I'm on my toes, 'cause heaven knows, a moving target's hard to hit!" The phantoms vanished just as suddenly as they'd appeared. Roxie noticed a corridor turn in much-despised reality, and tried to suppress her knowledge of what it was leading toward. She turned a cartwheel on her personal stage, landing firmly and sliding into a perfect split. Then audience responded enthusiastically. Someone gasped as the shimmering temptress recovered, in a heartbeat, and resumed her song, gesturing to the audience so as to let them know that she was referring to everyone. "So as we play in life's ballet, we're not the dyin' swan.we just move on," shimmy-turn-pose! "We move on." Roxie was dimly aware of a swinging of doors, and at once she squinted as she was bombarded with more sunlight than she'd seen in the past handful of months. Or was it simply the grandest spotlight of them all? She glanced about -- thousands of people had come to watch her final performance. She would not disappoint. "Just when it seems we're out of dreams and things have got us down.," Step. The glamorous Miss Hart began to ascend a gilded staircase, her dainty black pumps echoing slightly against the opulent metal. Her audience followed her every move, enraptured. Step. "We don't despair, we don't go there, we hang our bonnets out of town!" The steps became stylized as a musical interlude briefly took over. The top was but a few stairs away now, and the jazz killer felt a faint pull of her wrists to that area. She didn't resist it, but rode this force up to the very top, all the while singing out to her ever-admiring audience. "So there's no doubt we're well cut out to run life's marathon. We just move on.we just move on." Having arrived at the peak, Roxie stepped out onto the glowing, rhinestone-encrusted platform. A flash of reality told her it was wooden, and that most of her true audience hated her with a passion. So she was to die, and all these dolts would enjoy it. Better she finish her grand finale in that theatre, with its magic and costumes, and the familiar, smiling faces of its audience. So she would. Turning to her wonderful fans, she flashed a brilliant smile and straightened her neck as if something were being fastened there. "So fade a foot, we can't stay put, we just move on -- Yes, we -- move -- on!" The audience roared with such force that her golden platform began to give under her. "Thank you!" Radiating the utmost composure and contentment, Miss Roxie Hart dove down to her fans and into the waiting arms of eternity. "Goodnight, Folks."

fin