Well, so I finally updated. I had to figure out exactly how I had to do this. This is the fateful "sighting" chapter, and it's an important one.
This will, primarily, be a Modern adaptation, but it will be an adaptation, I won't go exactly by any one source. Some of this is me being creative; not much, but some.
Disclaimer: I don't own Phantom of the Opera.
"Meg! Where are you?"
"Here, Christine! Come on; hurry up!"
"Wait, Meg!"
Christine Daae's fingers fumbled, adjusting the last bit of her costume before she was to go onstage with Meg and the rest of the chorus members. Even though her own role in the anxiously awaited new theater production was a very minor one, she felt the need to look perfect.
You're just another girl on the farm, Christine Daae.
Shaking her head at the pessimistic thoughts, Christine continued to smooth out the wrinkles of her "country girl" costume, while simultaneously running to keep up with her almost identically clad friend, Meg Giry.
"We're on in 5, people," stage whispered Michael, self-named leader of the chorus/dancers.
Meg rolled her eyes at him, quickly grinning at Christine, who was still carefully adjusting her hair. "Ok, stop, Christine. You look fine," Meg exasperated while grabbing Christine's hands and pulling them away from her hair.
"Are you sure?" Christine was nervous. This was the biggest role she had ever played, ironically. It sure beat being the lead in the elementary school rendition of The Big Bad Wolf, and she did not want to mess this up. It was opening night of the new theater production that had been advertised for months. The well-known theater had spread the word about the new play, Strawberry Bushels, and the cast had spent so much time and energy with rehearsals. In Christine's mind, the play wasn't going to be made into a movie anytime soon, but the music was good—she often found herself unconsciously humming it.
Meg rolled her eyes at Christine now, "Yes, I'm sure." She giggled, bubbly with enthusiasm, "Don't worry so much. Aren't you excited?"
Christine barely heard the question, intent on reciting all her songs and steps in her head, "What? Yeah, I guess," she said absentmindedly. Did she spin right or left in the second song? She wrung her hands nervously, looking very distraught while that simple fact eluded her, "Meg, in Tractor Days, do we do the quarter turn right or left?"
Meg frowned, remembering, "Left, I think. Seriously, Christine, calm down. You'll remember once you're on stage. And if not, no one will notice; we're in the back."
Christine bit her lip in anxiety, nodding, trying not to let Meg's unsuspecting words bite into her. Of course no one would notice. She was only a member of the chorus, good for harmonizing with the other members and twirling in her bright skirt. She shook her head at her childishness—it was silly now to think that a chorus girl's costume needed to be perfect. Meg was right; no one would notice.
Christine broke out of her thoughts when Michael let everyone know that they were on in 2—"Shut up, Mike!—and looked back at her friend. Meg was watching her with another uncharacteristic frown, and Christine tried her best to summon up a smile to stop bringing her friend down. Meg smiled back, and with a whispered, "Good luck," led her friend to their spots right behind the curtain, waiting for their cue.
Christine's smile faded. I'll try to do good, Dad, she offered up, before following the other chorus members out onto the stage.
Staring out at the audience ahead of her, Christine could not make out any facial features of the dim crowd, only seeing a vague outline of a body here, a face there. She tried not to let the nervousness grip her, and wondered why this stage fright had never afflicted her as a child, when her father was...—no. Stop it, she told herself, moving mechanically to the tune of the orchestra below her feet.
Beside her, Christine could feel Meg doing the same moves as she, singing the same notes, and Christine was relieved that her friend had been right. She didn't even need to concentrate on remembering her role; it was practically embedded in her feet and arms.
In front of them, the two leads, Carlotta Guielli and Eddy Pickering were singing their song, Nighttime. In the back of Christine's mind, she was jealous of the domineering diva. Even if Carlotta had the personality of a snake, she at least could hit those incredible high notes and project her voice so that the audience heard every word. But there was no room for self pity now, Christine reminded herself. She suddenly wished that she wasn't so well prepared. She would have liked to concentrate on her movements without dwelling too much on her own shortcomings.
And when it was the chorus' time to raise their heads and sing, Christine's eyes rested on an oddly empty box above the packed audience. That was weird—she had thought that the production was sold out. The managers had been so happy to tell everyone the news of half a year's worth of successful ad campaigning. But it seemed as if that lonely box was empty and darkened. But it wasn't totally dark, Christine noticed. No, it looked like there were two yellow lights on, likely from some machine on the door, a lock or something.
Pushing the strange lights out of her mind, Christine finally concentrated on what she was doing after she stopped singing just a little later than she should have during the dramatic stop of the song. She wasn't aware that the two yellow "security lights" seemed to be moving, almost as if they were following her progress…
Before the curtain had opened, the crowd below him had shuffled their programs, exclaimed over the actors and formed a buzz with all their talks that the lone occupant of one of the boxes above found himself developing a headache. Honestly, their insipid noise was becoming too much and the man wanted very much to leave, but he couldn't, not yet. These sniveling, ingratiating people had no idea how a play should be watched or what it should be. Yes, the critic thought, he would make sure that they would know.
