A/N: I know, guys, y'all are mad at me for starting a new phic when I have three others that aren't finished. I promise that this'll be short, no more than 10 chappys, I promise, but all y'all will have to put up with long chappys. Iris, if I'm misusing Authoress 2, feel free to kill me, have an affair with Erik, dip me in melted batter, lock me in a room with nothing but infomercials when new episodes of Stargate are on, confiscate my Phantom sound track, or any combination of the above. Although if you have an affair with Erik without killing me or locking me up first, I will hunt you down. FISH, everybody. Oh, and Trevor, you'll be in my Modern Day phic. I already wrote your cameo. Please don't kill me. Oh, and the main character won't be named for a while. And those of you who know of my propensity for random names (Anya and Demetria… I named characters after Y'ALL, didn't I? Kim, you're next) won't be disappointed. RAOUL BASHING OUT THE WAZOO! Some Christine bashing too, but it's mostly for being an idiot in areas in conjunction to the fop, who should DIE A HORRIBLE FLAMING DEATH!
P.S. And y'all know that the dude that played Scotty on the Original Series died? WELL, Iris, you know what he said? That he didn't like William Shithead (cough) I mean Shatner 'cause he hogged the camera!
Disclaimer: Leroux is a guy, old, famous, French, and dead. I am a girl, 14, obscure (until the famed Tris/Ra-Iris/Kee'nah publishing companies begin to pump out mistresspieces of randomness), and alive (at least until Iris kills me, or Trevor kills me). There are several differences. ALW is also a guy and famous. We've already discussed this. Can I get on with my phic now?
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"Pack it up, kiddo," the male voice said. "I'll be waiting in the car."
"Yes, your majesty," I told my father sarcastically. I flipped my laptop shut and slipped it into my bag, singing "I remember there was mist/Swirling mist upon a vast, glassy lake."
Yeah, I like Phantom. Sue me. And abruptly, there was mist. Swirling mist upon a vast, glassy lake. I blinked "So am I know an all-powerful Authoress or what?" I wondered aloud.
"Plot majigger. I didn't want to keep you in the present too long. You might've developed a tragic past, even though you're based on a girl at a computer who didn't have a tragic past at all," said a red-haired, semitransparent, obviously pregnant version of myself. "You've got Authoress powers to a limited extent. For example, you can talk to us, and in your bag, you've got complete domination. But, you can't influence any of the other characters. That's my job, and hers." She gestured to another semitransparent pregnant woman, this one with an absolutely ginormous ring on her finger and a chandelier hovering above her head. "And there's several appropriate garments in there too. Including corsets," she added, grinning wickedly. "Oh, and one more thing. You get a boat." A boat appeared. "But, you've gotta wrangle with Erik on your own." With this, Authoress 1 and her companion, who I know to be the ascended form of my best friend, vanished.
"Well, here goes everything," I said, and stepped into the boat. To my surprise (not!), it tipped over the second I stepped in. I told my bag it was waterproof. I got back in the boat, slightly more gracefully, but still I was no ballerina. Eleven years of ballet behind me, and I couldn't even get into a damned boat. I managed somehow to get the boat across the lake, tipping over a grand total of eighteen times. I got even more drenched when I tripped on a rock getting out of the boat, if it was possible to increase my dampness. (A/N: I was going to have her originally manage to stay dry, but then I read some Mary Sue parody phics, and her being Sueish is my last intent. So she went the opposite way entirely)
Music came from another room. Don Juan Triumphant. What else?
At a pause, I decided to go in and see him. I found the right room quickly. Erik sat inside at his organ, scribbling furiously at sheets of paper, just as I imagined him. I was in no mood to stand around for thirty years waiting, so I walked over and tapped him on the shoulder.
His hand shot out and grabbed my wrist. Hard. "What are you doing in my lair?" he demanded.
I winced. I hoped my Authoress powers included healing broken bones, 'cause I was gonna need those services soon. I've been reading way too many Mary Sue phics, I decided. "Umm…" I said. How could I explain it? An Authoress or two transported me back in time on a hormonally induced whim? That was really going to fly. "I…got lost…?" I said hopefully.
He studied me. "You have an abnormally high voice," he said finally.
I looked at him. This was not the way a typical phanphic was supposed to go. "Are you completely insane? I don't have a high voice at all!"
