1. ----Running through the alleyways of Paris was like running through a labyrinth. A cold, seemingly

endless labyrinth. Steam came up from the sewer covers, providing some cloaking, but the sound

of footfalls on damp, puddle covered pavement was like blazing arrow, pointing at a target. The

target happened to be a frightened girl of no more than twenty, running to keep her freedom and

struggling to hold onto the baguette that would be her supper; if she got to eat it. "Arête! Stop!

Thief!" the constable shouted, not too far behind.

The cold air of a just beginning spring bit at her throat and lungs as she inhaled. Running into a main circle and weaving

through the traffic of people, horses and the newly founded automobile, she was somewhat safe. But if she wanted to

be completely out of danger, she would have to find someplace safe, and fast! Looking every which way, she switched

directions to the newly burnt and condemned Opera Populaire.

Lunging through a boarded door like a tiger through a hoop, she rolled and landed in the grand foyer of the

great opera house. Forgetting all that was behind her, she stood up to take in the sight before her.

It was dim, and the elements did have some effect on it. Discolored lines swirled around the

entrances from where water seeped in and went stagnant. There was a haze from the humidity and

the curtains that still hung gave it a mildew-y smell all around. The gold painted sculptures that sat

mounted at the ends of the marble railing were still somewhat intact, but badly marred from the

flames that once engulfed the whole theatre. A few gas light fixtures were still whole, but most

were shattered. The girl sneezed. The place was quite dusty as well.

Taking measured steps, her footsteps echoed around the lobby and down the halls. "Sacre' Bleu," she whispered,

looking all around her still. It had only been three years since the fire, yet she felt that she knew everything to

date about the theatre; yet she knew she didn't. Somehow she didn't expect it to be any different,

even though she knew it would be.

"She went in here!" she heard the constable shout through the slats in the boards. They wouldn't be able to squeeze the

way she did though the boards, due to they have been well fed, where she was reduced to little more than a sliver. She

took her time walking up the marble steps, remembering taking the same steps when she came there the last

time with her mother. The memory of her mother made her stop and look at the spots just next to

where she was standing. The same spots where her mother once walked three years ago, but so

much longer than that. Infections spread fast and when you're nothing more than a mistress, you're

abandoned on the spot. Especially when you're desperate and your master knows it.

She had been in that room with her mother when Raoul Chagney walked out on her to be with his Christine.

The very same Christine that was responsible for the fire. Though she knew it was the Phantom

that was really the one responsible, she had such a hatred for Christine that she was in the way of

her mother's happiness that that over shadowed everything. She hated Raoul just as much, for

abandoning her mother like someone would a sick dog when her mother was in need.

Keeping in mind that she was soon to be followed again, she walked the rest of the way into a hall that would

lead her to the theatre seating.

----Some of the fine red fabric of the seats were torn no doubt by rats and mice. She reached out

and trailed a hand over the gold gilded frames of the seat backs, taking in the detailed engravings.

The carpet was ripped in places, revealing the wooden boards beneath. She gave a small squeal

when she tripped over a piece of it, and stopped to listen when she heard what sounded like

someone abruptly stopping in the middle of their doings. She was about to call out when the

crashing of the boards and the shouts of the constables stopped her short and she ducked into

the many rows of the seats.

"Yes Monsieur Andre'."

She peaked her head just above the seat she hid behind. "Someone has broken into your theatre." By God, she thought.

Monsieur Andre'! She had thought he had been killed in the fire! She remembered reading in the papers that he was no

where to be found; him and Monsieur Fiermin. She must have missed the later publishing's. She

raised up a bit more and noticed that he was in a wheelchair. He was missing a leg. Badly burnt if

not removed by a falling beam. She also noticed that she was noticed.

"Monsieur!" One pointed.

Her eyes went wide and she ducked back, crawling like a snake through the rows, weaving around

and through seats until she reached the front of the stage. A constable was racing along towards

the front rows and she knew it was now or never. Pushing herself up, she raced onto the stage and

slid down into the conductor's pit at the front. Narrowly missing the attempted snatch of the man's

hand, she slunk into complete darkness. She felt her way around, careful not to knock anything

over, yet in a hurry to find the exit to backstage. Only her heavy frantic breathing kept her company,

she felt her hand touch something warm…and breathing.

Thinking it was one of the men, she quickly withdrew and tried to run. A hand grabbed her arm. She started to protest

when another hand pressed against her mouth, silencing her.

"I wouldn't run that way if I were you," the voice was deep husky; soothing yet un-nerving but welcomingly masculine.

"There's a collection of symbols there," he said, removing his hand from her mouth, but not releasing her encase she

would still try to run and give them both away.

"Who are you?" she whispered.

"No one of consequence," came his reply. "Follow me," he took her by the arm and guided her through the darkness.

"How can you see anything?" she brushed off what she knew must have been a spider web. "I see light where

others see dark. Hence why I am down here."

With the sound of a turning door handle, they were in the dressing room backstage. She stared in amazement at the

sight around her. This is where La Calotte' used to get ready, she though with amazement, forgetting her hand was

stilled had by a man she had yet to identify. Taking a few more moments to look around, she realized that all the

mirrors were broken. "Why are all the mirrors broken?" she inquired, not looking at him yet.

"Because I hate them," she could hear a deep anger within his voice. "Why would anyone hate—"

she stopped. Right before her very own eyes stood the infamous…Phantom of the Opera.