A brief warning: This is the fanfic in which I shamelessly make fun of Movie!Christine before, er, disposing of her. Wouldn't want to spoil the ending.
Prelude to a Punjabbing
It was a pleasant day for the Phantom of the Opera. The dank dungeon air wrapped his skin in a clammy embrace, and the ghastly draft swirled his cloak in just the right direction. Rats scuffled soothingly in the distance. Some slimy beast was reclining in his lake water, scrubbing its many tentacles with what appeared to be a loofah made from human hair. Yes, thought our strikingly handsome yet suitably deformed ghost. It is, indeed, a splendid afternoon.
"Errrrrrrrik!"
Or at least it had been.
"Errrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrik!"
"What?" He growled irritably, arms prickling at the sudden change in atmospheric pressure as Christine practiced her vibrato. The pupil in question was tiptoeing along the water's edge, stiffly strapped into a white corset that faintly resembled a straight jacket. Long yards of lace flowed from her tapered waist, barely concealing sequined underwear.
My, my. Let us now take a rendezvous through Erik's mind: I must fire that costume designer. What was Monsieur Firmin thinking? In my version of the 19th century, women certainly do not go traipsing about with strange men in naught but sparkly underpants. The incorrigible child! Speaking of which, suppose I shall be forced to purchase a gift for her next performance. Something convincingly original... Something that says, "I put a lot of effort into finding you the perfect item." How about... a red rose! Yes, that's it!
And now, we shall amble through Christine's head: It's cold. And dark. And what's that swimming in the lake? Oh, perhaps it is a mermaid. Hello, mermaid! I do so like mermaids. Don't I look irresistible (but virtuous and innocent) in my sparkly underpants? Do mermaids wear sparkly underpants? I'm cold.
Christine opened and closed her lips several times. Her eyelids seemed to be stuck to her eyebrows with copious amounts of makeup, giving her that wide-eyed, vacant expression. (Yet another strikingly accurate detail from the Victorian era.)
"I'm cold." Was all she could think of saying. Her maestro scowled.
"Then may I make the unorthodox suggestion of putting on your cloak? It took quite a chunk of my salary to pay the tailor, you know."
Christine frowned, lipstick smearing the corners of her mouth. "But Messieurs Andre and Firmin give you 20,000 francs a month, and you spend it all on candles! It isn't my fault if my poorly construed sense of fashion causes you to starve. How many tapers are down here, anyway? Three hundred?" The Phantom's fingers curled, suddenly itching for his lasso.
"Six hundred and sixty six." He hissed through clenched teeth. "And don't you dare insult my decor."
"And that coffin!" Christine continued, apparently overlooking the, er... hidden threat in Erik's voice. "Why, it is made of mahogany and not cedar. Everyone else orders cedar coffins- it is the stylish thing to do! I would be the laughing stock of the entire corps de ballet if they knew that my friend slept in such an outdated manner. Speaking of unfashionable-"
(At this, the mighty Authoress decided to put an end to her rambling. She wondered briefly why Leroux's characters always ended up giving long-winded monologues that nobody likes to read.)
A mournful bellow resounded from the lake-beast's diaphragm.
Christine bit her lower lip petulantly. "And your mermaid doesn't like me, either. It's not my fault that it-"
(The frustrated Authoress began pounding at her keyboard, angry that not even a menacing, tentacled monster could shut the ingenue up. The crash of smashing keys echoed dimly through Christine's head.)
"What's that noise?" Her small hands gripped at the Opera Ghost's velvet overcoat. "Erik, tell me what it is! Another one of your blasted mechanisms?"
Erik just stood there, looking rather confused. "Ehm. Child, I think it may be time for a new dose of laudanum." From his breast pocket, he pulled out the chemically soaked handkerchief he normally used when he felt like ravishing... Well, never mind. The gloved hand holding the cloth stopped short of Christine's nose as he noticed her dazed expression. Maybe I should hold off on the laudanum for a little while, he mused abstractly. It seems to be having an adverse effect on her brain cells.
("What brain cells!" Screamed the Authoress, tearing at her hair.)
Suddenly, Christine felt quite rejuvenated and ready for an engaging conversation. She pushed away Erik's handkerchief, fluffed her dark curls, and then wiped the excess hairspray on her lacey thighs.
"Really, Angel. I hardly see why you always resort to drugs to solve your problems. Opium isn't even popular anymore. Ever since that Poe fellow, people like to write dreary poems instead. You should try that for a change."
Erik found his hands involuntarily wringing the handkerchief back and forth like a noose. "Opium," he barked, "Is my only vice and friend in this cruel world." An unladylike snort emerged from the young opera star's throat.
"Yes, yes, you and your angst. As if your life has been nearly as difficult as mine! Why, my father died..." Here, our lovely Mlle. Daae paused to count on her fingers. "Seven years ago! And now my truest love-" She stopped, staring at Erik.
He had collapsed without warning, and was now sitting on his hands, which seemed to be trying to jump out from underneath him. She could have sworn she heard him continuously muttering, "Punjab lasso, punjab lasso, punjab lasso." Before Christine could question this bizarre behavior, however, a sudden splashing of footsteps arose from the lake's shallows.
And it definitely wasn't the mermaid.
It was the Vicomte.
"My dear heart! My one and only! I have come to save you from that monstrosity! I bring no sword or pistol, but my love and infinite exclamation points to arm me!"
"Rrrrrrrrrraoul!" Cried his not-so-secret fiancé, missing the shudder that went through the de Changy at hearing her shrill tremolo. "It is so cold and dark and spooky down here!" Panting with the exertion of the Phantom's obstacle course, Raoul ran towards his lover with arms outstretched.
Upon reaching Christine, he knocked into her, and sent her reeling backwards into the water. A moment later, the head of a very soggy young woman broke the surface of the lake. Cursing Raoul's bad aim, she raised a drenched hand so that he could lift her up, but froze abruptly.
(Dare I? The Authoress wickedly plotted, her fingers poised above her keyboard. Oh, I do dare.)
The Vicomte had lovingly enfolded the crouching Erik in a hug.
"Did she hurt you?" He murmured worriedly against his hair.
"S-she made fun of my candles." Came the sniffled reply from Raoul's waistcoat.
Two glaring faces turned towards the baffled, wet Christine.
"The game is up!" Roared Raoul. "You thought that it was you, betraying your teacher, secretly engaged to me, while it was really I, secretly engaged to your teacher, betraying you!" The barrage of exclamation points brought her to the verge of a faint.
"I don't... Explain... What?"
"Oh yes," interjected Erik as the pair rose. "I admit, I was growing tired of this charade. Your constant nagging, your ghastly vibrato, your alleged affair with my love. But now that he has admitted his feelings for me, I no longer need to use you to get back at him. You have served your purpose!"
"No! No, no, no, no, no!" Christine shrilly intoned, trying miserably to climb out of the lake. "You love me!" She pointed at Raoul. "And you love me!" She pointed at Erik. "And I love me!" She couldn't help but add.
Her words were met with stony silence.
"Should you, or should I?" Raoul spat menacingly.
"Oh, let me. I have long awaited this..." Erik reached into his coat, fingers wrapping around a coiled rope.
The wailing of Christine was cut short by a whooshing and then a snap.
Far above, the Parisian sky was setting in a spectacular orange. The tentacled beast rolled onto its stomach contentedly, having eaten the most satisfying meal it had had for some time. Erik and Raoul were cuddling by the fire, where it was nice and warm. The Authoress was basking in the glory of irony with a cup of coffee. And they all lived happily ever after. Except Christine. Which made everyone all the more happy.
The End.