Yes, it's another story. Why? I actually have been keeping this one on file for some time and did not wish to post it until I had made some progress on my other stories. However, I fear I do not see any sign of that happening in the near future, so I say "what the heck".

I cannot guarantee I will be able to update frequently (isn't that the story of my life?), so I'm just putting up the prologue and the first chapter to see what people's reactions will be. If I decide to follow through with this story, it will be the only story I will focus on. I'm kind of stressed with college applications and stuff, so please go easy on me about the updating. I'll do what I can.

Disclaimer: No, I do not own Phantom of the Opera, Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes in the 22nd Century, or Arsene Lupin. I do, however, own all OC's and would like them not to be stolen. Thank you. I also do not own the plot line of Disney's The Hunchback of Notre Dame. Yes, I am basing it off that version because it fits with my idea. And I (ahem) didn't finish the book. The finessing of the plot to make it seemingly more original is my doing, however. If anyone tries to sue me, I will ask them to get a life. I already have my sister trying to get money from me. ;)

Now . . . the fic!

Prologue

The streets of Paris sizzled in the warmth of midday, both in the heat of the sun and the activity that took place on and above them. Petty venders, both human and robotic, rolled their wares down the sidewalks in the hopes of catching the eyes of potential customers. Shopkeepers propped their doors open for unsuppressed waves of business flooding the mighty city. It was a scene, though common in that district, very rarely beheld in any other place in the world. There was a perfect melding of new and old, the modern and the archaic. While hovercrafts glided over the tallest of historic and nearly ancient edifices, children played virtual stick ball over the worn cobblestone alleys.

Many cities around the world had their oldest streets refinished with asphalt (as it was difficult for hover cars to land on cobbled streets without causing damage to the sensitive underbellies of the machines). In this district, however, the landing of hover cars was completely forbidden. The area was labeled as a site of historical value and was not to be manipulated to the advances of modern technology. Only robots and other technological creations that had no affect on the city's architectural infrastructure were permitted within that part of Paris. The main reason, complemented by other, smaller ones, was the presence of one of the most revered and memorable architectural achievements – not only of Paris – but of the world:

Notre-Dame de Paris.

It was appropriate that this building should exist at the very center of the city, for all else seemed to revolve around it, none surpassing it in age or awe. Even the most ignorant of passer-byers could not help but take a moment to gaze up at the face of the magnificent "sphinx", wondering at its uncanny and overpowering presence.

And if that passer-byer is truly astounded by its physical appearance, then he or she must wait a moment to witness a unique characteristic that will knock them off their feet: the cathedral's celestial bells.

From the thunderous to the soft and sweet, the bells were capable of every range and every mood and tone. No other cathedral, no matter how technologically equipped, could match it. It is no surprise, then, that this monument which had survived for so many years should produce such a profound effect upon any who should pass beneath its shadow.

Deidre, a young teen with muddy brown hair and large auburn eyes ran to the steps of the mighty cathedral. "Hey, you guys!" she called to her friends from behind her. "Listen!"

A young African-American named Wiggins and an electronically-aided lad named Tennyson joined their exuberant companion. All three youths froze at the stairs, unwilling to disturb the moment to which they had been looking forward.

The bells of Notre Dame had begun to ring. The largest roared like the gongs of gods, making the very ground on which the children stood tremble and shake. The smaller bells greeted the listeners with their own melodious song, creating in whole a symphony that none of the young ones had ever heard. Many times they were told of the majesty of the music that would sound from the towers, but any thought or idea they might have anticipated was only a fraction of the reality they now beheld.

Even after the bells had stopped, their voices still echoed in the streets of the city and in the minds of all who had listened, including the company of friends that stood the closest of all.

"Blimey!" breathed Deidre after several moments. "I've never heard anything like it! Wasn't that amazing, guys?"

"Sure was!" concurred Wiggins, who fully admitted on more than one occasion to possessing neither any devotion, taste, nor interest in music or churches.

