I usually like to save the author's notes for afterward, but considering what this is, I think an apology is due beforehand.

I apologize profusely. I apologize to Gaston Leroux who is no doubt rolling in his grave, I apologize to my readers who are waiting on all my other more respectable fan fictions, and to my co-author for Who Needs Christine because I uploaded this instead of our new chapter. (I'm not apologizing to Lloyd Webber or anyone involved with Love Never Dies because they owe the entire phandom an apology.) My only excuse is that it's almost 4am and I can't be held completely accountable for my stupidity.

This is wretched and I know it. I took everything I hate most about poorly done Phantom fics and combined it into one big mess of character disfigurements. For each chapter I'll probably put a note at the bottom about a cliché I can't stand that will be incorporated within. For I plan on incorporating many unbearable fan fiction clichés.

It's not written in any seriousness whatsoever, except in the seriousness of my exposing the worst fan fiction atrocities. Feel free to hate it. I do! Because it's sad and wrong. I don't even know why I wrote it.

Last confession for the night: This isn't totally random crap. Sadly, I do have an idea of where this is all going. I've thought way too much about it, in fact.

Populaire Pandemonium

Chapter I

Don't ever eat four peppermint truffles right before bed. I've heard that the type of food you eat before sleeping can determine what you dream. Maybe you don't like peppermint truffles and that won't be a temptation, but I thought I'd share the only moral I can gather from this bizarre situation. I guess being in a dream isn't my only option. I could be in a coma, brought on by the excessive combination of late night hot chocolate and already mentioned truffles. But what of it? I'm here now and no amount of analyzing my sweet tooth diet is going to help me out.

I'm standing in one of the dark, drafty corridors of the Opéra Populaire. I know this the same way I know I have arms, except having arms makes more sense. Just seconds ago, just to be sure, I asked a passing maid if I "really sing for the Opera Populaire?" She looked at me as if I'd requested she smell my breath, but didn't correct me on the name. In fact, she curtsied and said, "Of course, Miss Gibson. You've just got your first solo, but you've been singing for this company as long as I've been in employ. I beg your pardon, but is everything all right Miss?"

"Yes, of course. Perfectly fine. It's just so like a dream all of a sudden." I have to stop myself from snickering. It's not a lie.

She shuffled off to do whatever maidservants in an opera house are paid to do. If she's anything like the maid in the Julian Sands horror version Il Fantasma dell'opera, I don't want to know.

What I do want to know is how to get from Point A—also being The Place Which I Am Occupying—to Point B—also known as Anywhere Warm with People Who Can Direct Me. I'm wearing a thin shift under a robe that doesn't do much for coverage and I have a sudden desire to know what time of day it is and if it's entirely normal for the chorus girls—if that's what I am now—to wander all over the Populaire in night things.

Within five minutes I'm lost. A map or a tour guide would be eh… how you'd say magnifique, though at this point I'd settle for an extra lamp or another maid. As long as I'm traveling up rather than down I should be okay. I have no idea how murderous this Phantom is, but I'm not taking any chances. Being met with Gerard Butler's likeness in a dark corridor could be more dangerous for me than getting punjabbed from behind.

"Lissie!" There are hands roaming up and down my waist and back before I can identify the man's whispering voice. He's talking so close to my face that his breath—which smells strongly of sour grapes—seems to mingle with my own. "I knew you'd come."

"It's Alycia. I don't answer to nicknames. And what are you doing?" I push him away with as much force as I can.

"My lovely girl, when will you stop rejecting my advances and make me a happy man?" His voice is petulant, needy, and boyish. I look up in disturbance to a smooth face framed in blonde locks that come down to his shoulders in a wave. Oh dear heavens!

"This happens a lot, does it?"

"You're a tease Alycia, but it only makes me want you more."

"Where's Christine? Isn't she your secret sweetheart?"

"Ha, ha! That tart, Christine Day who makes herself a plaything with the managers! She was my sweetheart long ago when we were mere children but I care nothing for her now."

"Don't you mean Christine Daae?"

"What's a die-yea?" He grows serious for a moment. "How did you know of our past? I've told no one…"

"Rumors. It isn't important. Look, could you uh… escort me back to my room?"

