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…kinda…

Hi.

So this is the first time I've strayed outside of the video game section of this website. Lucky me I get to waltz into the realm of Phantom, huh?

Frankly, I adore Phantom, in all its forms. From Lon Chaney in the '25 silent film to Gerard Butler in the newest talkie, from the many novel adaptations and continuations to all the different stage plays and spin-offs thereof—I simply can't get enough.

But, as some of you might ask, which is my Phantom of choice? My "flavor of Phantom," you might say. Or should it be "Phlavor?" Ha! Engrish, ahoy!

Joking aside, it's a mix off all the Phantoms. If we're talking about the internal character of the Phantom Erik, then it would be the violent, vindictive, yet pitiable book version with a dash of Gerard Butler's on-screen sensuality. If we're talking about the physical representation of the character, then it would either be the movie or the musical version (Lon Chaney did a great job of deforming Erik, but I like my Erik half-pretty, thanks. Call me shallow, but still…). If by flavor you mean plot, then I guess it would be a movie-verse version. The Erik that has his music stolen and then gets burned by acid simply appeals to me in ways the deformed-from-birth-and-raised-by-gypsies version doesn't.

Raoul—I never liked Raoul. Simple as that.

And as for Christine—well, frankly, I found her to be a bitch in most versions other than the book. The innocence in which she is portrayed to be swimming in is fascinating to me; you don't find that many characters so naïve as Christine.

That being said, what I wish to do with this fan fiction I shall summarize here: I want to pull the characters from all the Phantom adaptations, be they from film or stage or page, and put them in the same place. I want to make a medley of all the Phantom's representations that Phantom Phans (Phans of whatever version of Phantom) can enjoy reading about. And…

And!

I want to put it in present-day.

Now, don't groan. I realize that this has probably been done to death. What hasn't, these days (this is fan fiction we're talking about!)? But here's another twist:

I don't want it to be about opera. I don't want Christine (that's right, no OC's in this story) to sing Faust.

I want her wailing on a guitar.

That's right. Instead of opera, this is going to be about rock music. Now, please don't kill me for that, you Phantom purists (you guys are scary!), just hit the back button and don't read on if the thought of Christine being a guitar virtuoso makes your skin crawl.

But, those of you who'd like to see a different take on the Phantom legend, I encourage you to read on. I hope you enjoy the first chapter of "Smoke & Mirrors." I'll be here, ready and willing to write, as long as you wish to read.

Smoke & Mirrors

Chapter 01

As Christine thumbed through a set of badly organized bass tablature, the sound of her brother's key hitting the lock of the tiny apartment's front door tore a gaping hole in the walls of her concentration.

"You home, doll?" Avery slurred as she slowly set the papers down on the tabletop. He was drunk, again. What else was new? "I brought food."

Christine didn't look up. She was perfectly fine with not looking at her older brother, and didn't need to see the two things her nose could already tell her. The first was that he stank of beer, and the second… "Gee, thanks, Avery. Pizza, again."

"Bingo!" A box featuring a smiling fat man in an apron shoved its way roughly under her nose. "Pepperoni! Your favorite!"

I'm a vegetarian, moron! Christine wanted to shout as the steam from the spicy food made her eyes water, but didn't. It wouldn't help matters much. Nearly gagging, she said: "Yeah, my favorite."

Smiling, Avery crossed to couch jammed in front of their wide-screen TV. They didn't have much money—Christine slept on the couch because her brother was too cheap to buy her a real bed—but somehow they had afforded a plasma. Christine reminded herself to never let her brother handle finances as he flopped down on the battered piece of furniture (her battered piece of furniture, really) and jammed clumsily at the buttons of the wireless remote.

"You going to work tonight?" he asked as football players in bright jerseys pummeled one another. The crack of shoulder pads on shoulder pads was making Christine's head ache.

"Maybe. Yeah, probably," said Christine, trying to ignore the TV volume (Avery had it on an obscenely loud setting). She worked in the sound booth downtown at a bar called "The Populaire," and the name was fitting. It was a popular hangout for the City's hard rock scene.