Tennyson beeped and whirred out a comment that to some extent referred to this fact. Deidre laughed heartily at it. "You're right, bucko. It's a good thing we did manage to drag him all the way here to hear them. Aren't you now glad that you came?"

Wiggins couldn't help but shove his hands in his pockets and shuffle his shoes against the ground a bit. "Okay, I guess. You won't be telling all of your friends about this, though, right?"

"Hmmm . . . possibly." The girl smiled mischievously, giving no inkling in either direction of choice. This left the poor former boxer to sigh away his worry and look up at the cathedral.

"They certainly are something, those bells."

"They certainly are."

The threesome spun around at the sound of the new voice, and found themselves face to face with a dashing dandy, about his early thirties, dressed in 19th century wealthy gentleman's clothes. The more ironic fact about the situation was that he was leaning

against what seemed to be an old vender's stand decorated with nothing but a worn-out curtain across the face of the opening and a simple frieze engraved along the top. How could a man who seemed to run such a poor business afford the expensive attire on his person?

"Who are you?" Wiggins asked warily.

The gentleman touched the brim of his black top hat. "M. Arsène Lupin at your service. Yes, they are quite something, aren't they? I come here almost every day just to listen to them."

"I don't blame you," replied Deidre in her usual friendly manner. "It must take quite a genius to wire up all those bells and make them sound so beautiful."

A coy smiled spread across the gentleman's lips. "It is usually against my principles to contradict a lady; however, the bells are quite capable of producing their own beautiful sound without the aid of modern technology. Besides . . ." He was certain to pause at this moment to capture the group's attention. ". . . whoever said they ring by themselves?"

"Well, they cannot really ring by themselves," Wiggins pointed out, "There must be some sort of network constructed to make the bells ring without the hand of a human being."

"I understand that, my good man," said M. Lupin in all affability, "But I will tell you without a doubt in my mind that the bells – while they might be assisted with some electric power – are not without any human help."

The children stared at him in astonishment. "Y-you," stammered Deidre, "mean to say that . . . there is actually someone up there ringing the bells?!"

"Of course there is! Have you never heard of our bell ringer?"

Tennyson spoke up, his statements directed at Wiggins. Wiggins, in turn, spoke to Lupin. "Tennyson says that he read a book, Notre-Dame de Paris, and in that book there was a bellringer called Quasimodo, a hunchback. Is that who you mean?"

"There was indeed such a being," answered Lupin, "but he has long since passed from this world. In fact, his death was viewed by some to be the death of Notre Dame. He was, in many ways, the edifice's very soul."

Lupin took another pause to allow this information to sink into the children's minds. After all, such facts are very important to know when one is speaking of Notre Dame.

"But it is not so now," he continued. "And our current bell ringer is by no means a hunchback. She is called by a different name."

Wiggins furrowed his brow. "She?"

"Oh, yes, she. And she has a proper name; but most of us around here call her the Phantom."

The friends exchanged looks of confusion and puzzlement, not knowing what to make of these almost absurd and unbelievable remarks. Lupin could see, however, that even in their doubt, they were anxious to know more about this mysterious figure of whom they had never seen or heard.

"Perhaps I shall start from the beginning."

In a flash, the strange gentleman disappeared into his vender's cart, only to part the curtain and reveal the true beauty that lay inside his vehicle. It was a puppet theater. The children quickly gathered to him, eager and ready for his story.

"Now, Lupin shall begin the tale," said the puppeteer in a mysterious tone. "So listen well, and you just may listen to the bells in a way you never have before. This is a tale whose words ring as true as they. It is a tale about loneliness, friendship, passion, romance, adventure, cruelty, and revenge.

"But, most of all, as most of the greatest stories are . . . it is the tale of a beautiful woman . . . and a monster . . ."

Woo-hoo. Okay. Prologue done. Now the first chapter. Hope you like! Please tell me what you think. And don't make me beg. You don't want to see me when I start to beg. It gets ugly.