The Way We Fall

Isn't it beautiful
The way we fall apart?

– "We Fall Apart", We As Human.

Chapter I

Some things never quite resolve themselves.

Some things, despite both our best efforts and the passage of time, can only ever remain in the same, stubbornly consistent limbo. And, as I wake up screaming for the third time this week, I can do nothing but wish that this wasn't one of those things.

Fire and war and masks, so many masks. A violin splintering into pieces. Angels burning as they fall. Crimson ice and sooty snow. Scarecrows.

It takes me a moment to ground my mind in reality and stifle the sounds tearing along my throat, but I'm a master at this by now, at centering myself (still sitting at the piano, still cold, still alone) and listing off what I know to be true.

Gotham is free.

Bane is dead.

My kids are alive.

I am...

I give a shaky inhale and stop there. I always do, unwilling to add the last word of the mantra, because it is perhaps the most dubious of the four. "Safe" is such an absolute term, something you're supposed to not only know but feel. Even with my own newfound reclusiveness I have yet to experience an actual feeling of security. Part of me doubts I ever will.

Beside me, Rococo – my massive Great Dane – sits up and lets out a whine, resting his head on my lap. I stroke his ebony fur with trembling fingers, grateful, as always, for his familiar presence.

Taking a moment to calm my breathing, I cringe when I try to move my neck – this isn't the first time I've fallen asleep at the piano – and listen, hoping to hear silence. Mercifully, all is peaceful in my secluded little world, and I let out a quiet sigh of relief that my damaged psyche has yet to disturb anything.

A glance out the panoramic, floor-to-ceiling windows directly in front of me (at least the parts that aren't covered by sheet music) tells me it's early, probably seven or eight judging by the sounds of traffic outside. I ease onto my feet, hearing my spine crack as I slide around the edge of the bench and brush my hair away from my eyes with ink-stained hands. I've barely left the piano for four days except to take Coco out, having recently been struck with a near-violent burst of inspiration for a new song. It's hardly surprising, given the circumstances.

With a small sigh, I maneuver my way through the halls, my dog on my heels – I'll never quite get used to how big this place is – and head for the kitchen. I can't really remember the last time I've eaten, but I estimate that it's been a while due to the ferocious growling in my stomach and the fact that I'm swaying on my feet. Rococo's bowl has been kept full, I note with a twinge of both relief and guilt; I've been too lost in my haze of music to remember to do it myself.

Judging by the nearly-empty shelves of the pantry, it's also been a while since I've been to the grocery store. But there's half a loaf of bread, to my delight, and a jar of raspberry jelly two days away from going bad in the back of the fridge, and for the next ten minutes I do nothing but shovel toast in my face.

The kitchen in this penthouse is amazing; everything is stainless steel and industrial, somehow appearing tasteful despite the bulkiness of the equipment. The appliances were already here when I moved in, as was most of the furniture; all I'd had to do was bring a few boxes of personal items – clothes, toiletries, books, posters, and sheet music – and my instruments, but everything else had been fully furnished. Even the gorgeous grand piano in my living room – where I had been composing nonstop for the past few days – had once belonged to Bruce Wayne; I'd been delighted to discover it was perfectly in tune, if dusty and rarely used. I wonder if he'd known how to play, or if it's just another item rich people are expected to own, like decanters of expensive liquor and limousines.

Dumping my plate in the sink on top of the dozens of others piled there, I shuffle my way back to my bedroom to shower and change clothes – when's the last time I did laundry?

The sheet I have thrown over the bathroom mirror has once again fallen away, and I scowl at my reflection – limp blonde hair cut to the shoulder blades and dark circles under darker eyes; a ghostly pale face marred by a deep, curving scar along the left cheekbone – before readjusting it. Every mirror in the penthouse has been covered similarly. I don't need any more reminders of Those Months feeding my steadily-worsening nightmares, and that's all my scarred body is – a giant freaking blast from the past.

I am jarred suddenly from my dark musings by the shrill chiming of my cell phone – a rarely-used device that's always kept plugged into a charger next to my rarely-used bed.

I had never owned one before I moved into the penthouse, apparently with good reason, because despite how infrequently I use it, it still serves as an annoying tether to the outside world. With a frown, I shuffle over and answer the blaring intrusion into my solitude.

"What?" I attempt to rub away the soreness in my shoulders without much success. I can afford to be rude; there's only four people that have this number and all of them know to expect this of me.