"Good. Rent's due next week."

Christine's cheeks burned and the tabs rattled in her hands. Why was she—the seventeen year old and still practically a child—the breadwinner in this disjointed family of two? Avery was twenty five, for Chrissake! He should be paying the bills, the ungrateful high-school drop out! Christine hurriedly stood up and slammed the papers on the table. "I'm gonna go now. Don't wanna be late."

Avery smiled lazily as his younger sister as she pulled on her long winter coat and fingerless gloves. "You haven't eaten yet."

Midway to the door, Christine stopped. Turned. Grabbed a slice of the greasy pizza. The door slammed behind her with an ear-splitting protest of un-oiled hinge.

I should rub this pizza all over those stupid pieces of rust, she thought with vicious cheer. It's got enough grease to go around.

Christine went down the four flights of stairs (the elevator was out of order, as usual) and walked past the superintendent who sat stolidly behind the front desk. She gave him a curt nod, and he smiled. He knew she was the one who paid him when the bill was due. As she opened the door, wind rushed inside and buffeted her dark hair, blowing it into her eyes. Unlike Avery, she had her mother's coloring: dark hair, bright eyes, and pale skin. Avery was the exact opposite with deep brown eyes, blonde hair, and an olive complexion.

To keep her hands warm on her twenty-minute walk to The Populaire, she fondled the greaseless underside of her pizza slice, idling picking off the pieces of pepperoni and dropping them on the sidewalk. Cars and people rushed past her, oblivious to the underage girl with an underfed body, just as she was oblivious to them. When the meat was gone, she tucked the food away. Even though it almost gag-worthy, she was hungry enough to choke anything down. They didn't have much food in the apartment, so she had not eaten anything during the day.

Eventually The Populaire loomed up and out of the surrounding buildings. Its elegant exterior had been painted in deep scarlet and black, adorned here and there with spray-paint spider webs and images of rock stars. It had been turned from a graceful structure to a punk's dream with nothing more than can of paint. Christine's heart ached to see it. Back when she was a kid, before her family had fallen on hard times, she'd seen a ballet performed there, and had loved the sweeping ceilings and classic colors. Now the interior lacked the plush red carpet and wood paneling; the richness had given way to cement, day-glow graffiti, and strobe. The grand staircase in the center of the lobby would soon be covered in sleeping drunks, and the private boxes filled with couples... well, coupling. That was usually the case, anyway. The band for the evening, named "Artrider" the posters on the walls proclaimed, would later take the stage, polluting the memories of ballerinas with scantily clad groupies and near naked drummers. It made Christine sick. She loved rock music, that was true, but not what it did to this place. This place was too sacred.

"Heya, kid."

Christine started. It was the new manager, Andre. Where had he come from?

"Hi," she said to the tall man. He wore a thin mustache and his body was similarly proportioned. "What time are we opening?"

"Eight."

Christine' face fell. It was only six. She had two whole hours, and could get her main duties as the sound box operator done in just a quarter of that time.

He bent lower so his face was closer to Christine's. "Listen, Christine, I know this is a lot to ask, but Artrider already set up their instruments and Ms. Giry and Meg are up in the sound box doing a sound check. Only, they need someone to go play the guitars and drums and test the mics. Would you go up on the main stage and tap out a couple bars for them?"

Christine nodded, happy to do something. "Why did they set up so early?"

"Oh, you know Artrider," said Andre with a flippant wave of his hand. "Early birds get the worm. They're obsessed with getting signed. Right now, they're probably warming up in the dressing rooms."

Christine thought that that did indeed sound like Artrider. Four bands had been signed with major labels in the past by playing at the Populaire, and Artrider was the next in line. They had been playing solidly at the Populaire for the past six months, hoping that the scouters who frequented the theatre-turned-music-hall would pick them up. Way better than any of the cookie-cutter bands on the radio, they had a great sound and some of the most talented musicians Christine had ever heard play live. They were sure to get signed soon.