"You have one of the highest voices I have ever heard," he confirmed.
Suddenly, I realized what he thought. I hate you, Authoresses! I thought. "I'm not a guy!" I protested. Yeah, so I was wearing my way-too-big Auburn Football hoodie (A/N: I believe that you know the one, Iris) and had my hair stuck down it. Surely I didn't look that masculine, though.
"Oh," Erik said, looking—perish the thought—slightly embarrassed.
"Can I have my hand back?" I asked.
He dropped my wrist like it was a hot coal, then went back to his frantic scribbling, as if I'd just disappear into thin air like an Authoress.
Thanks a whole hell of a lot, I thought. I stormed out of the lair and up to Christine's dressing room, hoping that Madame Foppess wasn't there. Lucky me, she wasn't. (A/N: Still haven't figured out if that was sarcasm or not)
-
I sat down on the floor, glaring at the mirror. "Thanks a lot, guys," I said. I wondered if Erik was watching.
"Sorry," Authoress 1 said. "I'm trying to write Angry Erik better."
"Well, couldn't you have made him Happy Erik, just until he let me stay with him?"
"That'd be too easy," said Authoress 2, "and too Mary Sueish. If you really want that, we can have Raoul rape you or something."
"What time period am I in?" I asked Authoress 1 while vigorously shaking my head at Authoress 2.
"You're in the," and here the Authoresses began to imitate Masquerade, "Three months."
"Of relief."
"Of delight."
"Of Elysian peace."
"And we can breathe at last."
"No more notes."
"No more Ghost."
"Here's a health."
"Here's a toast."
"To a-"
"I get the picture! So, what you're saying is, 'her chains are still his, she belongs to him,' right?"
"Exactly," Authoress 2 nodded.
"So Christine still inhabits this dressing room?"
"No," they both shook their heads. "We…convinced her to move a different room."
This sounded suspicious. "Will I have to try out for the orchestra or the chorus or the corps de ballet or anything?"
"Never. Again, way to used," Authoress 2 said vehemently.
"Well, then, I'll go to sleep for a while."
Authoress 1 grinned wickedly as I changed into a nightgown behind the screen, and said, "Get a full night of sleep. You'll need it tomorrow. You get the joy of dressing appropriately." Her next remark was directed at Authoress 2. "While we need to get that chandelier away from you, and then get chocolate."
Authoress 2 nodded, and they faded out, arguing about something involving Authoresses I and II.
"Finally," I sighed. "I can get some sleep." With this I slowly dropped off, off to sleep, and at the same time, off the bed, still wondering if Erik had heard the strange discussion.
-
(((((ABRUPT SWITCH TO NARRATOR'S POV)))))
Behind the mirror, Erik thought he was going insane. It was impossible that two women could've just appeared. It was equally impossible that he could be able to see the room through them, or that they could just disappear. But all that had happened, apparently. And certainly the girl had seen the two. He shook his head. He would figure it out tomorrow. He had work to do on Don Juan Triumphant.
He risked one last glance back and wished he didn't. He was faced with a further conundrum. How is she still asleep with her head bumping on the ground? And why does she have that loony grin on her face? I am leaving now.
The reason she was wearing that loony grin on her face would've become apparent if Erik had listened hard enough. In her sleep, she was murmuring, "Die, fop, die… Your head will adorn my mantle…"
-
(((((SWITCH BACK TO THE THUS UNNAMED GIRL'S POV)))))
The next day I woke up on the floor, far too early for any sane being, but figuring it'd take me several hours to figure out how to put on my corset and all that crap, I stumbled out of bed. I thumbed through my bag. All my clothes were gone, replaced by nineteenth century stuff. Fortunately, it was all packaged into neat little packages and labeled with silver Sharpie™. One outfit said, 'For the Bal Masque in a month.' Not wanting to have to run around in wrinkles for who knows how long, I hung up everything up in the wardrobe, leaving out one package. When I opened the first one to hang it up, clothes exploded everywhere. The clothes compressor—another miracle of modern technology. The package I left out said, 'For an ordinary day exploring the Opera. GRAVY! CAKE! GRAVY! CAKE! GRAVY! GRAVY! CHOCOLATE CAKE WITH RAINBOW SPRINKLES! TOFU! CHILD MOLESTER!' I groaned. I hated it when the Authoresses passed notes on my stuff. (A/N: It's a very inside joke. Don't think the Authoresses are pervs)
I picked up a chemise and struggled into it. Standing in front of the mirror, I looked at myself. It was incredible. If it was dyed black, to minimize transparency, I could get into a middle school dance with it and be considered conservative. I held up my dress and looked in the mirror. No luck. I was going to have to wear that contraption. I wouldn't be surprised if it said 'made in Hell' instead of 'made in China.' Even with me sucking in my stomach, you could still see probably an inch and a half of chemise on either side of the bright green, and I must say, rather pretty, dress.