To my surprise, it's Commissioner Gordon's voice that answers. He's the only one that's never called before. "Good to hear from you too, Maestro," he says, his tone much lighter than it had been during Bane's occupation, but still touched with twinges of exhaustion. I can say any number of unpleasant things about the commissioner, but I can't deny that he works harder than anyone else I know.

"What do you want?" I respond, already annoyed.

There's a shuffle of paperwork and the muffled sounds of ringing phones in the background; apparently he's calling from the station. "Scout's psychiatrist just called; she didn't show up for her appointment this morning."

I sigh again. After the war, Gordon had assigned her a shrink to help her deal with the trauma of losing her mother and sister. And she's not the only one; Wayne Manor employs three on-call psychiatrists to help the kids cope with their nightmares. "I'm assuming you tried calling her?" I ask, massaging the bridge of my nose.

"Yes. She's not answering, but that's hardly a surprise." It's true. Few people on this earth can reach Scout if she doesn't want to be reached; fortunately I'm one of them.

"And you want me to get her for you." It's not supposed to be a question, and he doesn't waste time by pretending it is.

"She hasn't done this for months. You know I wouldn't ask you if I wasn't concerned."

"But not concerned enough to go after her yourself, right?" I can't resist the comment; my seclusion has all but disintegrated what little filter I ever had.

His voice goes quiet. "You know that's not fair, Maestro." And I do. I had originally been skeptical of his devotion to look after her in the first few weeks after the occupation, but I've never been more wrong in my life. Gordon has been better than his word on his promise to Stitches, Scout's older sister who was murdered during the war, and has thrown himself into his role of caretaker as best he can while simultaneously cleaning up the remaining chaos from those terrible five months. He isn't calling because he can't be bothered; he's calling because he knows I'm the only one who can find her.

I peer out my open doorway into the hall, considering my situation for a moment. If I leave now, I might just be back before my absence is noted. Beside me, Rococo lets out a sneeze, and I scratch his head. "I'll look around. There's only so many places she could be."

"Thank you," he bids, and as I move to close the phone his voice stops me. "And Maestro?"

"What?" I grind out in annoyance, and an almost contemplative silence fills the receiver, as though he's debating on whether or not to say something.

"Just... be careful out there," he states finally, and it's painfully obvious that that wasn't his original thought, but I roll my eyes and choose disregard it. I don't have the time or patience for this.

"Yeah," I respond, before hanging up without another word. I've never been one for casual conversation, particularly not with him. I slide the phone into my pocket, put on my boots, and grab my messenger bag, before making my way back to the kitchen. After scrawling a brief note and sticking it to the fridge, I head downstairs to where the elevator is located.

Part of me is uncomfortable with the idea of leaving my solitude without my mask, but it's nothing more than an ingrained, routine emotion that I never act on. I haven't worn the mask since... well. Just since.

The button lights up as I press it. Even after months of living here, this is still the most bizarre part – a functional elevator in the place of a front door. After a moment, the panels slide open with a ding and a hiss, and I step inside, cringing at the muzak that plays nonstop in the compartment.

I descend once more into the city.

~DK~

It's early July and incredibly warm outside, but every time I leave my penthouse I still expect to be able to see my breath, still expect my fingers to tingle and turn bright red, still expect to feel the biting chill of winter and terrible loss through my duster. I still wake up shivering, even though the thermostat is always kept in the seventies.

It's been eighteen months.

Eighteen months, since the Batman returned and Bane was destroyed and my city was restored. It's still rebuilding in some places, but for the most part Gothamites have settled back into their routines. Those who were orphaned during the takeover have taken up residence in Wayne Manor, Savvy and Jazz are sharing a little apartment in the Narrows and leading The Young in their war on crime, and Scout is living comfortably with Commissioner Gordon.

I'm twenty-one, attempting to cope with PTSD, and have somehow managed to become a grouchy, manic recluse. And the longer I hide away in the relative safety of my penthouse, the harder and harder it is to leave. Today I force myself, because I know where Scout is, and in many ways I'm the only one who can help her.

Grayson's Gym isn't like the polished gymnastics centers closer to the middle of the city, with their spacious rooms and gleaming equipment; it's ancient, and small, and smells overwhelmingly of chalk. It had once been a small distribution center, and now only half the building belongs to Grayson's. On the other side is a sketchy bail bonds office and a fortune teller's shop that's closed four days a week.

