This fic is based off both the novel and the Andrew Lloyd Weber musical, so don't expect it to be a straight translation of one or the other. Of course, some things will be happening that most certainly did not ever happen in either book or play.
AutoBot of the Opera
Chapter One: Is it the Ghost?
The general public of Iacon chalked it up to simple cabin fever. It was, after all, an acknowledged truth: Put a lot of bots in an inclosed space for an extended period of time, and they will start to go mad. (There were some who said that anyone who liked opera was crazy.) However there were very, very few who, passing into the great opera house, with its host of silent statues, long hallways lit only by flickering energon lamps, and vaulted ceilings all half lost in shadow, did not entertain, if only for a moment, thoughts of the Phantom.
The corps de ballet of the Opera Popularie Cybertronie were notorious gossips, besides being far and away the most superstitious of all the opera folk. Mainly this demonstrated another great truth: put a lot of young femmes together and they will talk themselves into a frenzy over something.
"I saw him!" Firestar exclaimed, bounding into the dressing room and slamming the door behind her. All other optics turned towards her. "I saw him in the corridor just this instant!"
A few of the others gave little screams, and Moonracer staggered as if she might faint dead away.
"Are you sure?" Solara, one of the older dancers demanded. "Are you certain that you saw him?"
"As plainly as I am seeing you," Firestar declared, hand over her spark and optics bright with fervor. "Huge and horrible!"
Chromia snorted loudly. "You see the Phantom everywhere." The blue femme hopped down from her perch in front of one of the lighted mirrors and planted her fists firmly on her hips. "All of you do. Darting through the halls, behind you in the mirror, lurking on the catwalks, everywhere! And it's just silly."
"Not as silly as you in a tutu," Moonracer sniggered, and then shrieked and ducked behind Solara as an irate Chromia turned on her.
"Now, now," Elita placed a calming hand on the seething blue femme. "Perhaps some of the stagehands are having a little joke."
"No," Firestar shook her head. "It was the ghost! He was tall, and he had a mask on, and he wore a black cloak!"
"Who else would wear a black cloak?" Solara demanded of Chromia and Elita. "It is a widely acknowledged truth that the only bots who wear black cloaks are ones who are up to no good!
"Or worse," Moonracer whispered," emo."
They all shuddered.
"Have any of you really seen the ghost?" Elita persisted, lifting her chin as she frowned at them. "Really? Or have you all been jumping at shadows and depressed old mechs? You all know that when their central processors start to go, they can't be held accountable for the strange things they do."
"He was not an old depressed mech," Firestar insisted, and Moonracer sniffed her agreement. "We're not the only ones who have seen him."
"Mirage saw him the other day," a little femme spoke up, her voice barely more than a squeak.
Chromia exchanged a disbelieving look with Elita. If the conductor of Opera Popularie Cybertronie had delusions, they were generally delusions of good breeding. Mirage believed in his spark that he was the long lost son of someone with a long name and too much money, and he seldom deigned to notice anything beneath his upturned nose.
"And Rumble sees him all the time!"
"With all the high grade he drinks, I'm not surprised."
"He said the sight nearly drove him mad!" Firestar protested.
"Well," said Chromia," that's what he gets for peering through knotholes into the Prima Donna's dressing room.
"What about the strange deaths?" Someone else protested.
Elita shrugged. "Accidents happen in a theater. You are being hysterical." She looked to Chromia for support, but the blue femme had firmly shut her mouth, a thoughtful gleam in her optics.
Solara stood. "It is time to get down to the stage for rehearsal," she said. "We will all go together, just in case. Unless," she sniffed at Elita and Chromia," you're feeling particularly brave."
"But don't blame us if the Ghost gets you," Moonracer said.
Elita waited while the rest of the dancers filed out and then turned to her friend. "Well?" She asked. "I know that look."
"I think it's all nonsense," Chromia snapped. "A ghost? Please. I believe in solid things; things I can hit."
The pink femme smiled. "I sense a 'but.'"
"But my father. . ."
"Ah," Elita nodded wisely," ballet master Ratchet, who will no doubt offline us both if we keep him waiting."
"Not only does he believe in the Ghost, he tells me that has spoken to the Ghost, and that the Ghost is very polite."
"I had heard that your father was the one who delivered the much-discussed monthly allowance to this phantom."
"And is also in charge of reserving the 'Ghost's Box.'" Chromia threw up her hands. "I think it's time to quit show business. It does something to you after a while. I'm thinking about making the Hatchet retire and maybe I'll take up assassination."
"I'm not sure you have the delicacy for it."
"Oh, make a big enough explosion and no delicacy is require. Now come on, or the great Prima Donna will have our heads."
meanwhile, on the stage. . .
La Starscreama was not having a good day. First, the hat. He could not stand the hat. No, no- he HATED the hat. It crushed his glorious red curls, for one thing, and he was absolutely certain that it made him look fat. Why else would the silly little ballet dancers be giggling at him?
