Usual disclaimers apply.
Oh, my... *knocked over by her review alerts, which are quickly
accumulating in her mailbox*
I'd like to thank all of you.
Special messages:
Christine Persephone, I certainly didn't intend that, but if it does come
across as that, hooray! It works, really. Do you hear the people sing?
Singing the song of angry men... Many thank-yous for Christine's
weaponry/armour! And for everything in
general.
Alyx Bradford, I was rather proud of the ribbon myself. It's in this
chapter, too. I wasn't really going to sit and twitch while the Phandom was
massacred... had to do something.
kippogirl, smite? Alyx, Christine... Sorry. Smite. Smite. Smite. Smite
them. Not with the mallet of justice... better things, definitely.
Shandethe Sanders, there'll be some revolutionary songs in here, don't
you worry! Most notably a Les Miz song.
The Grasshopper, diet sodas taste better in France. I think they're made
with Splenda or something.
To more than half of you: Yup. Carolus Fonta! Whoo!
And your cookies.
I'm a canon whore. Note Sorelli's stiletto. It makes guest
appearances in the first chapter.
Canonical Elitists' Search And Rescue
or
The Scandinavian Guild of Phantasmal Fanfiction Regulation
by The Phantom Parisienne
Chapter Two: Of Armour and Weaponry
The cries of agreement from around the table nearly deafened Erik.
He smiled and waved his hands to calm them. "So, tomorrow morning, at daybreak,
we will set off into the unknown to save it. Until then, I advise getting a good
night's rest and polishing your armour and weapons."
"Armour? Weapons? Who said anything about going into battle?" a
particularly small ballet girl squeaked. "Monsieur le Fantôme, with all due
respect, I thought we could —"
"Do this with the proper weapons," another girl cut in, wagging
her finger. "I already asked and they said they wanted us to put spikes on the
tips of our toe-shoes."
"Really?!" the girls echoed, fancying an adventure, the likes of
which they hadn't seen since they all took a wrong turn on their way to Sorelli's
dressing-room and ended up facing the door of the men's lavatory.
The Phantom put a gloved hand to his temple with a weary sigh. "Yes,
armour, weaponry, all of that. It's not going to be a stroll in the garden, my —"
here there was a slight cough, just enough to be faintly detected by anyone who
was paying attention "—friends. This officially concludes our meeting!"
"Hooray!" Those closest to the door sprang for the exit, careful
not to trip themselves over the ribbon, which was conspicuously trailing to the
end of the hallway, where it took a sharp right toward the door, where the
brutal snows and harsh climate greeted it. However, it was a durable ribbon,
not made of a flimsy material, and was firmly in the negatives, and was going
to stay there indefinitely.
--
The complex, situated in a particularly uninhabited part of
Norway, was a big, white building to blend with the snow and ice, and was roomy
enough for a characterless cast of another novel, preferably a trashy romance
novel. The characters of Phantom wouldn't be able to stand actual, developed
personalities with which to quarrel with, and they were already very tired of
one another's quirks, habits, and idiosyncrasies. But the bodily harm rule was
enforced very strictly, so scuffles were rare and ended quickly when they did
occur.
The girls' dormitories were larger than the men's, and far more
luxuriant, following the style of just about everything in the history of ever:
locker rooms, public bathrooms, and clothes. It was simple, but clean and
smelled vaguely of vanilla. No-one was compelled to complain, because there
wasn't much to complain about. The ballet girls, Meg, Christine, and Sorelli
all scurried off for the dormitories, worried about what sort of armour and
weapons they would be able to find before sunrise the next day. Two of the
ballet girls, bouncing about together, were discussing their potential armour.
"Do you think that wearing a pillow on my bottom will help if I trip
over my spiked toe-shoes?"
"No! But is making a tutu out of sheet metal okay?"
"My bet's on no."
"Oh, boo. But I could always just grab a paella pan and hang it
over my neck with some ribbon, right?"
"I wonder if someone brought a paella pan?"
"Perhaps. I really hope so, 'cause making the sheet metal tutu
would take too much time."
"Yup."
Christine, however, already knew exactly what she wanted to
use to protect herself and to defend her legend: a parasol, of course. What
better epitome of her innocent, feminine beauty than a frilly pink parasol?
And what better way to protect herself than with a pinafore? She
had packed one, for some unexplainable reason. It might've been that wearing it
reminded her of her dear father, who had given it to her, or that it simply
made her remember something that she couldn't quite name. Whatever it was, her
pinafore was made of a strange material, which, as she would learn later, was
mithril-calico: it was the legendary Pinafore of Doom. The rings were so small
and tightly interlocked that it was as a smooth, liquid waterfall in her hands:
it was even blue, and dotted with white flowers.
Christine was in her element, with her curly hair pulled back by
an enormous blue ribbon, and her red scarf ready to be put on the next morning.
Sorelli slipped her stiletto up the sleeve of her fur coat, which
was a lavish present from the Comte de Chagny, and also necessary due to the
cold, Arctic climate. Although not the cleverest woman in the building (and far
from it), she knew that her stiletto was dangerous, and knew how to use it,
too. The fur coat was thick and a half-size too large, just barely touched the
floor. With huge, broad shoulders, it made her appear larger and taller than
her usual size; it was intended to intimidate teenyboppers, and when coupled
with energetic waving of the stiletto, was extremely useful indeed.
