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I'm getting lazy updating... I haven't even uploaded the previous chapter as I'm typing this, and yet on I go... you'll get it eventually... if I actually have anyone still reading this conglomeration...
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So far, there had been no sign of Scissorhands or his eerie caretaker, 'Erik'.
This bothered Inspector Javert to no end. The policeman paced around the basement with unbridled frustration, as he usually did when annoyed. He had been CERTAIN, so certain, that he would find the duo living in the basement, within the lagoon/cave that had once housed the Opera Ghost, and for a short time, Christine Daae.
Yet it was as abandoned as always; the "ghost's" quarters having been left as they were found originally, in hopes that the articles would lead to the Phantom's new hiding place. There had been no luck finding the elusive murderer known as the Phantom of the Opera.
Or so he was called by the media. It had been said that la Phantom wore a half-mask of white, but it was not uncommon for mimes and other theatre types to wear a mask. Perhaps Erik was eccentric in the manner that he enjoyed the rakish devilry that the mask he wore gave him.
Javert paced faster, accidently treading slightly into the water in his fervor. He cursed quietly at the chilly water that splashed onto his trousers, glad to have something to be angry at.
Darn that man, who, where, and WHAT is he?
"Inspector Javert." An imposing voice called from the stairway and the inspector immediately turned his attention to the figure in the stairway. Erik stood there in the shadows, the stark white mask concealing half of his face. The inspector doubted if he ever removed it.
Javert noted mentally that the man seemed at home in this dark, damp place; a surprising oddity for someone who had spent his time in the opera house, assumably not spending any considerable amount of time in it's basement.
"Monsieur Erik." Javert greeted, nodding his cap slightly to the other man.
"You wished to see me."
"Yes, I did." Javert walked over to the organ, running a hand along the wood casually. "Do you play, Monseiur Erik?"
"I have." The other man replied coolly, moving a bit more into the roo though still within the shadows. The candles were not lit, yet a few helpful torches had been brought in, casting dark shadows on the walls. Javert nodded, glancing down at the instrument.
"The 'Phantom', as the media called him, once resided down here and played this very organ." He glanced up at Erik confidentially, as if he knew that neither of them believed the frequently-exaggerated headlines.
"Or so they say. But you'd know all about that wouldn't you." He continued. The question was calculating and Erik's reply was measured.
"I know no more than anyone else of the proceedings. Christine Daae was the center of the occurance and if you wish to question her, she now is married to and lives with the Vicomte de Chagny." The phantom said. He succeeded in keeping his voice level and without the biting tone at the end that he usually would have relished tacking on, when speaking of the silly fop, Raoul. Javert appeared disappointed by this response, and it was now that Edward appeared. The man's pale face poked around the stairway's corner cautiously, then came into the room quietly, trying to remain as unobtrusive as possible.
"Hello, Inspector Javert." The scissor-handed man greeted and Javert nodded to him.
"Ah, I was wondering when I would see you Monseiur Scissorhands. Tell me, does Erik come to play the organ often? He seems very familiar with this area."
Edward blinked, confused by the unexpected question. "I... I don't know... I don't believe so."
"Where exactly do you live in the opera house? Have you an occupation here?"
"Stage hands." Erik supplied, saving the other man from having to quickly create an occupation or location for them. "Edward is a stagehand and I light the torches before the shows."
It was true, Erik reflected. He had lit quite a few torches in the past, almost making a torch of the entire opera house on the night of the Disaster.
"I see." Was all Javert replied. He was looking at Erik's mask with the harshest of gazes, attempting to penetrate right through the white material with his inquisitive eye. Abruptly, the subject was changed, as was Javert's mood. Suddenly the gentleman was very brisk and curt.
"I have business to attend to. Good day to both of you, gentlemen, oh, and Monseiur Erik-"
He stared at the phantom, a half-smirk forming..
"I would very much like to know the reason behind your mask. Beware, because I will not give up until I know if there is a connection between you and the assumed-deceased 'Phantom of the Opera'."
It was with this bold statement that the inspector strode out of the room. Edward looked over at Erik worriedly but the phantom's eyes were darkly neutral.
"Christine said she could never care for a murderer. But I am hard pressed to recall if ever there was a man I wanted to Punjab more."
Edward ventured a nervous smile at his companion's coolly-voiced infuriation. He was inwardly greatful to Christine for whatever comment she'd put forth that convinced Erik not to kill anymore. Sharing an attic with a homocidal phantom was not truly confidence-inducing.
"Come, this place is too full of emotion." Erik said bluntly, turning to head up the stairs. Edward hesitated, looking around.
