Author's Notes:

I sincerely apologize to all fans of the series for my year-long hiatus. Those who have read this story on LiveJournal and DeviantArt may know some of the reasons behind my absence, but for those of you who do not, I will be providing an explanation on my profile here shortly. Thank you all so much for being patient and sticking with this fic.

As of 1/9/2012, all chapters up through chapter 10 have been replaced by their rewrites. The chapters were rewritten in order to take advantage of my improved writing abilities as well as to improve overall cohesion. I urge all of you to re-read the story before indulging in this chapter and take in the new elements of characterization and plot. For warnings and disclaimers, please see Chapter 1.

This chapter is not beta-read. I apologize for any errors in grammar, punctuation, and/or spelling.

Hope.

Skwisgaar knew it was a dangerous word. A word encompassing such a vast emotion could only be dangerous. It was dangerous for the same reasons that love was dangerous: when it was gone, crushed under lies or cheating or death, the pain could be-would be-brutal.

Nevertheless, it was hope that drove Skwisgaar to take the stairs leading down into the foyer two at a time. It was hope that fueled the smile on his face, the strength in his voice. It was, possibly, all he had left.

All Dethklok had left.

When his boots at last clicked down onto he dark marble of the foyer floor, Skwisgaar glanced around for a moment, surveying the shadowy corridors and trying to decide into which one Nathan had disappeared earlier. One-the eastern-led into the main living area of Mordhaus, with its vast rec rooms, dining halls, committee rooms, offices and bedrooms. The other led west and downward, into the studios, the recording rooms, the servant quarters and dungeons. He was just about to choose at random when he saw a hood moving quietly within the shadows. He snapped his fingers, gesturing to the spot directly in front of him.

The Gear knelt in front of Skwisgaar, bowing his head and exposing the still-raw scar tissue of his brand.

"How may I serve you, Lord Skwigelf?" he asked, and his voice cracked as he spoke.

How old is this one? Skwisgaar wondered, but all he said was, "Where is Nat'ans?"

The Gear swallowed once and replied in a controlled voice, "Lord Explosion is in Studio C, I believe, my Lord."

Skwisgaar's pale eyebrows bunched. No one had been into the studio for weeks, not since Pickles disappeared.

"Ands Murd…ands Will?" he asked.

"Lord Murderface is in the main recreation room, my Lord. Shall I fetch them for you?"

"Nej. Whats yous numbersed?" Skwisgaar asked.

"I am Gear 4628, at your service, my Lord."

"Ja, okay. Goes backs to whatsever yous was doingks," Skwisgaar waved his hand in dismissal, making a mental note to tell Charles to double-check 4628's background. There was no way he was of age.

He took the elevator down to level C first, thinking that Will might be easier to convince with Nathan behind him. The elevator was slow, and it shook. Skwisgaar was glad when the ding! came and the doors rattled open.

Unable to contain himself, still full of that dangerous hope, Skwisgaar took off down the corridor toward the studio door. He paused only once, when he passed the stone arch that led into the stairwell where he'd last seen Toki.

What was he thinking, when he came down this hallway? Skwisgaar thought, turning himself back in the direction of the studio. What was going through his mind?

The studio door was open slightly, casting a thin beam of yellow light into the darkness of the hall. Skwisgaar peered into this opening first, not wanting to startle Nathan with the heavy door's inevitable creak. What he saw hurt him, and he understood what Charles had meant.

Nathan sat alone behind Pickles' drum set, awkward and looming and silent. His eyes were far away and heavy, as if he were reliving some old memory. One of Pickles' drumsticks—his favorites, blue-banded and well worn—was clutched in his left hand. As Skwisgaar watched, Nathan trailed the fingers of his other hand over one of the hi toms. His eyes came back into focus for a moment as he brought the fingers toward his face, gazing at them as if what he found there hurt him.

"Nat'ans?" Skwisgaar called quietly, unable to stand it any longer. He pushed the door open.

"Nat'ans," he said again, as the bigger man jumped up, brushing off his hand on the seat of his jeans and hiding the drumstick behind his back.

"Uh, Skwisgaar, hey, I was…uh…just, uh…"

Skwisgaar crossed the room toward him, glancing down at the drum set. Four thick lines on the hi tom were the only places free of the fine scrim of dust that seemed to have settled over all their instruments.