The rusted metal steps creak as I enter a lobby paved with cracked, yellowed tile, an odd red or blue square thrown in here and there for variety. To my right is an open office area, staffed by a single receptionist in her mid-forties, focused intently on her phone conversation. Behind her are racks and racks of multicolored leotards for the after-school and daycare programs that come here for tumbling during the weekdays.

She doesn't even glance up as I walk by, which is perfect, because the staring gets annoying after about five seconds. One of the many side effects of having a four-inch gash in your face, I suppose.

The hall opens up into a massive room with padded, frayed blue carpeting and a high ceiling. The wall at my right is lined with mirrors, and above that dusty trophies are displayed from various competitions that Grayson's used to participate in once upon a time. Trampolines, high bars and low bars, balance beams, and a climbing rope are situated haphazardly on this side of the room, and dented metal trays laden with white dust are interspersed randomly throughout. At the back, the large garage doors – currently open wide since the A/C is on the fritz again – face a line of railroad tracks. The whole building has been known to shake whenever a train rumbles by.

And to my left is a long trampoline, spanning the entire length of the wall and leading to a foam mat about five feet thick, where Scout is currently executing a perfect series of flips and spins. The old trampoline creaks with age, but holds her weight easily as she twists her body completely upside down and spins vertically, before landing in a heap on the cushion.

I applaud, because she's amazing and alive, and her head snaps in my direction immediately, her expression one of instinctive alarm. When she spots me, her pretty face relaxes into a smile, and she crawls off the mat.

"Maestro!" she calls, waving a chalk-covered hand. She's red-faced and sweaty, her strawberry-blonde hair tied back in a falling ponytail, and above her purple camisole winks her sister's necklace. I avert my gaze before she can notice me staring at it. "I haven't seen you in forever!" she continues, eyes bright for what I can tell is the first time in weeks. It's actually only been about a month since we've seen each other, due to... interesting circumstances, but in Scout-time that is forever, so I don't correct her.

I survey her. There was a time when she would have hugged me immediately, dusted me with chalk and then grinned sheepishly as she realized what she'd done. But everything has changed, and the little girl Scout used to be is lost. Now, she's fourteen, about to enter high school, and is apparently ditching her psychiatrist, which, as Gordon pointed out earlier, she hasn't done in a year.

"Gordon called," I state, perhaps unnecessarily.

She blinks. "And you came?"

That stings, possibly more than it should, even though I know she doesn't mean it that way.

"He was worried about you. I'm guessing you haven't told him about this place?" Her sheepish silence is all the confirmation I need. I give her a soft smile.

"Ice cream?" I suggest, despite how early it is, because we've been here before and it seemed to help her then, and sure enough her face splits into a bright, youthful grin. There's the Scout I used to know.

"Ice cream," she agrees happily, heading to the bathroom to change, and for a moment I can pretend we're both gonna be okay.

Just for a moment.

~DK~

She gets two scoops of peaches and cream on a cone, because she's a weirdo, and when I tell her so she makes a face at me.

"Just because you hate delicious things doesn't mean the rest of us have to," she says as I mock-scowl at her and dig out a chunk of cookie dough from my own (superior) ice cream, which is in a cup because I am a sensible human being.

"Practically everything in my fridge is peach-flavored right now. I'm sick of it," I respond bitterly.

She laughs, long and loud, and I continue to frown even though the sound is a relief. "At least now you can stop buying it."

"You have no idea how grateful I am for that."

She takes another bite of her cone and watches me, head cocked. "So how is... everything?"

I shrug. "It's not much different, really. I mean, this week was rough, but I was ready for it."

Scout's smile changes slightly, fades. "How was the hospital?" She's had an overwhelming fear of them since her mother was murdered in Gotham General; she won't even go near one.

"It was fine, it all went smoothly. Managed to get out before they started asking questions."

There's a moment of silence where Scout simply stares at her ice cream as though it has suddenly become the most interesting confection in the the entire world. I drum my fingers on the table beside her.

"Scout... you know I'm not mad at you, right? You did the right thing." I realize then that my lack of communication for the past month – which was in no way purposeful – must have hurt her. She looks up at me pleadingly.

"I didn't know what else to do, Maestro. I didn't mean to make everything harder on you."

"Scout, I'm fine. This has been good for me, honestly." Her eyes widen in surprise, and I smile. "I'm serious, kid. I needed a reason to keep going, you know? This helped. I'm gonna be okay, and I'm not angry, alright?"

She nods, and I move on, inhaling deeply before addressing the matter at hand.

