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! ;) ))