"S'okay, Nat'ans," Skwisgaar said quietly. "We's all missingks dem." Skwisgaar added the clean smudges of his own fingerprints as he touched a cymbal, his fingernails creating the slightest reverberation as the clinked against the metal.

A sigh escaped the big man then, like a breath that had been held for far too long. Nathan brought the drumstick from behind his back.

"Kinda, uh…pathetic, huh?" he said, twirling it through his fingers like a baton, a habit Pickles always had during recording breaks. "I've even been feedin' Toki's damn goldfish."

Skwisgaar had to smile at that. Jaws was the only pet of Toki's that had survived for any extended period of time, living in an old jumbo margarita glass of Pickles' on Toki's dresser.

"Nej. Is okay. I's t'inks…I's t'inks I maybes has an ideas ons how to be findingks him. Ons how to be findingks dem both." he said, pulling his eyes away from Pickles' abandoned drum set.

Nathan's eyes were understandably skeptical, but he tucked Pickles' drumstick away in a pocket and said, "Yeah? I'm listening."

"We's gots all dese peoples lookingks for dem, ja? Ands we constactsed everies peoples who be knowingks dem well, ja?" Skwisgaar asked, picking up Pickles' other drumstick and twirling it over his long fingers as Nathan had done.

"Yeah, and none of 'em know a damn thing. If the people who know 'em best don't know—"

"Dats just its!" Skwisgaar cut him off, pointing at Nathan's face with the drumstick and beginning to smile a little. "We hasn'ts been talkingks to de peoples who be knowingks dem best, Nat'ans, because we ams dose peoples!"

"But we already know that none of us know—"

"Nej, nej, you be missingks da point! We don'ts be knowingks wheres dey is, buts we be knowingks dem, yous sees? Yous been wit' Will fors years now, yous know each others since da beginnings, an' Charles has been beingks knowings Pickle since he was wearingks makeups likes beautifuls lady, den da fours of yous been knowingks each others for years, and I been knowingks Toki since he's was justs a kid, an's Toki was da only roadie we had until Mangsnus died, ands den he was wit' da band tils we gots big, ands we 's all—"

Nathan held up a hand, and Skwisgaar halted his tirade, suddenly aware that he had gotten carried away and begun to talk very fast. His accent had probably mushed his words until Nathan couldn't understand him—

But Nathan was smiling. It was strange, to see him smile, mainly because he rarely had even before Pickles and Toki disappeared. Skwisgaar waited for his reply.

"So, what you're saying is that we—me, you, and Murd…and Will and the Rob…and Charles—should take all this searching bullshit into our own hands?" Nathan asked.

"Dats exactlies what's I's sayingks!" Skwisgaar exclaimed, and he let the hope carry him away for the moment; as he rode its wave he dared to imagine their family whole again.

When he caught Nathan's eye, he saw that his hope had infected him; they shared it between them like a fever. The singer's grin was wide and bright as he slung one heavy arm around Skwisgaar's bony shoulders and said, "What the hell, it can't hurt, right? Let's go find Will!"

xXx

They found Will in the main rec room, sitting Indian-style on a huge leather couch. As Skwisgaar had done upon seeing Nathan perched behind Pickles' drumset, they both paused before entering the room, trying to gauge Will's current mood.

The bassist's shoulders were hunched, his face inches away from the knife and block of wood clutched in his pudgy fingers. Unaware of his audience, he continued to peel away wafer-thin slivers of wood from the block; they floated like feathers into his lap or onto the floor, joining the already impressive piles of shavings.

"What's he makin'?" Nathan asked, genuine curiosity in his voice.

"Eh…" Skwisgaar squinted into the room, "I's can'ts be tellingks from dis fars."

"Might as well go in and see, I guess," said Nathan, and he pushed the door open. "After you, dude."

Skwisgaar slipped into the room. Neither he nor Nathan made an effort to be quiet, but Will, so absorbed in his craft, never noticed them until they were nearly on top of him.

"Schit," he muttered, covering the little block of wood with one thick palm, as if he were ashamed of what he had been attempting to create. "I didn't…I didn't schee you guysch."

"We's not meaningks to…to…" Skwisgaar paused for a moment, then cursed bitterly in Swedish. A fierce headache was beginning to pound around the stitches in his scalp, and he waved a hand at Nathan, signalling him to continue with what Skwisgaar's brain was still too scrambled to say.