"Monseiur la Phantom... lived here?" He walked over to the remains of the smashed mirrors, his scissor-hands hovering over the frames but not touching. Erik's footsteps stopped on the stairway but Edward did not hear the other man turn.
"Yes."
Edward wandered over to the wall; finding a collection of paintings, all of one girl onstage, a life-size manniquin, even a canopied bed, draped with black. Then there was, of course, the organ, and candlesticks everywhere. It looked like a funeral to Edward, both a funeral and a celebration of romantic obsession.
"Christine... she was frightened?"
"Yes."
"By you, or by your love?"
There was a long silence from the stairway, almost sullen in nature.
"I don't wish... to speak of it." The phantom said darkly and Edward heard the steps begin to ascend the stairs again.
He went after them quietly, taking a final glance around the room. Inspector Javert had his work cut out for him. Edward was living with Erik and still had no idea of his past... how much chance did Javert have of discovering anything?
Erik was so good at hiding, so many secrets, behind his mask and his words. Edward wanted to envy him, but the only thing that came out of his heart was sympathy.
I wish that I could hide my difference as well as you can...
(divider)
Meg was waiting upstairs when they got there. She looked from one face to the other and found no cheer there.
"Did he realize--?"
"No, ma'msille Gire, he did not realize. Yet your near-constant presence in the attic may lead him to believe that something is amiss." Erik retorted semi-sarcastically, his mood far from cheery. Meg blinked at him.
"Well, I was just trying to help... monseiur." She added the last portion quickly, not wanting to offend him. Erik shook his head and went over to the wall to dig through his lyrics for the one he was currently working on. Meg turned her attention on Edward, who merely linked at her.
"I found your painting." She said simply.
Were Edward able to blush, his pale complexion would have burned red.
"O-oh... did you- what did you think?" He ventured hesitantly, inwardly preparing himself for the worse.
"It's sad." Meg replied and grasped his upper arm, far enough away from his scissorhands to be safe but close enough to lead him. Edward came along with her to his painting in the back of the room, where it hung on a lonely wall. There were gashes in it from when he'd gotten too eager and tried to go too fast, but it was still nearly complete.
There were bright circles nestled in a dark blue sky, the circles being vivid colors that leapt off the canvas. It was a celebration, an excitement, a joy even. That had been when the phantom had moved in and Edward had gained his companion. He'd been overjoyed not to be alone.
Then Edward had been jailed.
The small pinpoints of stars in the sky behind the lights had become cold and black. Black, bold lines had encircled the border of the painting like jailbars. A grey star had been added in the center, the same size as the bright lights, but it was a dark grey, and had a tail after it that implied that it was falling.
Meg released his arm and pointed at the grey star directly. She looked at Edward expectantly.
"What happened?"
"I don't wish to discuss it." Edward said quietly. Meg sighed, her shoulders rising and falling tragically. She ran one hand through her hair unhappily, massaging her head as if to ward off a headache.
"You and Erik... you're both amazing oysters."
From across the room, Erik sneezed. Meg turned to him, then glanced back to Edward.
"I'll go back down now. Be careful, that inspector will be coming back again and again more than likely. He's very suspicious of both of you."
"Perhaps the police are not as stupid as they seem here in Paris then." Was Erik's only comment. Meg shrugged, darting out the door and leaving the attic in silence.
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A couple weeks later...
"Sir, I've found it!"
The officer ran into the police station, waving a paper in the air, his breath visible by the cold wind that swept in the open door.
"Close the door!" The jail warden barked immediately and the officer slammed it shut, the cold disappearing slowly as the fire warmed the room. It was starting to snow outside for the third time that week and the temperature was disturbingly low. The officer stamped the snow off his feet and walked over to Inspector Javert's desk.
"Sir, I found the file on Erik Deversio. He came from Persia, the file does not list when, and was once a killer for the sultina in that region. He was supervised by a man named Daroga, aka Nadir, aka 'the Persian', who once saved his life and--" The officer's reading broke off as Javert snatched the paper from the man, too hungry for information to put up with the officer's slow reading skills. His eyes flew over the document, nodding in satisfaction as he finished it.
Murder... fleeing justice... this was as good as a life sentence for the man, if he was not also convicted as the Phantom of the Opera. Erik had underestimated Javert in a massive way.
"And the man, Scissorhands?" He questioned. The officer shrugged dismissively.
"We have one Scissorhands reported as dead some time back. Some sort of love triangle and both fellows lost. The girl, Kim Jaquseson, lives in Paris still."