They were also the Populaire's best money maker, which afforded them special privileges—use of the old dressing rooms, for instance. The Populaire hadn't had a dull night since Artrider started playing there, given that the band had tons of groupies clamoring to get inside. Adding to the Populaire's hype was the fact that major signed names rented the place for performances with an uncanny frequency. It was the edgiest place in town, and had the best sound system thanks to the diligent efforts of one Christine Daae.

"I'll head for the stage, then," said Christine, and started walking.

Andre called after her: "Thanks, Chris!"

Christine went in the double doors at the back of the theater just in time to see Ms. Giry struggling onstage to coax notes from a Gibson Les Paul. When she heard the door slam shut after Christine, she looked up, relief spreading over her face.

"Christine!" she called, gently placing the guitar on its stand. "Thank God you're here—I have no idea how to work this thing."

As was normally the case, Meg was probably up in the sound booth working the harmonics board, which Ms. Giry had never been able to make head nor tail of, leaving the mother of the duo to test the instruments. This worked well—Meg couldn't play, and Ms. Giry couldn't use electronics. However, the only fallacy in this plan was that Ms. Giry could play very nearly as well as Meg—which is to say, not very well at all.

Christine smiled as she walked towards the stage. She kept near the wall, fingers trailing over the soot-blackened barrier. Long ago, before the theatre had been turned into a rock hall, fire had gutted the structure when a huge chandelier collapsed in a mysterious accident. The ruins of the lamp could still be found near the extreme back of the stage, in a shadowy corner no one visited if they could help it. The legends surrounding the accident were chilling, and the talk of many regulars of the club. The managers, both old and new, hadn't cleansed the soot off the walls—hadn't even attempted it—thinking that the blackness gave the place an even edgier feel than it already possessed. But to Christine, the ash—when combined with the cement floor that had been stripped of its seats and carpeting—made the place look like a broken skeleton of a once-proud creature, picked clean by carrion until there was nothing left but bone.

Christine tromped up the stairs at the side of the stage, her dark coat flapping as she fished a guitar pick from her pocket. "Lemme see."

Ms. Giry handed her the Les Paul clumsily. As she slipped the trap over her shoulder, Christine though about Giry, and why she could never see why the woman worked here—she had worked here back when it was a true theatre, but there was no reason to stay now that it had turned into this. Giry was tall, matronly, and wore simple clothes with her gray hair back in a tight bun. A total non-scenester.

Just as Christine was about to bust out a lick on the strings, a girl burst out from behind the drum set with a cry of: "Christy!"

Christine could see why Meg chose to work here, unlike her mother. Meg wore her blonde hair in high pigtails and bedecked herself in what was called a "Lolita" outfit, complete with baby-doll dresses and striped stockings and thick-soled boots.

"Hey, Meg," Christine said. "I thought you were up in the booth."

Meg shrugged. "Oh, I was, but decided to come down and show mom how to play something. It's kind of pointless to be up there when no one can give you something to adjust, you know?"

Christine nodded, absently strumming out a tune on the Gibson. "True." No sound came out of the amp, and the hum of the strings didn't carry far through the empty air.

"Oh, let me plug you in," said Meg, scrambling for a chord. "Mom, you couldn't even do that much?"

Ms. Giry looked uncharacteristically sheepish. "I'm the head of maintenance here—not an equipment brat!" Giry was the one to choose the employees, making sure the bar outside the auditorium was stocked properly, and oversee the cleaning staff here at the Populaire; her job had nothing to do with music.

"Yeah, yeah." There was an audible popping noise as the filaments in an amp burst into life. "There," said Meg. "You're in. I'll head back to the booth now."

Christine nodded and began to play. Meg stopped mid-way off stage and slowly turned around.

"When'd you get so good?" she asked Christine with wide eyes, "I thought you said your genius brother wouldn't teach you."