"We didn't mean to, uh, startle you or nothin'," Nathan said, leaning over the back of the couch. He crossed his thick forearms and rested his chin upon them. "You were pretty focused on that…the thing. What're you makin', anyway?"

"Fuck, it'sch nothin'," Will muttered, and moved to tuck the piece of wood into his pocket. "Juscht fuckin' around—hey!"

Nathan had reached out and grabbed Will's little project before he could hide it away. The site of it brought a pained smile to Skwisgaar's face—it was a model airplane, carved completely out of a single block of wood. It looked nearly finished, except for a slight thickness to the rear fin.

"Holy shit, Will," Nathan mumbled, turning the model over in his fingers as carefully as possible, "This is fuckin' great. I had no idea you could do this shit."

"You did," Will said at length, once he realized that neither Nathan nor Skwisgaar was going to make fun of him for his whittling hobby, "I usched to do it a lot, yearsch ago…I had to make Picklesch a drumschtick oncsche, remember?"

Skwisgaar did—vaguely—and sank into the couch next to Will as he nodded his head. "Pickle…he broked it. Just befores we is havingks to puts on shows at somes shitshole clubs. Its was beingks de onlies pair he's was havingks, ands we was beingks too poor to buys him any news ones."

"I remember that," Nathan said, handing the model plane to Skwisgaar to examine and pulling out the drumstick he had tucked into his pocket. "Sure. Magnus was still alive and Pickles was pretty smashed, he put the damn thing in his back pocket and sat on it."

The three of them laughed, and Nathan climbed over the back of the sofa to sit on Will's other side.

"That was back before he was doing the crazy shit, wasn't it?" Nathan asked, sifting his hand through some of the wood shavings. "Like when his vices were strictly booze and weed."

"Ja, he's not gettingks into de crazy shit untils afters we hits it big," Skwisgaar replied, giving the little model airplane back to Will.

There was silence for a long, long moment.

"Sometimes…" Nathan paused, then scowled and gathered a fistful of wood shavings. He clenched them between his fingers and continued, "Sometimes, I think hittin' it big was the worst thing that ever happened to us."

"We have kinda…kinda drifted apart thesche pascht few yearsch, I guessch," Will said, taking the blade to the tail end of the model airplane.

Skwisgaar watched him peel back another tiny sliver, taking in his sliced fingertips, his scarred arms. Then he glanced up at Nathan, who had sprawled himself backward on the couch, arms behind his head as he stared off into space. For a moment, melancholy memories threatened to suffocate him.

Skwisgaar shook them off, hard. He put a hand on Will's shoulder and said, "Dat's why we has to be findingks dem. Pickle and Toki."

Will opened his mouth to protest, to say the same things Nathan had said, but Nathan himself cut him off.

"No, listen," he said, "It's, uh, well, it's Skwisgaar's idea, but he's still kinda having a hard time talking right, so…well, you know we've got, like, everybody and his fuckin' brother looking for Pickles and Toki both, you know that already."

"Yeah," Will said, "And they've got schit to schow for it, can't even find the godamned drug dealer.."

"Well, Skwisgaar made a pretty good point earlier, a damn good point," Nathan continued, and Skwisgaar could feel it again, could feel that heated hope.

"Which wasch?" Will prompted.

"Well, all these jackoffs looking for Pickles and Toki, they don't know them. They don't know either one of them like we do. The three of us—well the three of us and the manager—we know those guys. We know both of 'em like the back of our fuckin' hands. They're…well…they're our brothers. And, well, in Skwisgaar's case lover, but ya know, what it all comes down to is, I guess, well, those guys are our family. And we oughta be out there lookin' for them our own damn selves, because we stand the best chance of finding 'em, right, Skwisgaar?" Nathan added, glancing up at the Swede to make sure he'd gotten it right.

Skwisgaar grinned. Despite the pain that was radiating outward from the staples in his head, a pain that was quickly making him nauseated and sick, he smiled and nodded his head, because Nathan had said it far better than he ever could have.

Will was smiling as well, the first genuine smile of happiness that Skwisgaar could remember seeing on his face in years; then, without warning, the bassist dissolved into laughter.

"Will?" Nathan began to laugh himself; mirth was contagious, it seemed. "Will, the fuck are you laughing at, dude?"

