A/N: I don't know WHAT compelled me to write this. I did sort of kind of half-promise my old readers that I may put up a companion story to School of Phantoms: Beyond Your Wildest Dreams (my god that title is so corny; Jamster came up with it and that's not a lie)... It's just BARELY phanphiction. I was going to take a completely different approach to this story, make it a nice long one like the last one and just bursting with suspense and horror but I thought, 'No, I'm sick of writing like that and I'm too tired anyway and I just started another collaboration fic with another author here on the site...' This is a one-shot, because I am downright lazy.
Disclaimer: Now I must say here that I do not own Phantom of the Opera, NOR am I credited with many of the humorous elements in here. I took a great deal of ideas from Terry Pratchett's novel 'Going Postal' (took the general ideas, twisted them into new settings that constitute PotO). That makes me very angry at myself, and I apologise. But, the insanity of youth... I'll probably delete this some day soon, worry not. I have to see how many angry Terry Pratchett fans mob me first. Come to think of it, it has been sort of done before...crossovers and such...
Critique appreciated.
School of Phantoms: Mazenderan Hour
The vinyl was smooth and glistened in the light. He willed his feet to stop swinging; his soles of his shoes would wear thin against the floor and then he would have no grip, and then he'd slip and fail the test-
No, that was stupid. He was always doing that. Letting his mind wander and inevitably he'd come to a horrific daydream.
But there were a million ways to fail the test. Gods above, how many people had failed it in a single year? They would put the statistic in the letter, so you wouldn't feel so bad. Oh, it's not bad enough to lie on the floor with ten flesh wounds and a fractured skull; they have to send a letter to your residence stating that you have officially failed to meet the requirements...
He was doing it again. It was not wise to envision the tremendous pain you would be in if you failed. It would only send a shaft of fear through your heart and then you'd be so scared for your life you would fail for sure-
Don't think about the word 'fail,' he thought to himself, squeezing his eyes shut to concentrate. Think of another word. Less strong. 'Unsuccessful.' Yes, that'll do. There is a chance- a small chance- that I will- That I may be unsuccessful. Oh gods, this is not making me feel any better.
It had been an afternoon on a weekend when he had gotten the first letter. The one that didn't write the closing sentence of your doom.
It just set it in motion.
His mother had been so proud, even started singing as she took his hands and danced around the house. You didn't want to hear her sing. That meant she was really happy. That meant she expected something of you... (At any rate, you didn't want to hear her sing because she was a terrible singer. No sense of pitch and overdid the vibrato.)
Well, he had gotten this far. He had been considered. He was a candidate. You were incredibly lucky if you were even glanced at. They had mentioned that in the letter: You are one of the exceptional one hundred and forty that has been accepted to participate...
A door opened. It was painted white, the same colour as the wall. With a startled hitch of breath he looked up at the young woman who had walked out. She was dressed all in black, with no make-up. Not even subtle make-up. That didn't mean she did not strike him as pretty...
I'm about to die, he thought. I'm walking to my death and there's a gorgeous lady who's pushing me through that door-
The gods damn puberty.
The woman walked right up to his chair, looking down with impassive black eyes. Everything about her was black, from her plain dress to the hair she shoved into a tight bun. She was his siren, his Valkyrie...
"You're in next," the woman said. "I am your Angel for today."
He hiccupped. You've got to be joking. This is the lady who's supposed to be guiding me! I really am going to die.
"How long til?" he mumbled.
The woman turned and walked, her shoes clicking against the floor. "About five minutes. There isn't much you can do to prepare, only stay calm, focus, all that junk they force-feed you in preschool..." The shoes stopped clicking. He shivered at the look she gave him over her shoulder. "But first, you need to get out of the chair."
He lowered his head to avoid her dark gaze and hurried after her. Stay calm. Focus. If you believe that you will succeed, you will!
Crap, crap, crap. I'm gonna fail, I am gonna fail so badly.
"Ah." For a moment, a smile lit up her face. It was like a ray of sunlight breaking through storm clouds...but it was really not the time for summer yet so it went right back to being the harshest winter. "The last boy finished early. You can go in now."
Finished early? His knees began to shake.
The woman closed the door after they were both through it, darkness pouncing upon them. In his imagination the shadows snarled. His eyes began to water.