The packing of that fur coat was a very elaborate process: there
were some packages of Saltines in the pockets, and a miniature sewing kit was
tucked into a pocket as well. Other characters were to sneak their own
possessions in there as well: a favourite pen, a monocle, a pocketwatch... all
because the coat was akin to a suitcase, and no-one else wanted to wear
something so heavy and elaborate but Sorelli.
Meanwhile, Meg was trying to find the best ways to pack extra
ribbons, because ribbons almost always came in handy: she had learned this from
years of experience. And if they weren't used, they were pretty and flouncy,
something all of the ballet girls agreed was good. She laced extra ribbons onto
her toe-shoes, and encouraged her fellow dancers to do the same: they
eventually went overboard and tied ribbons around everything in sight. She also
gave Christine the only red ribbon they had, and instructed her to tie it onto
her left wrist, seeing as just about every other place where a ribbon was able
to be tied (Christine's hair, her other wrist, her shoes, her waist, the loops
in the frilly part of the Pinafore of Doom, her parasol's handle, her neck) was
already occupied by one of the ribbons' mates.
"Isn't that lovely?" Meg giggled as she wove ribbons into
Christine's dark curls.
"It is! It looks so beautiful, Meg. Thank you. We'll be ready for
whatever comes our way." She grinned into the mirror, twirling about, causing
her Pinafore of Doom to floof out. Instinctively she shoved the chain with the
ring on it beneath the fabric of her skirt, because it didn't quite fit in with
her whole outfit. Neither did the red ribbon, but there was really no other
place to put it.
Sorelli carefully hung her coat in the closet, laughing to
herself. The coat was now about twenty pounds, and would gain a few more pounds
as various people got up in the middle of the night on the whim of packing
something else.
Madame Giry, immaculate as always in her traditional black,
reluctantly tied a white ribbon around her cane and refused to admit to anyone
else that she liked its look. Carlotta drank a lot of water to preserve her
voice, did not speak much that night, and prepared to belt high C's into ears
and prepared to shriek if necessary.
It was only until that night, as they were preparing for bed, that
they realised that they had to take off every single ribbon and put it back on
the next morning, when they were really leaving the Headquarters.
Meanwhile, in the men's dormitory, other things were happening...
it was a smaller room, and not nearly as clean as it should have been. The
wallpaper was shabby, but it was vaguely homey and comfortable to just about
everyone but Erik, who was a bit uneasy in this white-ish, unfamiliar place
that was not in any way akin to his own home.
Erik had already selected his gear, and was occupying himself with
packing it into his cloak. Among his possessions were the infamous Punjab
lasso, his fireball-shooting staff, and a full-face black mask which was
trimmed with gold paint at the eyes and the sides. Every so often he had to
duck quickly, as Firmin and Andre were practising throwing their monocles
(serving as throwing-stars) and fountain-pens across the room. Two nearly
struck Erik's head, and he dodged them in time, but he reminded himself that
next time he had better pack a bulletproof fedora, for good measure.
He shot a nasty look at Firmin, who had just hurled his monocle at
the paper bull's-eye hanging on the wall, and missed by a few yards, striking
instead Erik's ink bottle, causing it to spill.
"Take the ink, too," Firmin muttered. "It will be a reality check
if you dump it on something they like: most writers in their time don't use
bottled ink."
Erik vaguely considered requesting permission to harm Firmin, but
resolved that travelling all the way to the girls' dormitory for Christine was
not very gentlemanly, and that leaving his things unguarded, even for a few
minutes, was not a good idea at all, so he closed his eyes and pretended to not
exist. That didn't prevent a few more monocles flying toward his head.
Raoul and Nadir both packed their pistols without a moments'
hesitation, and Philippe agreed that it was the best method of protection for
them. Leroux had had his pocketwatch fitted with retractable spikes, and his
monocle was at the ready. For armour, they were puzzled as to what to take, but
packed heavy black overcoats with a thick, canvas outer layer, and hoped that
would be enough.
Carolus Fonta was at a loss for his possessions, so he contented
himself with paper-cut inducing Notes and a spear from the Opéra's prop
department.
They were ready.
--
That night, they all went to sleep at once, except for Erik and
Meg: she tied a solitary green ribbon around the refrigerator door in the
Kitchen and stuffed two rolls of ribbons into the pockets of Sorelli's coat; he
spread out a map across the conference table in the Council Room and began to
mark it diligently with red X's, indicating the places where they would go
first.
Madame Giry awoke at about four in the morning, tiredly tucked ten
francs and a box of English chocolates into a random pocket of Sorelli's coat,
and fell back asleep as soon as she went right back to bed.
Erik hummed a little tune to himself: One day more till
revolution...
((Because I'm like that. Sorelli's coat is based off of the "furs" Christine is
wrapped in in Leroux's book. I don't think Christine was much of a fur girl.
More... cloak-y to me. Next chapter's going to be better than this, I
promise... It features the Poetry Factories of Australia! ('Cause, as everyone
knows, Australia is funky...) Please
review! ;) ))
