Usual disclaimers apply.

First things first: the Pinafore of DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM is not my creation. It is Christine Persephone's. Go give her your compliments: she's talented, and I'm going to plug her works: The Incredibly Random Crossover and The Summons. Go. Read, my minions! READ! :) if you were to lazy to do it yourself.

Alyx Bradford, we've got to get down to discussing those papercuts one day. I don't like Mary-Sues either. (Obviously, if y' couldn't tell...*snort snort snicker*)
Christine Persephone, here it is, just for you (actually, the Ellarans...). PINAFORE OF DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!
darla, what's a war without casualties? That's sort of like a button without holes in it. Thanks for your advice, all of it, really, but... I do hope that something good will come of it. And if not, I won't feel wasted. I've done my best.
Miranda7911, a monocle is an eyeglass for one eye. It's usually on a chain. And a stiletto is a thin dagger.
Australia=DINGOES.
Midasgirl, I do recall when things like the poor writing and conflicts didn't exist, and I miss it, but things are changing, I'm afraid. *gives a muffin?*
And, Phantom's Requiem, I'm honoured that you think I have a healthy mind. Albeit sarcastic.
flying fuzzy logic, I explained my replies to you on AIM. But... this whole revolution thing is the same thing as in school, only I've heard rumours of suing there.

German as a language frightens me. *cough cough* That's why the factories are in Germany. I didn't really know where else to put them.
This chapter targets mass-produced poetry. Work on it for more than a minute, dearies.

And much love hugs and cookies for everyone who's been an active part of this revolution. That means my side. Like... Christine Persephone, Alyx Bradford, y'all. Y'all know who you are. If I forgot to name you here, you can pester me all you'll like and I'll add you.

--
Canonical Elitists' Search and Rescue,
or
The Scandinavian Guild of Phantasmal Fanfiction Regulation
by The Phantom Parisienne

Chapter Three: Insert Logical Title Here

The sun rose bright and clear that morning, and was barely waking the fog from its own dormancy when the company was fully conscious and active. The whole building was sent into chaos, mostly from Sorelli's complaining that her coat was too heavy to wear. She was rebuked, almost instantly, by the dozens of characters who replied that it was her own fault that she had over-packed, and that she would have to live with it.

Her intellect didn't tell her that it was wise to check all of the pockets, so she didn't, and wore the coat anyway, refusing to leave without it.

Breakfast was ignored; the whole place was too frenzied to trouble themselves to do anything but prepare for this grand revolution. It was later when hunger would begin to nip at their stomachs. And it was later when Sorelli would discover that she possessed enough food to feed a small army.

Meg awoke with a yawn, and leaped out of bed, still half-asleep, retying every single ribbon. The ribbons had, of course, been tucked away neatly on their cardboard rolls, so as to be preserved. The other ballet rats quickly assisted her, not wanting to be left out of the fun.

Armour donned, weapons clean and dangerous, they marched into the council-room, where Erik was already waiting at the head of the table. As everyone filed in, they made sure not to move the little red ribbon. Sorelli limped to her seat and nearly collapsed into it, breathing hard. A few sympathetic looks, mostly from Leroux and Philippe, were directed to her, but attention was mainly directed to Erik, who was truly commanding.

He was a spectacle, to be sure: no weapons were visible, but they were undoubtedly there. The way he carried himself showed that he was ready to fight to the death; his posture was perfect, his eyes were cold, and not a hair was out of place. Stately, tall, perfectly erect, he was dangerous.

Raoul was having a minor inner conflict: should he go on with or without his hat? It was tall, and might get in the way... he didn't know, but sat it on the table in front of him, chewing his lip.

Meg and the ballet girls were all rainbows of colour with their ribbons, save for the gloomy pair who had stuck with the first impulses and were consequently clothed in sheet-metal tutus and paella pans (which had been mysteriously smuggled there by Leroux). Meg tut-tutted and gave them a few grey ribbons to tie in their hair.

Christine looked just about as fierce as she could (which was still relatively docile) in her Pinafore of Doom and her ribbons. The parasol was resting on her lap, and she gazed up at Erik with devotion and adoration.