A loud voice rang through the chamber. "Dost thou bring the Wandering Child?"
The woman cleared her throat. "I bring the Child, Worshipful Maestro."
"And whoest art thou?"
That just sounds weird, the boy thought. Probably grammatically incorrect as well. He took a moment to glance around the chamber. It was cavernous, and only had a single light bulb high above in the centre of the ceiling plaster. Oh dang. I never should have applied.
"I hold the badge of Angel of Music in Training, Worshipful Maestro. Ten months' experience. Fourteen successful Hours, five unsuccessful."
The boy brightened up, a tiny flame of hope igniting inside him. Hey, this is a good sign! She must be good.
The Worshipful Maestro spoke again, his voice deepening. "Then let the Hour commence! Eth."
In the dimness, the woman's eyes rolled.
Somewhere in the darkness, drums began to beat. The Angel pushed a bundle into his hands. "First twenty Minutes. You'll need this."
The bundle was rough in texture, and as he clutched at it a section fell onto the ground. That's when he realised that it was rope. A long, thick rope.
The Angel stepped behind him, leaning down to his ear. "And if you chicken out, I'm wearing high heeled shoes. Five inches of height. Thin and pointy." She nudged the back of his foot with the tip op her shoe. "I did three forms of martial arts as a girl. Needless to say, I can kick you between the buttocks harder than any of these bad boys can hit you. So don't chicken out. Got it?"
A bead of sweat dripped down his neck. He gave a sidelong glance at her, noticing a thin scar running along her temple. Must have come from another Hour. Maybe the kid chickened out, wouldn't move forward...and the Guards went for him...hit her instead...
A patch of darkness moved.
"Persian Guards!" he breathed. The first twenty Minutes had started. He unwound the rope, sighing with relief as he felt the knot. It was a moment filled with gratitude; he couldn't tie Punjab knots for his life.
He just had to hope that throwing them would be easier.
His eyes were now adjusted to the dark. Holding the rope bundle in his left hand, he swung the noose lightly in his right. All of his internal organs felt as if they were rushing to escape out of his mouth, or any other available opening. Adrenaline? You have not tasted adrenaline until you've been in a Mazenderan Hour.
He counted the shapes. Three Guards, each armed with long swords. Well, a trio was better than a dozen of them.
The first Guard ran at him head-on. He wasn't sure what possessed him at that moment. With a yelp, the boy tossed the lasso upwards and dived to the side. He skidded against the marble floor for a few moments. The clattering boots of the Guard stopped.
Panting, he wondered, I...got him?
A hasty glance, with his blood pounding through his veins, showed him that the noose was lying motionless on the ground at the Guard feet. It hadn't caught anything.
He's taking it easy on me, the boy thought. He's totally taking it easy on me! They're all just standing there!
Run, a voice told him.
"Cowardice it is," he muttered to himself. He placed his hands flat on the ground and sprang up.
The scream he emitted as he ran, zigzagging across the floor with arms and legs pumping, can not be described as a particularly high-pitched one. It was not a feminine noise, more of a delicate tenor sound. A manly yell, or a war cry of honourable retreat, you could say.
"Aaaahh!"
He realised after a few seconds that his left arm was still threaded through the heavy bundle of rope. The second thing he realised was that none of the Persian Guards were chasing after him.
"Now I've seen everything," a female voice said.
The boy slowed his running. Afraid to turn around, he asked, "Okay. What just happened?"
"Hmm. Hard to describe," his Angel replied. "Your aim is hopeless, you know that? The lasso was on the ground. A Guard stepped into the noose. You ran like a beheaded turkey, and well- Just turn around, godsdammit."
Shoulders up by his ears, he turned.
"Whoa. Did I do that?" All three Persian Guards were on the ground in a heap. In his wild dashing, he had rounded up the Guards with the Punjab lasso.
Uncanny.
"This is not in accordance with the Old Traditions!" the voice of the Worshipful Maestro boomed.
"Er..." He looked nervously at the Angel. "Should I just go and strangle them now?"
The woman shrugged. "Yeah. The Worshipful Maestro will be upset if there's no garrotting. Maybe just one of them."
Gulping, the young boy edged his way –one might say with cautious slowness, and you can hardly blame the child- towards the three Guards. They've got swords. They have three long, sharp swords between them and they're not doing anything! They can cut right through...why don't they?