"So..." I begin, drawing out the word, and she squirms under my measuring gaze, "why'd you bail on the shrink? You've been doing so well. You told me last month that Gordon thought you were nearly ready to stop going."

"Just didn't feel up to it today."

"Uh-huh. Spill it, kid. What's wrong?" The ice cream makes my teeth hurt when I take another bite, and now it's her turn to scowl.

"Barbara's visiting again."

Ah yes, Gordon's "Ex-Wife From Hell," as Scout so succinctly put it last time the woman visited. From what I understand, she gets along well with his kids, but their mother is an entirely different story. She's been divorced from the commissioner for a few years now, having taken her children to Metropolis to get away from the dangers of Gotham. I didn't exactly blame her, given that they had all been safely removed from the blast radius of Bane's reactor eighteen months ago.

"What happened this time?" I ask, twirling my spoon between my fingers. Her frown deepens.

"The usual. She won't come out and say that she doesn't like me staying with Jim, but she gives me these looks whenever he's not watching, like she's expecting me to steal all the valuable stuff and run off." She takes a moment to look offended. "If I wanted to do that, I'd have done it ages ago."

I laugh quietly before drawing her back to the point. "Is that all?" There is a moment of silence where she simply stares at a groove in the table, running her nails along it distractedly.

"She keeps trying to get me to tell her my real name."

I freeze, irritating welling in my chest. To those who had been in The Young, real names are intensely personal things. She shared hers with me only once in a moment of grief over the death of her sister, and because it isn't my secret to tell, I'll take it to my grave. As far as I know, she hasn't even told Gordon.

"Seriously?" I ask, and she nods.

"Yeah. She's always dropping these stupid little remarks that aren't even subtle – "

I stop her before she can get too worked up. "Have you tried talking to Gordon about it?" Despite the fact that he and my former spy are now on a first name basis with one another, I refuse to follow the pattern; it's just too weird. I'm pretty sure even his parents called him "commissioner."

Scout still doesn't meet my eyes. There's something in the set of her shoulders for a moment that makes me wonder what she isn't telling me. "He's been really busy lately, Maestro, and he's really glad to see her and the kids. I just try to stay out of the way until they leave. It worked last time."

I don't really know what to say. "Is that why you didn't go to the appointment today? Did something happen this morning?"

"Yeah, Hurricane Barbara caught Jim before he left for work and dragged him into the kitchen to talk. They didn't know I was listening." She blushes, and I give her a reproachful glance that's slightly tempered by the smile on my face. Old habits die hard, I suppose.

"What did she want?"

"Basically to give him a list of all the reasons I shouldn't be living with him. 'She probably has family somewhere, it's not fair to you, you hardly know her', and on and on and on. I'm pretty sure she made a whole presentation with cited sources and pie charts. It sounded they've talked about it before," she says, scowling again.

"And? What did he say?"

"Dunno. I left."

I roll my eyes in exasperation. "Well, he was definitely worried about you on the phone this morning, so I don't think he's planning to leave you in a box in the park." When she doesn't even crack a smile, I sigh and lean towards her, bracing my forearms on the table. "Scout, look at me." She does. "Listen, kid. He's not gonna kick you out. You and I both know that. He only sees his family, what is it, once a year? But he's got you all the time. You're good for him. I saw that during the war and I see it now, okay?"

There is something sparkling in her eyes, but she's seen too much to waste tears on something like this. "I'm so jealous, Maestro," she whispers, "I'm so jealous because right now he's got this perfect family that doesn't need me in it and my whole family's dead and I just can't... I can't lose him. It would kill me."

"You won't," I say with certainty, "it would probably kill him too."

She huffs out a shaky, partially-skeptical laugh and blinks away the water in her eyes, before giving me an uncertain smile. I take this to mean she wants to drop the subject and respect her wish.

"Come on," I say, rising to my feet and tossing my garbage in a trash can nearby, "you need to get home and so do I."

She cocks her head at me but doesn't comment, instead chucking the last of her cone and following me to where my motorcycle is parked at the curb in front of the ice cream parlor. It's an old, battered thing that I'd confiscated during the occupation. It had belonged to one of Bane's Goons, who is, due to a Certain Deal I'd made with a Certain Someone, no longer in full possession of his sanity. She snorts at it in the same the way she had when she saw it at Grayson's.

"I still can't believe you kept this thing. Did you take it to the hospital?" she asks, knowing it's a stupid question, and I raise an eyebrow at her.

