Taut, pulled to their limit, the violin strings danced beneath the narrow bow gliding across their silken surface. Fast, fast, faster, slow. Hover, dance, glide, fast, faster, slow. The notes ripped from the wooden instrument like body parts plucked from the helpless, their beat slow and melodic. The hand playing the mournfully mesmerizing melody skilled with years of strict practice, the soul-bearing song could have been an originally written piece. Passionately, the violinist lost in the outpouring of emotion that dampened the spirit and electrified the air, the climax of the song was fast approaching, the sweet notes fading away into the nothingness of the musician's soul.

As the private narrative began to dwindle, the sound of glass breaking permeated the air, too far away to alert the absorbed artist. Cans of smokescreen were tossed through the windows, quickly filling the empty rooms of the sizable home, men in black masks with various sets of equipment following the canisters. Slipping inside the shadows, the men - possibly numbering five or six - made their way stealthily through the rooms, navigating through the furniture with planed care. Stalking forward, the men grabbed the violinist before there time for the target to react, knocking the squirming body unconscious with a blow from behind.

- Metalocalypse -

Coming to in an abyss-like room, sight additionally blurry from hours of slumber, a head of tousled brown-blonde hair rolled to the side, falling from a hard rock of a pillow, a pair of green-grey eyes sliding around, pupils adjusting to the darkness. From what could be seen of the room, there was a modest nightstand with an unlit candle in a heavy sable stand, the vague shape of a vanity shoved against the wall opposite the bed, the mirror slightly tipped up, and an open wardrobe with nothing inside of it. Crawling from the bed, the violinist cautiously approached the door, mind racing and nerves live-wires underneath a submerged vessel. Reaching out for the doorknob, the kidnapped artist was only half surprised to find it locked from the outside. Turning back to the bed, the violinist grabbed the candle holder, finding it weightier than previously anticipated. Good. Taking a running start at the door, the musician swung the object at the handle repeatedly, bashing in the metal and door until the lock broke and the door was open.

The hell with going down without a fight! The hell with going down at all...

Determined to find a way out of this place, wherever it was, and impressed by the usefulness of the blunt object, the violinist decided that it would make for a handy tool along the way, so it was pocketed, and the violinist was faced with the first real question so far: Left or right? Which path would lead to the heart of this, to the people that were responsible for taking the teen from their own home, from family, and which would lead out, to the world? It wasn't that the violinist had had a particularly happy life, but it was better than this - dying in some castle, probably owned by a mangled hillbilly human-hunting serial killer freak! No, the violinist had a home, and a mother that was waiting, so escape was the only option. So, left, or right?

Following instinct, the violinist went right, following an empty corridor to find yet another hallway as morbid and barren as the last. At least the second hallway had another room in it, which meant one more chance at freedom, or at revenge. Preferably to freedom, but when had life ever been kind to the violinist? The last time that had been asked, the answer returned was never. Just one misery after another, but by this point, the violinist was used to it. Misery was almost like oxygen, something that was needed for the violinist's continued existence...

If it weren't for the violinist's natural survival instincts, life wouldn't have even allowed this point to have been met, and even if it somehow had, the violinist wouldn't be keeping a calm head, but would in fact be hyperventilating in the room, waiting to be messed with by the psychos that had brought the unfortunate violinist here in the first place. Maybe the trials and tribulations so far hadn't been for nothing...

Reaching the door, the violinist slowed the already tentative pace, pausing momentarily before making the next move. The next move being yet another question: Should the complex be searched door-by-door, or should only select doors be tried? It was possible that any given door could be the ticket out, but it could also be the kiss of death, so it was a puzzlement to say the least.

However, the decision-making process was cut short by the muffled huffing and puffing coming from the other side of the door. Left with no choice, the violinist reached for the door, hating that mother had instilled a sense of equality of life - who was the violinist to leave some poor victim behind if there was a chance they could have been helped? That was the price of a good schooling, probably. Even as the violinist stood there, the panting grew more labored, so without hesitation, the violinist opened the door, barreling into the room like a bull into a china shop - so not unnoticed.

The source of the panting wasn't anything like what the violinist had imagined. It was far worse.

Laying in the middle of his bed, white sheets disarrayed all over the place, booze bottles rolling about freely as the mattress jerked about with its owners movements, was a man. A scrawny, fair-skinned man with red dreadlocks. In another setting, the violinist might have found this man to be appealing, but that was a thought for another time, as what the man was doing was appalling to the young violinist's actually virgin eyes. Arching his body in ecstasy, his hands matching the ferocity of his hips, the green eyed man almost missed the stranger standing in the middle of his room, his eyes half-closed as his release neared, were it not for the violinist's decision to back away from the scene. Bumping into the wall in retreat, the violinist could only stare at the man in bed, face displaying shock and anger as the violinist stuttered an excuse for the intrusion.

"Dood," The man had a strong Midwestern accent, "What the hell!"

"Meep." Squeaking, the violinist turned around and bolted without another sound or look back, face beat-red.

Now that was possibly even more frightening than the thought of brutal torture at the hands of an unknown enemy. It was just so... Big! And out there... And... The violinist was extremely unversed in the art of sex, so the thoughts that blossomed in the mind were very foreign and very unwelcome. It wasn't that the violinist had sworn off sex, it was just that now wasn't the time to be fantasizing about it... Now was the time to think of getting the hell out of dodge!

SMACK! Running down the hallway in an embarrassed frenzy - all thought of stealth evaporated - the violinist hadn't seen the man with glasses standing in the hallway outside of an office door. This man seemed completely different than the last one (aside from the fact that this one was actually in clothes), his hair neat and slicked back while the other man reeked of hard liquor and stale cigarettes.