"I really hate you," I muttered. "How in the name of the godforsaken Red Star am I supposed to get this damned thing on?"
Authoress 2 materialized, on her own this time. I blinked. In one hand she was holding a rubber mallet, in the other a wriggling, half-crushed metal snake, and on her head, the op just brushing against the chandelier was…a William Shatner voodoo doll. (A/N: We all know you have one, Iris) "We love you, too," she said, crushing a little more life out of the snake with a 'die, Ba'al' look on her face. She continued, "And as for the corset, there's someone in there that can help you," here she gestured at the mirror with her head. The voodoo doll fell of its perch, making a desperate bid for freedom. At Authoress 2's scathing glare, however, it burst into flames.
"So I'm just supposed to skip down there and ask Erik—who thinks I'm gender-confused—to help me put on my underwear?"
"Pretty much, yeah." This was Authoress 1, who'd just appeared and was gnawing on a lump of dark chocolate roughly twice the size of her head. "Bad news," she told Authoress 2. "Authoress I told me I couldn't remove the chandelier. Something about a voodoo doll. Apparently she likes Captain Kirk. No accounting for taste." She looked utterly disgusted.
"Do you think all that chocolate will make her more inclined to write Happy Erik?" I asked Authoress 2.
"Maybe," she answered. "But I do know that if she doesn't give me some, I'll sick Ba'al on her."
"Umm, Ba'al's dead," I pointed out..
"Point," and she tossed the snake over her shoulder into oblivion.
"Well, adieu, I have to go. The thought of a hyper omnipotent being is rather disturbing," I said with a wave.
Behind us, Authoress 1 had finished off her choccy woccy doo dah (chocolate!) and was saying, "Cheyenne Mountain's on springs, so if a bomb hits it, it goes boingy…boingy…boingy…"
With a firm, "Bye," I disappeared through the mirror, Authoress 2 giving me a 'traitor' look as she and Authoress 1 faded out.
-
Erik was again sitting with his back to the door. "Umm…Erik…could you help me with my corset?" I asked.
He turned around.
He blinked.
He turned back around.
"Put some clothes on," he growled.
"I would, but I need your help."
"Who are you?"
"My name is Burgoyne 172." (A/N: For all those who recognized that, email me with your knowledge, and you get a word in edgewise about this phic and a cameo Authoress) I laughed at that one, then stopped as I realized Erik would think I was even more insane than he already did.
He raised an eyebrow. "Really? Well…Burgoyne 172…what do you want?"
If this guy wasn't so sexy, he'd majorly irk my pickle. "I already told you, I want you to help me with my corset so I can actually fit into my dress. And Burgoyne isn't my name, that was just a joke."
"Well, mon- mademoiselle, what is your name?"
"You'd laugh." I'd always been embarrassed about my name, but never this much.
"Please tell me your name, mademoiselle."
Dude! Erik had just asked me! Politely! I had died and gone to heaven. Or something. I winced. This wasn't going to be fun. He'd pick up on the reference instantly, being French. "My name is…Brie…" (A/N: Yes, that's her real name)
He roared with laughter. A few minutes later, he managed to choke out, "You're…named…after…cheese…?"
My nod just got him started again. Approximately fifteen minutes later he had composed himself. "Do you have a middle name I might possibly call you?" he asked.
I sighed. "Yes. Fleur. I would prefer you to call me Brie, though."
"Your…name…means…cheese…flower…?"
Oh, God. I'd gotten him started again. I noticed Authoress 1 grinning at me over his shoulder.
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A/N: Review, please. Meanwhile, I shall be even more evil and start another fic instead of updating! I promise that that'll be a one-shot. Just so you know, this is my Longest Chappy Ever! WOOT!