"I told you, I hailed a cab."

"That must have been interesting."

"You have no idea. Now come on." I move to hand her a helmet, but she doesn't take it, her eyes straying to the bike. There's a war on her face, about what I can't hope to guess, and I choose to remain silent and let her deal with it privately.

"There's something I need to tell you," she says after a moment, her eyes finally meeting mine, and a certain determined glint flashes there, one I haven't seen for almost eighteen months. It's the look she gets when there's secret information to be divulged, and I motion for her to continue. "I should have done it before. There's a reason Jim's been so busy lately."

I get a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach at the tone of her voice, hushed and urgent, and it's triggering memories of whispered secrets in a frozen warehouse, secrets that unravel deadly plots and supply chances at freedom. "Well?" I snap impatiently, "Spit it out."

"About two weeks ago, the phone rang in the middle of the night. It woke me up first, but those kinds of calls are always for Jim so I let him get it. He didn't know I was awake, and I couldn't help it. I snuck down to listen to what he was saying."

"And?"

"There was a mass breakout at Arkham. Lots of people escaped."

Immediately the blood turns to ice in my veins and I curse, tearing my fingers through my hair and pacing away. Two whole weeks. I scramble toweigh the facts. If he was free he'd have come for me by now but he doesn't know where I am surely I'd have heard if he was out I'm not ready to see him again he doesn't know he can't know I'm not ready –

"Maestro!" Scout's voice cuts through my panic and I turn to her sharply, trying to breathe. "He's still there. He didn't even try to escape. That was the first question Jim asked."

It takes everything I have not to sink to the ground in relief, despite my confusion. It doesn't make sense that he wouldn't jump at the chance to get out, but right now I have more pressing problems.

"Why haven't we heard about this? Why does no one know?"

"The mayor doesn't want an uproar so soon after Bane. It's bad for the polls, so he's keeping it quiet." The derision in her voice is unmistakable, and it's a sentiment I share. Mayor Hamilton Hill has always seemed sketchy to me; I've never gotten the same "idealist" vibe from him that I'd gotten from the late Mayor Garcia.

I realize this is what the commissioner must have wanted to tell me earlier this morning; he'd wanted to warn me that it wasn't safe on the streets. So why hadn't he? "Why didn't you say something sooner?" I demand.

She shifts on her feet. "Jim caught me listening. He told me I couldn't tell anyone, not even you."

I scowl at this but choose not to comment. "Do you know who did escape?" I ask, and Scout shakes her head.

"No. But... it's bad, Maestro. He's really worried."

I resume pacing, dragging my hands through my hair once, twice, three times. "You need to tell Savvy and Jazz."

While no longer an active member of The Young, Scout occasionally slips information she manages to pick up from Gordon to my former lieutenants. "I'm not sure, Maestro," she says hesitantly, "He made me swear that I would keep it quiet. He can handle it."

I realize this must feel like a serious breech of trust for her and refuse to feel guilty about it. The commissioner should have known better than to make her keep it from me, anyway. I level her with a stare I haven't used in a long time. "Scout, he can protect most of Gotham from the people who escaped the asylum, but he can't protect The Young. They're vigilantes and they go out of their way to break the rules. They need to know. And if you don't tell them, I will."

After a moment, she nods her assent, and I motion back towards the bike. "Come on. Now I really have to get you back home."

~DK~

The Ex-Wife from Hell greets us at the door, the picture of motherly concern. I catch Scout's grimace as she removes her helmet, but Barbara doesn't and gives her a smile. It's just that, a smile. There's nothing to it; it's genuine but flat, holding none of the deeper emotions that come with smiling at someone you care for.

"Hello honey. Is everything alright? Jim told me you missed your appointment," she says, and Scout nods but offers her no explanation. Instead, she turns back to me, giving me a brief, tense hug – the kind of hug you give people when you're no longer comfortable with physical contact. Something wrenches in my chest.

"Thanks for the ice cream," she bids, and then slides away, edging around Barbara to head inside.

"Remember what I said, Scout. Don't forget to say hello to the happy couple for me," I call after her.

She catches my meaning easily, nods again, and then disappears inside. Barbara watches us warily, as though expecting us both to be a part of some terrible conspiracy against her ex-husband. I give her a single, measuring glance and turn away. Nothing about her is worth my time.

"You're the Maestro, aren't you?"

I stiffen briefly as she addresses me, but I don't bother to turn around. "The one and only," I respond, tossing a leg over my bike.