Frowning at the violinist, a cellphone in his hand, he said briefly into the receiver, "I found her."

Hearing that had put the violinist back into panic-mode full-swing, all thoughts of the other man completely gone, "What do you want with me?"

Closing the phone, he slid it back into his pocket, re-opening the office door, allowing the mortified musician inside first. The violinist looked at him dubiously, but having the candle-holder in a side pocket, it seemed alright enough to humor the captor, so the artist ducked inside the well (but cheaply) decorated office, not noticing the name on the plaque. Taking a hesitant seat, the man closed the door behind himself, taking a seat at his desk. Whoever this person was, he seemed like the proficient sort, and that meant that maybe this could be settled in a non-violent way...

"What do you want with me?" The violinist repeated, arms crossed firmly over the chest.

The man looked down at a stack of papers on his desk, the edges of which were coated in fresh blood, "It has, uh, come to my attention that your mother had certain legal documents drawn up in the event of her death. These," He shoved them forward, continuing to speak as she read the legal document, "Were re-written after the death of her brother. Your mother was very specific about who was to care for you in the event that she should, uh, pass before you turned eighteen."

Still reading (the man's inner lawyer proud to see that that hard work hadn't gone in vain), the violinist's eyes barely left the page, "I know how a will works, but what I don' know is what my kidnapping and all this," The violinist gestured at the entirety of the place, "has to do with it."

"I'm sorry that your, uh, transfer, wasn't handled with better care, but it was of the utmost urgency that you should be brought here as soon as possible."

"Transfer?" The violinist set down the half-read papers, tilting her head to the side, "Am I some sort of prisoner?"

He looked at the young violinist, something close to remorse in his brown eyes, "Your mother never told you what happened to your father, did she?"

Taken aback, seeing how that had even less to do with everything, the violinist wondered if this man wasn't crazy, "She told me that my father died before I was born. I don't see what any of this has to do with anything! Where is my mother? I want to see her."

"I'm afraid that's impossible. As of 3:47 PM, yesterday afternoon, I became your primary care giver." He seemed unaffected by this situation in general, and judging from all the men her mother had ever brought around, the violinist had decided that his apathy towards everything meant that he was indeed crazy on a certain level.

And she told him as much, "You're sick. I don't know why you chose me for this little game you're playing, but my mother isn't dead, and she would never leave me with some..."

She trailed off, her eyes happening to finally reached his plaque on his meticulously cleaned desk at long last. How it had taken her this long to figure it (one way or another) out was anyone's guess...

"No." The violinist fell back into the chair, face flushed in utter terror, "Charles Foster Ofdensen? No, you can't be, he's dead..."

If only this girl had known, "Your mother never did tell you how your father 'died', did she?"

She thought back about it, even as recently as last week, her eyes widening dangerously as she was hit by an unstoppable realization, "You're my father... Then that means..." The violinist's grey eyes began to well up with tears, her body trembling all over, "You've been alive all this time? Why did you never see me, or write me, or anything? Don't you know how much it hurt me, watching all the other girls with their fathers? Even the divorced ones still called... So why? Why now? What could you finally want with me?"

Watching the teenager breaking down was perhaps one of the worst things Charles had ever seen in his life, and he was in charge of the most brutal band in the world. Reaching into the bottom drawer of his desk, he had pulled out a handful of photos, all of which were of the same girl, ranging from the day of her birth to her first day as a sophomore in high school, "I've always kept an eye on you, Scout."

Scout took the pictures, looking at them in teary-eyed surprise, only half-registering what was happening as she began to shut down and go into automatic, "But why were you never there?"

"Because," he took the memories back, sighing, "I made a choice to protect someone else, and I can never go back on that promise."

Numb, Scout looked away, too hurt by this news to look at the man she had dreamt of for half of her life, "So you have another family? Were you with them before or after us?"

Charles looked at the young woman sitting before him, a small part of him wishing that he could have been there for her; even now he wanted to wipe away her tears and comfort her, but after all this time, it was too late to bother with fatherly affection (he was fairly certain that even in her condition, she would spun any attempt at acting like her father), "I met them before I found out about you."

"Them?" She scoffed, disgusted with this monster sitting across from her.

He didn't miss the sour tone in her voice, "Dethklok."

Scout, trained in the classical arts, had no interest in the band, though she had heard of them before, "You chose a band over your own daughter?"

He could have told her the truth, that Ravenia had hid her from him, and that once he had found out about their daughter, he had already made his commitment. He could have recalled the events of her first birthday, when he had tried to fight for the right to keep her in his life. He could have told his daughter that her mother had, after witnessing firsthand the danger of his job, refused to allow him anywhere near their daughter. He could have told her a lot of things at that moment, but he didn't, because he had enough to tell her tonight...

The mother she had known was dead and a lair, and the father she believed dead was truly alive, working with death, left in charge of a teenage girl he knew next to nothing about for the next few years, until she went away to college. Charles Ofdensen was left with a broken husk of a girl, and the five men he'd have to keep away from her...

Alright, so this my second attempt at Metalocalypse story (the last no more than a terrible memory). I wasn't exactly sure how to begin it, but I'm liking this so far, so here it is! When referring to Scout, I wanted to keep it as mysterious as I could for as long as I could, and though I use the word "violinist" about a billion times, I think it turned out alright, though since I'm not used to writing like that, maybe it wasn't as good as I thought. If there is any confusion, please, let me know so I can straighten it out, and review while you're at it, hm?