He grins triumphantly. "Of course. But you know, there would be less chance of discovery in the passageway—"

"No! I just want you to take me to my room so I can sleep." His face imitates that of a puppy that got told off for begging. I'm getting nowhere with this man-boy.

"If you show me to my room, I'll give you a kiss goodnight." Lying works well, and he tucks my hand in the crook of his arm to lead me up to relative safety.

Wonderful. I was just felt up by Raoul in the hallway.

He stops us in front of a half-open door where light streams through and a foreboding noise made up of chattering females stems from.

"Oh. This is... of course. It would be nice to have a place more private."

"I could take you to the diva's dressing room instead."

"Is that allowed?"

"I'm the patron of this opera. For me to take you there, it's allowed."

"What about Carlotta?"

"She went home early with a headache.

"I keep telling you, Miss Gibson, there are advantages to being in my company. Not the least of which begin with being in my company."

I don't have an appropriate response for that and so I follow him quietly to the dressing room. The walk there is surprisingly peaceful. It feels comforting to have my hand on the arm of someone who knows the way and at least something of the opera house's strange customs.

My peace of mind flags at the door. I take my hand back, staring at the gilded handle with a sudden thought. "This might not be so private. What about... well, what if someone could see into the room? I should just go back to the dormitory."

"Ha ha ha! See into the room? Who would take the trouble to spy on Madame Carlotta? She's an elephant more than a woman!"

I could say that it isn't Mme. Carlotta who's being spied on but Christine when she uses the dressing room. I don't though, because I don't want to come across as a crazy woman even to half-drunk Raoul.

My hand is on the doorknob when Raoul stops me. "You promised me a kiss."

"Oh yes." I clear my throat. Turning very slowly around, I blow him a quick kiss and retreat into the dressing room as fast as anything.

All is quiet for a few moments until his laughter erupts from outside.

"Cleverly played, Lissie! I'll return in two minutes with a bottle of wine and some chocolates."

Two minutes. That's all the time I have to find some modest clothing and make a break for it. I begin to pillage the dressing room for something less filmy. There's a screen with rather large under things hanging sloppily over it and I check behind it for more pieces of clothing. Nothing. There's nothing left out on the little couch, in the vanity drawer, or even behind the huge pots of plants. Yes, I looked just in case. But of course, it's a dressing room. No one would think to keep any costumes or clothes in a dressing room. How foolish of me to assume.

Despairing of getting anything useful from here, I move to the vanity to redo my hair and reassess my situation. There's a hand mirror lying on the table and I intend on adjusting loose pieces back into the bun they fell out of by getting the vanity and hand mirrors to line up with me between them. I need to see the back of my head.

It's no use. I can't get the angle just right with so many flowers taking up half the view at the vanity. My next thought is to bring the little mirror to the full length one at the end of the room and get the view I need by those means.

Without warning, a dark voice sends a whisper through the room that plays out like a threat. I hear the words "foolish" and "boy" being hissed. In my unnatural terror, my hand forgets its job of holding a certain mirror.

It falls and shatters, splintering everywhere.

I stoop to pick up the larger pieces and am met with a gust of cold air. Standing upright, I suddenly find the glass from the full length mirror missing. The broken fragments on the ground are forgotten.

The gaping passageway is long; I can't see an end to it, except what disappears around a corner. It's also very dark… and uninviting.

"Lissie! Lissie, have you fallen asleep?" The voice on the other side of the dressing room door suddenly makes a dark passage under the opera seem quite nice.

It takes me several seconds of nervous weighing the options to make up my mind. My foot goes over the bottom of the mirror's frame. This is it. Holding my breath like I'm about to flip off a diving board, I take the plunge.

Cliche #1: Names that are not historically sound.

I'm pretty darned sure there were no Alycias living in 19th century France. If you know of one, please tell me so I can immediately change my OC's name to Jessica or Raevyn.

Cliche #2: Christine Day

I can't stand it when Christine Daae is turned into Christine Day. Unless it's a modernized fic, because that actually makes a tiny bit of sense. But honestly, why is Daae so hard to type/say?