Notes: Here is my entry for NaNoWriMo 2014. It is still a work in progress, and I honestly don't even know what prompted me to do it this year.
This is based on both the original The Phantom of the Opera novel by Gaston Leroux and the Andrew Lloyd Webber 1986 musical/2004 film.
It's pretty much that The Phantom of the Opera AU that nobody wanted, but I'm writing anyway.
Prologue
Paris, 1914
The streets outside the now-dilapidated opera house bustled with people coming and going, were filled with the throaty roars of the latest car model and the occasional whinny and hoofbeats of horse-drawn stagecoaches. Large banners hung over the front entrance proclaimed proudly that the Paris Opera House was hosting an auction; despite this, only a few people actually trickled inside. Most passerby spared the once-beautiful building a mere, mildly curious glance before moving on.
They had heard the story of the opera house, of course—everyone had—but most scoffed it off as a mere gimmick to attract attention back when the house had been in its heyday thirty years ago, or as local legend. Only a few insisted that the Phantom had been real, but those witnesses had either passed on to the other side or their minds were so addled with age that no one took them seriously. After all, skeptics said, there had never been any definite evidence of the Opera Ghost's existence, nor any truth to the story that he had kidnapped the beautiful singer Rose Tyler, orchestrated the disappearance of Captain Jack Harkness, or murdered the captain's older brother. Yes, they agreed, the Opera House was dead, a mere ghost like its infamous legend. Life moved on. And so, most of those out on the streets of Paris simply went on their way.
It was into this atmosphere that a black car pulled up to the entrance of the Opera House, its back doors bearing the crest of the Harkness family. A chauffeur stepped out, went around to the far passenger side, opened the door, and helped the elderly captain—now a vicomte—step out onto the pavement. As soon as Jack Harkness was standing, he gently shook off the other man's help with a slight twitch of his arm. He may have been in his fifties by now, but he could still walk. Age had turned his brown-black hair a peppery gray, but his violet-blue eyes were as sharp and clear-sighted as ever—even if he was starting to become a little near-sighted.
Jack turned his head, started to dismiss his driver, then thought better of it and motioned with his hand for the other, younger man to follow. They walked up the front steps, entered the opera house, and joined the small crowd that was there for the auction.
Inside, every surface of the once-beautiful house was coated in layers of dust. Cobwebs hung from every available corner, and the lighting was dim when compared to the natural sunlight outside. Jack felt a brief twinge of sadness and nostalgia, shoved it aside to focus on the auction.
". . . Sold," the auctioneer—standing on large wooden platform in the center of the room—was saying, slamming down a gavel to emphasize his point. "Your number, sir?" He paused, then continued, "Thank you." The sold item was taken offstage; another item took its place. "Lot six-six-three, ladies and gentlemen: a poster from this house's production of Hannibal by Chalumau."
"Showing here," said the porter.
With those words, the auctioneer started the bidding: "Do I have ten francs?" No response. "Five, then. Five I am bid. Six. Seven. Against you, sir, seven. Eight? Eight once. Selling twice." There were no further bids. Down went the gavel. "Sold to Monsieur Deferre. Thank you very much, sir." Again, there was a pause as items moved off and on the platform. "Lot six-six-four: a wooden pistol and three human skulls . . . From the 1867 production of Robert le Diable by Meyerbeer. Ten francs for this. Ten, thank you. Ten still. Fifteen, thank you, is I'm bid. Going at fifteen. Your number, sir? . . .
"Lot six-six-five, ladies and gentlemen: a papier mache musical box in the shape of a barrel organ. Attached: the figure of a monkey in Gallifreyan robes playing the cymbals. This item, discovered in the vaults of the theatre, is still in working order."
"Showing here," repeated the porter. He activated the music box; strains of a half-familiar, half-forgotten song made tinny by the box reached Jack's ears. Memories of a masquerade ball started to swirl in his mind. No, more than mere memories . . .
The captain—no, vicomte; why could he never remember he was now a vicomte?—looked to the side, not really expecting to see anyone he knew, yet he wasn't surprised to see Donna Noble there. Her face was more lined now, her red hair now slightly streaked with gray, yet he would recognize her anywhere. She must be in her forties by now, he realized.
"May I commence at fifteen francs?" The auctioneer's voice pulled Captain Jack back into the moment. "Fifteen, thank you. Yes, twenty from you, sir. Thank you very much." Donna raised her hand. "Madame Noble, twenty-five. Thank you, Madame. Twenty-five I'm bid. Do I hear thirty?" Jack raised his hand. "Thirty. And thirty-five?" Donna shook her head. "Selling at thirty francs, then. Thirty once, thirty twice." Bang! "Sold for thirty francs to the Vicomte Harkness." (It's "Captain," Jack thought.) "Thank you, sir."
It was not long before the monkey musical box was in Jack's possession.
A collector's piece indeed, he thought wryly to himself, tracing its edges with a finger. Every detail exactly as she said. . . . She often spoke of you, my friend. . . . Your velvet lining and your figurine of lead . . . Will you still play when all the rest of us are dead?
The auctioneer's voice continued, "Lot six-six-six, then: a chandelier in pieces. Some of you may recall the strange affair of the Phantom of the Opera, a mystery never fully explained."
A dry smile twitched on Jack's lips. Oh, yes, he remembered the "strange affair", as the auctioneer had put it. He had lived it, after all.
"We are told, ladies and gentlemen," the auctioneer went on, "that this is the very chandelier which figures in the famous disaster. Our workshops have repaired it and wired parts of it for the new electric lights. Perhaps we can frighten away the ghosts of so many years ago with a little illumination. Gentlemen!"
At the order, the cover was whisked off the restored chandelier and it lit up. As the chandelier was raised up, Jack found himself slipping back into memories.
Rose's kidnapping, his own disappearance, the death of his brother and many others . . . All of it had been the work of the Phantom. Children and young men and women today just thought the Phantom was a myth, a legend, but Jack, Donna, and Sarah Jane Smith—as well as the mysterious woman known to all of Paris only as River Song—knew better. No, the Phantom was not a myth!
Not that there were very many witnesses left. Of those who were, most were deemed mad when they told the version of Jack's case that involved the Opera Ghost. It seemed the general public preferred the story that had Jack killing his older brother John in a fit of jealous rage over Rose—which was completely daft, of course.
Donna caught his eye again, and as light from the chandelier chased away the shadows lurking in dusty corners Jack was thrown back in time to 1884, when the Paris Opera House was in its prime and haunted by a murderous, obsessive, elusive figure . . .