"They're wearing neck guards," the Angel pointed out. "Just pull on the rope until you hear the beep."
"Okaaay... Now I'm freaked out." He leaned down, peering and the black plastic around a Guard's throat. The man growled at him as he took a length of the rope and looped it around the neck. Must have been a hard day at work, the boy mused. He twisted the rope around a few times and tugged gently. Tugged a second time. There was a beep, and a small red light in the black plastic pulsed.
The woman cleared her throat a second time and raised her voice. "It can not be said that the Wandering Child did not immobilise the Guards, Worshipful Maestro. It is there in the old Documents, sir. 'The Punjab must disarm and slay a fully-armed man of build suitable for a Persian Guard.' Legitimate, Maestro." She lowered her voice. "What a shame."
The Worshipful Maestro was silent, immersed in careful thinking. Then the voice cried, "Let he who thinks himself worthy progress to the twenty-first Minute! And we shall see if he is fitting for the task ahead of him." The Maestro chuckled darkly. "We shall see! Eth."
"Worshipful Maestro," the Angel put forward respectfully, "I believe that the occasion does not call for such formalities." Muttering once more, she seethed to herself, "You idiotic butcher of Shakespearean English."
The boy raised a hand meekly. "Now what?" he asked nervously.
His Angel strode to him. "I just saved your hide, boy. You don't know how lucky you are to still be in this. You wondering why those Persians didn't tear you apart? Those Guards would have, believe me. Even if they didn't have their swords, which are as sharp as your mind is blunt. But they always get tired by the end of the day... The girls in the office keep complaining that we should have shifts to keep the Guards fresh, but does the Maestro listen..?"
The boy stepped back. "Yes ma'am. What do I do now, ma'am?"
She tossed him a black mask. It was hard, but light. The mask was made with no specific expression, but when he squinted at its smooth surface, he swore he could see a crease of fear on the forehead. "The next twenty Minutes. Put it on. Tight, if you really want to succeed."
He fumbled with the string, eventually bringing the mask to his face and securing it. It fitted almost comfortably, but it dragged down a bit on his nose.
Looking through the large eyeholes, he saw three black figures advance towards him.
Within seconds, a hand was reaching for the mask with lightning speed. The hand was pulling. The string pressed into the back of his head, and the boy was dragged forward, falling onto his knees with a thump.
"Ow! Get off of me!" he shouted at the figure clutching at his mask, which he now recognised to be female. She had her fingers underneath the top of the mask, and he could feel the fingernails brush against his forehead. "Aah! Help!" he cried.
"I'm not supposed to be helping you, kid!" his Angel replied. "Just keep the mask on at all costs!"
"What cost?" he yelled back, pushing his hands forward and shoving the girl away. She still had a grip on his mask, and the two went rolling across the floor. "My spinal cord?!" His neck ached; shoving the girl hadn't been such a good idea. He had tied the string pretty tightly, too... He was more or less attached to this mask, and the girl would take his head off with it. It was a deadly tumble across the marble, filled with kicking and general violence and pain.
Instinct told him, Don't go against the mask; move with it!
His neck answered, Oh yeah, I'm going wherever this mask is going, all right!
Feeling left out of the conversation, his miniscule sense of pride and ambition said, Just keep the mask on!!
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a second spectre coming towards him. The first girl was still heaving at his mask, screaming with frustration every now and then. He suddenly felt the pressure on the back of his head ease.
Oh bugger.
The string had been untied. The first girl fell backwards, holding the black mask to her chest. He stayed where he was.
It's over, he thought. I didn't make the cut. Well, it wasn't that bad, he reflected. I'm not hurt much. There were two girls crawling all over me...
He gingerly rubbed the back of his head. With a moan he moved to massage his forehead. And that's when he felt the rubbery softness.
"That's cheating!" the Worshipful Maestro cried, all formality and coherence abandoned in light of this scandal. "That- that- No way... -is so cheating! Far out! This is, like, so wrong..."
With a cough, the Angel pointed out, "The mask has been taken off, yes. But we do not see his true face! It said, 'Should the face of the wearer be seen, he is doomed from then on. NB: Hiding his face with his hand or clothing after the mask is removed doesn't count. Any Maestro who fails to punish this accordingly will be sacked. PS, Someone needs to clean the swords by Tuesday and it's not going to be me!' Perfectly legitimate again, Maestro."