Christine stopped playing with a blush, strings twanging discordantly. It was true: though mostly a drunkard, Avery was famed in the City's music circuit as an ace guitarist, but he had always refused to teach his sister. Laziness, Christine suspected. Or maybe a latent bit of brotherhood that wanted to keep her from the life of a broke musician, though this was unlikely. But she could dream, couldn't she? Even though her heart's desire was to play music for a living, she had resigned herself.

Until recently, that is.

"Oh, um, he won't… I've been practicing, by myself. Alone," Christine mumbled.

Meg looked skeptical, but let it go. "That's a lot of progress."

"Truly," said Ms. Giry. "Wasn't it just three months ago you tried to audition for the house band?"

Christine grimaced, nose wrinkling. The audition Ms. Giry referenced had been a disaster. "Yeah, it was." She turned away from the two and began to tap out a less snappy tune. Desperate for a subject change, Christine said: "I thought we had a sound check to do?"

Meg and her mother shared a look, but didn't comment of Christine's evasive manner, Then again, what was there to suspect? Why would Christine hide a tutor?

"Want to take booth or the strings?" Meg asked as Ms. Giry went to check out the bar's stock. "You're better at the boards than me."

Christine handed Meg the guitar. "I'll do the checking bit. Just play a scale or two when I tell you. I'll use the intercom."

"'Kay," said Meg, fiddling with the strings. Her playing was clunky next to Christine's.

Christine went off, eager to put some distance between herself and her best friend. Though she had always thought she would be able to tell Meg anything (they'd even sworn to in the fifth grade, sealing the oath with a pinky promise), she realized that "anything" and "everything" were not mutually inclusive concepts. "Anything" did not encompass all of what Christine could tell, just what she wanted to. That was a loop hole Christine was glad to exploit. No one could learn of her secret—and that included Meg.

Especially Meg.

The sound box was located above the balcony, though it looked more like a sport commentator's office from the outside than anything else: it had three glass windows overlooking the stage. To get to it, you had to take the stairs up to the balcony (the balcony was roped off most of the year; it didn't have a high enough railing to protect the drunk rockers from falling over it), and from there another set of steps through a door in the back wall.

Christine hopped the chain guarding the stairwell and jogged up the flight; she was so used to this that by the time she was all the way up the fifty or so steps, she wasn't even winded. She waved to Meg from the balcony, then took the second flight.

The box was dark, but had been made lighter by the huge mirror on the back wall, which reflected all the light in the room so it was easier to see without the aid of artificial bulbs. Still, Christine flicked on the lights so she could see her very best.

She thumbed the intercom button with practiced ease. "Testing amp #1; guitar 1." There came the sound of a simple scale. It was too soft, though, and Christine adjusted the amp's volume accordingly. "Testing amp #2; bass #1."

The rest of the sound check passed with relative ease. "Okay, we're done," Christine told Meg over the PA when they'd finished. "I'll be up here working on the lights display. Come on up if you want."

Though she was very far away, Christine could see Meg's pigtails flapping as she shook her head. "Naw," she said into the newly-tested microphone. Her voice was clear. It was a good connection. "I'm gonna call David and get the bar ready."

David was Meg's boyfriend. "Talk to you later, then," Christine said, and shut off the electricity feeding the equipment. She hated talking with people over the PA/mic. It was too public. She sat back in her chair, not intending to actually work on the lights like she'd told Meg. Christine liked to do things ahead of schedule, so she'd taken care of this particular show last weekend. She truly had nothing to do.

Christine's eyes wandered over to the eight private boxes near the stage. People could rent these for concerts, and when a signed label came to town, they went for thousands of dollars. All save one, that is, which was never rented out. It never had been, as far as Christine could tell.

Box 5.

Her eyes lingered on it. After a moment, she tore her gaze away and promptly stood. Casting an anxious glance at the tall mirror behind her, she strode quickly from the room.

She wasn't in the mood to be alone with her secret right now.