Leroux and the managers were well equipped with ink-bottles, fountain-pens, and monocles. Their faces were stern and imposing; they were definitely prepared for war. Leroux's pocket-watch was shined and sharp.

Madame Giry rapped her cane on the table, eyeing the white ribbon with a funny twitch in her left eye.

Now, everyone! Everyone! Erik's silky voice quickly quieted the army. Is everyone ready? A resounding chorus of was his reply and he smiled benevolently. Then let us forget our differences; let us forget the walls of hatred and confusion for one short day. Let's come together for a cause -- our cause. I believe it was said best once upon a dream, in France, in 1832...

Who cares about your lonely soul?
We strive towards a larger goal
Our little lives don't count at all

By then, most, if not all, of the other characters had joined, lending their voices to his to create a joyful harmony:

Red -- the blood of angry men!
Black -- the dark of ages past!

Red -- the world about to dawn!
Black -- the night that ends at last!

Right then, Erik said cheerfully, his voice not damaged from the peculiar, irresistible outbreak of song. We'll be off for the Poetry Factories of Germany very shortly; just go out into the lobby. Council is over!

Hushed whispers ran through the group like electric along steel — were they really going to those fabled Poetry Factories of Germany? They were dangerous (or so they had heard), and no-one was sure if it was quite safe... but Erik's word was not to be questioned.

I have this friend from another book, and they said those poetry factories are positively gruesome!

I know. I know this one girl who was from Les Misérables, and she went to war to protect her fandom, and it was so dangerous there... d'you think my tutu looks okay?

Yeah! Brings out your eyes.

They grinned and hopped off for the lobby along with everyone else, who were preparing to transport themselves to Germany.

This strange, inherent ability to bend the laws of reality was something strange — they could feel the laws of the universe melting beneath their hands, the work of the creators of the universe just crumbling down like the colonnades of a long-lost building in an ancient civilisation. They all relished this new, invigorating feeling of being able to transport themselves from words and into a new place.

It wasn't hard -- it was a lot like writing your own name on a piece of paper: you've been able to do it for so long that it's natural and instinctive. And that's exactly what it felt, that natural thing, when they all faded from the Scandinavian Peninsula and materialised in the Poetry Factory, weapons brandished, ready for battle.

The room was silent. Not a single enemy was present -- in fact, the lights were turned off. Someone lit a match. A buzz went up in the ranks.

Silence! Silence! Who has a watch? Erik boomed.

I do! Leroux squeaked. It was a funny thing to hear him squeak like that -- he was nervous and anxious to defend his story. Either that or he was lygophobic. Some of the girls also were squeaking from the dark, and Christine leaned toward Erik, who, in turn, moved toward her as well. The warmth radiating from the others' body seemed to calm them.

Someone find the damned light switch, Firmin muttered, fishing in his pockets.

The match was handed to Leroux, who looked at it. Oh! We seem to have time-travelled; made a mistake, I suppose. It's six o'clock a.m., in German time.

A groan rose up from the army and Erik thundered once again for their silence: I know what we shall do! We shall wait until the workers arrive, and declare our invasion of this factory! We won't lose.

they shouted, cheered by their Fearless Leader.

Sorelli passed out the Saltines and various other foods which had strangely found their way into her pockets. We'll just make the best of what we're given.

Now then. Someone, find the lights.

A murmur of agreement rose up.

Christine stumbled backwards and flicked them on without knowing what she was doing; hit the switch, and illumined the cavernous room.

It was stacked with huge machines -- dozens upon dozens, too many to count... the machines were metal, and rusty and silent, but ominous. What they did was only too clear: they gave the poor admirers of their story the rank of poetaster -- they were responsible for the delusion of poetry that many were given. The poetaster's mental fight to overcome these unknown factories was difficult, and it showed...

But they would wait. And they would be ready for whatever came their way.

((You try poking yourself with a fountain-pen. IT HURTS. And do they even make grey ribbons? Guess it's one of life's great mysteries. Review, s'il vous plaît.))