"But I'm gonna get sacked!"
"No, Maestro. It says nothing about being unmasked, only about getting his face seen and hiding after the mask is removed –which he is not doing. In any case, he is wearing another mask."
"Yes, and that's cheating!" the Maestro retorted.
Finding the courage hiding in a corner of his body, the boy spoke up. There was a chance, just a chance... "No, Worshipful Maestro. The Opera Ghost may hide in Darkness and loathe showing his Face, but Erik craves to look like Everyone Else!" He threw in some capitalisation, just to sound convincing.
There was silence in the cavern. At last, the Maestro whispered, "Where the hell in the old Documents does it say he has to say that...?"
"This mask is really life-like, by the way," he told the Angel.
She huffed angrily. "I was half-hoping it wouldn't work. One of the other Angels got the idea. A second mask is put into the first one, and light adhesive applied to it. If you've been sweating enough, the second mask sticks when you put it on. The number of people who finished this test was dropping. A lot lower than usual. So we allowed this to help boost numbers. Can't have people saying we're too harsh with our standards, can we?"
"Well, the great Charles Dance did it. So I guess that's fair." He looked around. There wasn't another trio of black figures waiting. "So what is the last task, miss?"
The Angel kneaded her temples. A pained expression was on her face. "Then again," she muttered, "we can't have people saying we've gone slack, either." She took her hand away from her head. "Okay, the truth is," she paused for a breath, "is that there are no last twenty Minutes."
The boy's mouth went dry. "No last task? What do you mean?" He wouldn't dare to hope...Not yet. Surely it was a trick. They'd bring out a torture machine in two minutes.
She sighed, placing her hands on her hip. "No one's made it past the second twenty Minutes in a year, even with the extra mask. We would have been prepared anyway, just in case... But our budget didn't stretch far enough this year." From behind her back, she produced a silver piccolo. "So just stand still for a while, all right?"
He tilted his head. "You're going to just throw a piccolo at me? And then I'm in?"
The Angel looked uneasy for a second, but her face hardened once more. "Well, not just the piccolo. We've got some more stashed somewhere in here."
The boy's eyes widened, the whites shining in the gloom. His mouth trembled. "So you're going to throw a heap of musical instruments at me for twenty minutes?!"
"Well...maybe only ten."
There was a sound of palms rubbing together. The echo lasted for a long moment. "I am going to enjoy watching this," Worshipful Maestro said.
A look of unadulterated dread cross his face. The Angel shrugged apologetically at him as she raised her throwing arm.
"You have to admit, it's kind of poetic," she said.
Some of his muscles tensed in readiness to protect his vital organs, but most of them fled in fear. There was a sharp twinge of pain when the piccolo made contact. Perhaps his Angel was feeling pity for him and purposely aiming badly. But by the time the violin came (it had hit him squarely in the gut and knocked the wind out of him) he came to realise that this was not the case.
There were two main elements that contributed to this event. Pain, and music. The cymbals left a stinging red mark on his arm before clattering noisily to the floor; from the pain he thought that his arm had been chopped off. The unfortunate child was bombarded with half the strings instruments ever conceived in the frame of a single minute. The twang of broken strings was like a fireworks display of sound. Twang, TWANG, twiiiing.
The clincher was the bass drum. A gigantic bass drum was chucked at him like a discus. It met the top of his head and transferred most of its kinetic energy to him.
"Time's up," the woman announced.
As the boy lay flat on the cold floor moaning in agony, his head throbbing in time with his erratic heartbeat and a French horn hooked on his right arm, he took time to reflect on how pretty a girl could look dressed all in black.
"Hmm. Intriguing. I'm amazed you managed to stay standing for more than five minutes. You fell down the very second the timer finished."
His heart beat even faster.
"Well, I suppose we'll give it to you. No one's finished the course in ages." His Angel squatted down next to his body and patted his shoulder. "I'm impressed, kid."
He gave a weak, appreciative groan in response.
"Well done," the Worshipful Maestro said grudgingly. "You've made it into Kay's Academy for Boys."
The boy let out a long sigh of breath, closing his eyes. Sleep now, he thought groggily. Never wake up.
His Angel patted his shoulder again. "Don't worry. The uniform shop's open all weekend."