"I wasch just thinkin'," Will said, his chuckles finally tapering off into a broad, mischievous grin. "I was juscth thinkin' about the look on the manager's facsche when we tell him we're gonna go off lookin' for Pickles and Toki all by ourselves. He's gonna shit himself."

Nathan snickered. "Yeah, Skwisgaar, the fuck are we gonna do about the Robot? Will's right, he's gonna have a shit fit…not that that's gonna stop us, but ya know."

Skwisgaar waved a hand at them. "Yous don't s be worryingks 'bout de Robots. He's goingks to be comingks wiff us…he just, uh…he just not be knowingks it yet."

xXx

The look on Charles' face was less humorous in reality than in imagination.

"You've lost your minds," Charles said, staring in blatant disbelief at the three remaining members of his band across the cluttered expanse desk. "You've all three gone and completely lost your minds."

Nathan, Will, and Skwisgaar sat in a row across from him. Nathan was chewing his ragged fingernails and shooting sidelong glances at Skwisgaar as if to say What the fuck do we do now? Will was slouched low in his seat, arms crossed tightly across his chest. Skwisgaar, his headache growing increasingly worse, had one elbow propped on the manager's desk to cradle his forehead as he waited for Charles to end his speech of incredulity.

"This may be your most idiotic idea to date," Charles continued, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger as he shook his head. "I'm thrilled that the three of you seem to be, ah, interacting again, don't get me wrong, but this is impossible. Absolutely impossible. Two of you already missing, I'm fighting the media equivalent of World War Three every goddamn day to keep the public from finding out, no leads whatsoever on either of their whereabouts, and you three…you three want to wander off and try to play detective? You want to go off and find them yourselves like some kind of heavy metal Hardy Boys?"

"Ja," Skwisgaar said, squeezing his eyes closed as the rising volume of Charles' voice ate into his throbbing brain. "Dats 'bout de gists of it."

"What on earth made you think that this would ever be a good idea?" Charles asked, and he looked genuinely perplexed.

Nathan and Will pointed at Skwisgaar. Skwisgaar glared at them, but he was smirking as he did it.

"Skwisgaar," Charles began, his voice softening a little, "I know you're frustrated by the lack of success we've been having, but that doesn't mean—"

"Yous de one who gives me de ideas, Robots," Skwisgaar said, and shrugged. He leaned back in his chair, fighting to keep his vision from growing swimmy. The nausea was worse, but if they had a prayer of convincing the manager that their plan was a good one, he was going to have to hold on for a little while longer.

"Me?" Charles' eyes went wide; then he seemed to remember his conversation with Skwisgaar earlier that day and slapped a hand over his face. "Oh, shit. Shit, Skwisgaar, this isn't what I meant…"

"Dens what's dids you means?" the blond asked, "We's wants to does somet'ingks, Of'ensen. We has to be doingks some'tingks, or we's be goingks fuckingks nuts, and I's be knowingks…"

He paused as little white lights began to creep in around the edge of his vision. The floor was beginning to swim upward to meet him, but Skwisgaar sat up and shook himself, leaning across the desk both for support and to make eye contact with the manager.

"I's be knowingks dat yous bee feelingks de sames way. De exacts sames way dats I do. You's is dyingks to gets out dere and does dis you'selfs, and yous knows it, 'cause dese jacksoffs we gots doing de works fors us don'ts know dem likes we does. Dey don'ts be knowingks de t'ingks we knows…don'ts you wants to be findingks Pickle, Charlses?"

Charles' hand rose to his collar to fidget with a tie that wasn't there. He ran it through his hair instead, rumpling the thinning waves until a strand or two fell over his forehead. He looked away from Skwisgaar, only to be caught in the combined gaze of Nathan and Will. They were leaning forward now, too, watching him intently, waiting for him to hold firm or give in, waiting for his reply.

"Tells dem, Charsles," Skwisgaar said quietly. "Tells dem and den comes withs us. You's goingks to does it anyways."

"How do you know what I'm going to do?" he snapped, knowing that Skwisgaar was right.

The Swede grinned. "Because we's kidsnaps you and brings yous withs us if yous says no."

At that, Skwisgaar saw the tension go out of the manager's shoulders, saw a rueful half smile twist his thin lips; he sank back in his chair, closing his eyes against the deep ache in his head, knowing they had won.

"God dammit, fine," Charles said, and even through the nauseating agony of his headache, Skwisgaar could feel it again; that feverish hope, burning brightly between the four of them.