"How long have you known Scout?" she presses, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

"Almost two years. Not that it's any of your business, Mrs. Gordon."

"It's Lewis now," she corrects, seeming surprised at my rudeness. It seems no one has thought to warn her about me. "Does she have any family anywhere? Is there someone who can care for her?"

Anger simmers with ease through my veins, despite how long the emotion has lain dormant. "That's what she has Gordon for. If you want her out of here so badly, I suggest you take it up with him."

Taken aback, she blinks. "I'm not saying I want her out of – "

"No, you aren't saying it, but that is what you want, so if there's an actual point to this conversation I suggest you get to it and stop wasting my time," I snap, angling my body to face her while remaining on my bike. Her eyes linger on the scar on my cheek, and, after the usual initial shock at my directness, she redirects her gaze and crosses her arms.

"Fine. I don't like that Jim has a little girl that he just picked up off the street living with him. I don't think it's a good idea."

As if she's a stray dog... The way this woman is talking about Scout makes me angry in a way that I haven't been in a very long time.

"That's not really your problem anymore, is it, Mrs. Lewis?" I all but sneer her last name. "Scout cares about your ex-husband very much. And he cares about her, whether you like it or not."

"Jim told me about what happened with her mother, and this is all very good of him, but she should be in a real home, with someone who can give her the parental support she needs," she says, and I cock my head at her, studying her frame.

"And you think he can't do that." It isn't a question. "That's why you left Gotham, isn't it? Because he was so busy protecting his city that he didn't protect his family." I aim the words at her like a weapon, and she turns red.

"That's hardly your business, but if you must know, yes, that was one of the reasons."

I think of the story Scout told me about how Harvey Dent had threatened her children, how he'd aimed a gun inches from her son's head and flipped a coin to determine his fate.

"Mrs. Lewis, I'll be honest with you. I don't like your ex-husband. But he's a hard worker, and maybe even a good man, and that's rare. And maybe you left Gotham to protect your children and maybe you were right to, but I also think you did them a disservice, because they won't ever know the things he did to save an entire city, the lengths he went to to protect millions of people who would never thank him for it. And Scout deserves to know what it's like to have a halfway decent male figure in her life."

Barbara is quiet for a moment, and when she speaks, her voice is carefully controlled. "What should I have done? Stayed here while a terrorist tried to kill us all? You'll never understand. I did what I did to protect my children."

I give her a sardonic smile. "Really? What's that like?"

She studies me, but doesn't respond. I sigh. "Did you ever stop to consider that the commissioner might have been lonely? Or that Scout could maybe alleviate that loneliness? That maybe they're two people recovering from a war and that they could help each other heal from it?"

She blusters. "We're his family! We're supposed to help him heal!" And there it is. The guilt. It's plain as day across her face: remorse for not being there, for being unable to reach him when he would have needed it most.

"She's his family now, too. And she's not going anywhere, so I suggest you get used to the idea." I turn back towards the handlebars of my bike, before sliding the helmet on over my head. The engine starts with a cough and a stuttering growl, and I turn back to her, letting my gaze lock with hers.

"And by the way, her name is Scout. It's the only one you need to know, so stop putting your nose where it doesn't belong."

I flip my visor down and press the gas, speeding away from the house without a backwards glance.

~DK~

(For all her rumored paranoia, the girl on the bike doesn't see the dark van idling at the corner, or the two people inside who watch intently as she disappears down the street.

"Is it time?" asks one.

A blink, a twitch of a grin that's not quite balanced. "Not yet," replies the other, drumming a hand against the tattered leather interior of the car, "boss says not yet. We wait."

And they do. The girl returns home to her secrets and her solitude, and they wait.)

A/N: And here... we... go. Mwahahaha. So good to be here, my darlings, and I sincerely hope you enjoyed! Are you confused? You're supposed to be. Flood my inbox with your questions; let me know you're interested! No blue-eyed dual-personality psychiatrist yet, but patience is a virtue, and so on.

I only own Maestro and the OCs. Anything beyond that is the property of DC Comics. The recommended song for this chapter (for the story, really) is "We Fall Apart" by We As Human.

Special thanks to my beautiful beta, Amai-chan1993, who was good enough to join us for round two of the madness!

Please review and tell me if you want more! Your thoughts feed the muse, who is currently cackling and telling me I'll never finish this. I'd like to prove her (it?) wrong.

Sincerely,

Starcrier.