Finally the lights began to dim, and the black-garbed man finally began to sink into a semblance of relaxation, leaning back slightly in the red velvet seat as the spectators below quieted and silence reigned in the darkened theater. If only it had lasted.
The passable orchestra struck up the overture, playing music that was not entirely jarring to the man's sensitive ears. The curtain opened, showing a lone woman walking in wearing what looked to be some type of burlap dress, carrying a basket. The critic's eyes narrowed—how disgustingly quaint. He hoped that her voice made up for her costume. She opened her mouth, and the shadow prepared himself for something. He was not disappointed.
The woman's voice grated on his ears, almost making him reach up to cover them with his hands. Her voice was too loud, too shrill, too…ugh! He furiously opened his program, determined to find the woman's name so that he would know exactly who to write about first.
And then her male counterpart, wearing similar burlap clothing, leaped out from the sides, screaming about his passionate love for the offending female. The two started to sing a sickeningly sweet duet, and the man's eyes narrowed in complete and utter disgust. The boy's voice was sufficiently plain, but its sheer proximity to the agonizingly horrible female's warped it in his mind. Yes, the critic knew exactly what he would write.
The chorus came on then—similarly dressed to the first couple, twirling and singing out of tune, right along with the two leads. The man looked down, observing the looks of contentment and smiles of the audience. Oh, they would be shown indeed.
Turning his gaze back to the chorus to try and extract more criticisms, the man frowned. He did not frown because of their badly choreographed movements, their ridiculous song, or even their bright, cheery expressions, no, he frowned because there was something quite odd about the multitude of voices belting at him.
A thread of something coming from the chorus was making the man strangely uneasy, with an alien feeling stirring somewhere inside his ribcage. His hand was clenching and unclenching, and he glanced down sharply at the offending appendage, wondering what was going on. What was it?
The man closed his eyes, straining his ears further, trying to grasp the elusive something that was so….he could not describe it. It was very rare that the man could not come up with an appropriately acerbic name for something, but in this instance, he couldn't, nor did he feel the need to search for a biting adjective to describe the troubling something. He just kept listening, trying to identify the indefinable thing that was…
There.
The chorus had been singing their song throughout his attempt to locate the strange tone, and they had come to an abrupt halt, for seemingly dramatic effect. But the abrupt silence was not completely achieved, as one song was half a beat late, and for that half of a beat, the masked man identified the something as the voice of the girl that was off time with the rest of the chorus. Opening his eyes, the shadowed man kept a hold of the voice as he was able to separate it from the rest of the chorus.
The odd voice was coming from a girl in the back of the group. She was pale, almost as much as the man himself, and her blonde hair was pulled back in a red kerchief that framed a soft face. He watched her as she danced and sang beside a brunette with a completely ordinary voice. His lip curled, knowing the blonde could easily outshine the entire chorus.
And yet, she didn't, and the shadow watched her, almost spellbound as she and the rest of the chorus ran off the stage, leaving the two burlap-dressed people to another love duet, but the masked man wasn't thinking about the one mediocre voice and the other atrocious one at the moment. No his mind was on the blonde.
The girl's voice was not truly odd, after he had heard it solely, but it was unique in its tone, a clear, shining, golden voice. Yet she was wasting it! The man had not been able to properly ascertain her voice at first because of its softness. She was being drowned out by the other chorus members! Irony of ironies, he had wanted quiet, the girl had given him an almost nonexistent volume.
Her breathing was wrong, her range was middling, and it unexpectedly angered him how she was standing in the back of the chorus.
The rest of the first act was not even noticed by the masked man, mulling over the problem of the girl. It was strange; she had become a problem somehow in ten minutes. He had never let anyone hold his thoughts for so long. The man yearned to leave. He did not want a chorus girl affecting him so, yet—whether he wanted to admit it or not—her voice had inexplicably left an imprint. The raw, untrained voice was consuming his thoughts, and he felt oddly and insanely…different.
It was in the bright lights of intermission that the man finally shrunk back from the edge of his box—into the shadows—and looked in the program for a picture of the face that was branded in his mind, finding the name that went with the voice.
There.
There…
Christine Daae
Christine Daae…
Ok, so as always, I would love feedback. Any opinions? Anything I can improve. Honestly, I think I was meant to write Oneshots, but I have plans for this, and I like it in my head.
If you can tell me what you think of the characterization, I'd be grateful. I'm still a little unsure about what I was thinking when I started this, as I'm still kind of new to writing Phantom, but once again, I have a plan.
So, yeah...
Questions? Comments? Concerns?
TwilightSnowStar
P.S. More reviews = Faster Updates (I know; I'm shameless.)