"AAAAAAHHHHH!!!" He sang, projecting all his annoyance into his glorious voice. "AHHHHeeeeeeeOOOOUUUUU!!!!IIIIIhhaaavveeeaaaAAAHHHhheEEEadaaaacccHHHHHEEeeee!!!"
Below him, in the pit, Mirage was grimacing with every swish of his baton. He thought his diva could not see it, but the expression of utter distaste was clearly reflected in a tuba! An aristocrat, Starscreama's left servo! No appreciation at all for the finer things in life.
In fact, no one at the Opera Popularie Cybertronie truly appreciated Starscreama for his glorious talents. It would serve them all right if he just dropped dead! Then no one would come to see their stupid operas, even if they had stupid little ballet dancers.
He finished the aria with a triumphant "DDDDIIIIrrrTTTT!!!!"
"BRAVO!!! BRAVO!!! FORTISIMO!!!" His ladies, Skywarpa and Thundercrackera, cheered from the side of the stage. Starscreama shot them a glare. There was another reason this day, which should have been an even more glorious day than usual, was spoiled: SOMEONE HAD FORGOTTEN TO FINISH HIS DRESS! Now, instead of the glorious confection of pink chiffon and rose silk, dripping with jewels and expensive embroidery, Starscreama had been forced to wear this hideous concoction from last year's gala.
And the stupid hat too.
It made him want to hurl the stupid little ballet dancers in their frilly little skirts against the walls. Yes! Now that would improve this enterprise! The new managers were going to have to make some changes if they wanted to keep their star!
Mirage covered his optics with a sigh. He knew that maniacal, (no, it was definitely homicidal), gleam. The last time La Starscreama had been so upset, it had taken the lead tenor Hoist, Rumble the scene changer, and the managers to pull the diva off of that ballet femme. (Though, now that he recalled the incident, it had been more like rescuing Starscreama than the dancer. Chromia was no push over and it had certainly not been the diva's brightest moment, picking her for an opponent). Then there had been the requisite three days of sulks, the consumption of thousands and thousands of energon chocolates, (which had done nothing good for Starscreams figure), and then the managers down on their knees, pleading and begging, before the diva had agreed to return.
In his exceedingly humble opinion, Mirage did not think they needed Starscreama. Any robo-pig could have squealed through that aria better.
"Oh dear," Elita murmured as she and Chromia took up their positions backstage. "Our dear diva does not look happy."
"With a face like that?" Chromia snorted. "They should give Starscreama a mask, or we should preform the entire opera in the dark."
"Shh," Solara hissed, throwing a look over her shoulder at them. "Didn't you glitches hear?"
"Hear what?" Elita asked.
"Our new managers are going to be here tonight."
"Who," the pink femme began, but was interrupted by a loud crash and La Starscreama's frenzied screech.
"TRY TO DROP A CURTAIN ON ME WILL YOU!?!"
"Ah, a good idea," Chromia sighed longingly. "Sadly, like a robo-cockroach, Starscreama's a little harder to kill than that."
"It wasn't me!" Rumble protested from aloft. "I adore you, Prima Donna! It must have been someone else!!!"
"The ghost," Firestar whispered, flashing a triumphant look at Elita and Chromia.
On the stage, Starscreama had clearly had enough. "I have had ENOUGH!" He howled. "Skywarpa, get my bags! Thundercrackera, bring my dog!"
While Thundercrackera scooped Ravage up and Skywarpa vanished to collect the diva's things, Starscreama turned to glare first at hapless Mirage, and then at the rest of the cast. "You," he said, voice dripping with scorn," can carry on without me. Good luck!"
"So who are the new managers?" Elita asked Solara. "They'd better get groveling right away if they want their gala tonight."
"The new managers are no one special," Solara sniffed. "It's our new patrons who are the big scoop."
"And who are they?" Chromia asked, though she was clearly more interested in smirking over Starscreama's less than dignified exit.
"The Viscount Shockwave de Changy and his younger brother, Viscount Megatron de Changy."
"Uh-oh," said Elita, but softly so that no one but Chromia heard.
"What?" The blue femme turned back to her. "You know them?"
"Well," she looked embarrassed," the younger one, he used to have this huge crush on me."
"No."
"Yes, and he used to bring me presents."
"Really? You got presents from a Viscount?"
"Oh yes, one time he gave me the severed head of a mech who had offended him. Another time, he gave me a bottle of high grade distilled from the energon of his enemies."
"Sounds like a charmer. .. But cheer up. You're just a dancer. He'll never notice you."
"What do you mean there is no understudy!?"
"There is no understudy."
"But there must be someone!"
Mirage snorted. "There is no one."
"Well," said Ratchet, and the new managers turned to look at him," actually. . ."
What? You thought someone else would playing the part of Raoul? Three guesses as to who the Phantom is!
Short, I know, but I really should be studying. How come no one has done this before? Hm, perhaps that's a stupid question.