Ch. 2 Hell's Angels

Another Day, another rehearsal, another misfortune.

Such was the life at the Opera Populaire. The Opera's diva, La Carlotta, just had a scenery backdrop fall on her…again. It had been the second time that month and she would stand for no more excuses.

The accident occurred just as she reached the peak in the aria she was practicing for that night's gala performance, which was to be held in honor of the previous manager, Monsieur Lefevre's retirement. The numerous rumors of his apparent retirement had been circling about the opera house for the past few weeks. Some declared it to be a wise decision as Lefevre was getting along in his years and had nothing left to offer but a head full of washed-out ideas.

Others disagreed, saying they wouldn't find another manager as good as him in a hundred years. Either way, the man was leaving, having his fill of stressful productions, sentimental melodramatic performers, and …ghosts.

Now, every theatre has its ghost stories. But there was one ghost quite famous among the employees of the House. According to rumor, he wrote demanding notes to Monsieur Lefevre, detailing how he wanted the Opera House to be run. For years, Lefevre obeyed. Then he announced one fine day that his years were catching up with him, taking a toll on his health and it was time to go.

Which brings Joseph Buquet back to the present, watching from the catwalks as Lefevre and the two new managers whom he'd been showing around, assist the screeching Madame Carlotta.

"Buquet! For God's sake man, what's going on up there?" Lefevre called up.

"Don't look at me! As God's my judge, I wasn't at my post. I'll bet me life it was the ghost." Joseph grinned, deviously.

A wave of annoyance washed over the former manager's face. A few of the other stagehands snickered. Jospeph was part of an elite organization involving the brethren of stagehands at the Opera Populaire. They called themselves "Hell's Angels," representing the fact that they were higher up in the heavens than anyone else in the theatre. Not to mention all the work they did down in the cellars, also known as the theatre's "hell."

Most of them were crude brutes who liked to pass the time drinking, cracking perverted jokes and gazing down the low-cut blouses of the chorus girls and the corps de ballet.

When anyone asked about the name of their posse, they attributed it to the fact that although a good deal of work was done in the cellars, most of it was done up onstage or in the catwalks. Thus, making it seem like that was as close to heaven as any of them were ever going get. The irony of the situation was too much to pass up.

Buquet watched as the Diva began her daily ranting and raving while storming off the stage in a huff.

"Wonderful," said one of his men, "let's hope she decides not to come back this time."

The stagehands started to slack off in their duties, seeing as the opera currently had no leading lady and therefore decided to wait until changes had been made, and orders were issued.

Joseph whipped out a flask of whiskey while leaving his post once more, barely listening to the squabbling onstage below him about who they would find to sing the role. Suddenly a small but sweet voice trickled out from the crowd on the stage, drifting up to the catwalks. Stashing the whiskey back into his vest, Joseph sauntered back to the edge of the walk and peered over to see Christine Daae standing center stage with everyone staring astonished .

Little Christine Daae…the chorus girl? She didn't use to sing like that. It puzzled Joseph as well as entranced him.

"Get to work, boys! Looks like we'll be havin' a performance after all."

A/N: So, some of you might already be able to tell, I'm borrowing from Robert Englund film, a little bit of musical, a little bit of book, and a little bit of me…the only character I own in this story (so far) is Joseph Buquet's sister…soon to have a name. Please review. Constructive criticism is welcome, flames are not.