"Find her. Scissorhands is an uncommon name, and his condition is even more so. She will remember him. Arrange a meeting as soon as possible."
"Yes sir."
Javert smiled, finally happy with the case. Justice would be done. This would not become like the Valjean case so many years ago. These men would come to justice at the hands of Javert.
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"This is utter foolishness!" The Phantom ranted angrily, crossing his arms tightly. He had blankets wrapped around himself, still managing to keep a pen and sheet of paper for writing lyrics near for his use. Despite the phantom's best efforts to avoid it, the winter chill had finally gotten to him.
"Only fools don't get colds." Edward chided quietly, trying not to smile at his roommate's predicament. Erik glared at him darkly, biting back the first comment that arose in his head. Edward was created from a machine, of course he wouldn't get a cold!
But Erik had no such immunity. The opera ghost was absolutely miserable and sick of the illness. It had persisted for over three days now, rendering him unale to move secretly and freely as he wished. He had to stay under blankets, by orders of the terrifyingly-maternal Meg Gire. Edward would go and report to her if the opera ghost even attempted to shed his cocoon of blankets and go do something else. The scissorhanded man had moved the blocks of ice he'd collected to the other side of the attic, so they wouldn't affect the atmosphere and make Erik's cold worse.
Thanks to his cold, Erik now knew what Edward did with ice and was suitably impressed. Not that he actually voiced this to the other man, but it was an impressive skill, what Edward did. The carving of various figurines and symbols from ice was a facinating process.
But when Edward wasn't creating, and Erik had no current inspiration to entertain himself with, the phantom got deathly bored.
It was on one of these terrily boring days that Erik was sipping some nasty, 'healthy' concoction that Meg had boiled up. Truly putrid stuff, but it was supposed to be good for colds, or so Meg said.
Suddenly, the door opened and the girl herself came inside quickly, her face a unusual shade of pale.
"Monseiur Erik, Inspector Javert's downstairs with eight men. They-they have a warrent for your arrest."
The man stared at her coolly, then stood, shedding the blankets into a pile on the floor. He walked unsteadily over to the wall and took down a sword hanging there that was meant to be decorative. He drew it from the sheath and glanced at Meg. She stared at him, then shook her head mutely.
"That won't work. They-Erik, they brought Christine. They want her to identify you as the opera ghost."
Erik did not drop the sword. But all hope of fighting them was eclipsed by that one name and his unspoken promise not to kill.
Christine...
Christine was here. To see him.
But she was here to find the Opera Ghost.
Would she betray him as such?
He'd soon know.
(divider)
Christine was panicky, and kept having to glance over her shoulder at her sullen husband. Raoul was anything but pleased with this arrangement. He had taken an immediate disliking to Javert, and approved even less of eight policemen taking his wife off to identify a man who had once kidnapped her.
No, this wasn't a good day for the Vicomte de Chagny at all.
Erik appeared in the doorway of the lobby, dressed in a heavy coat and hat. He glanced over the group with no outward signs of recognition except of Javert.
"Inspector. I see you've returned."
"I told you I would. Vicomtess," Javert addressed Christine, motioning for Christine to come forward. She did, somewhat nervously, trying not to look at Erik.
"Was this the man who kidnapped you during a performance at this opera house, the night of the Great 'Disaster'?." Javert questioned. She looked flustered, opening then shutting her mouth as she looked at Erik.
"I-I can't be exactly sure..."
"Ah, that is right. He was disfigured in such a grotesque manner, and you could only be certain of his identity if the mask was removed again." The policeman turned expectantly to the phantom. "Well, off with it. Unless of course, you have something to hide, as the phantom did."
"I will not remove my mask. It would make no substantial difference." Erik said firmly. Javert glared at him, shifting to a more aggressive stance.
"Sir, you are being given an order by the Paris police, remove your mask."
"Parisian police or the queen of England, I don't care , but I will not remove my mask. Something I'm sure Christine is greatful of."
"How dare you address her in such a familiar fashion!" Raoul exploded angrily, glaring at the phantom. Erik blinked, then gazed at him bemusedly.
"Ah, the fop is here too..."
"WHAT did you call me!"
And it was while Raoul was fuming that Erik made his move. Ducking through the group quickly, he threw open the doors, bolting into the busy street. He could take the entire group on one at a time, but group fighting... he would not kill with Christine there, and Raoul. She would hate him forever and though she was married, some part of Erik still didn't want that.
So he ran.
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...yes, and that was out of character. But I want to upload this already! Please review, or I'll have no idea whether anyone's reading it or not...