A/N: Thanks for the good response I've been getting. Also, huge thanks to my new Beta Elaine! I'm truly honored to have the help of someone who actually understands grammer because I throw commas around like they're going out of style.

A few people have asked, so I'll just throw this out here. The name "Ben" is short for Benjamina.

I hope you like this chapter; poor Erik sure doesn't.

Chapter Four: Do I Have To Prove It To You?

A new age of reason
Brain treason to trick the mind
What good is searching
If nothing's there to find
We arrive at this place
Of no return my brothers
Only to discover that our minds have led us away
So far from the painful truth
Of who we are

Erik felt the world fall out from beneath him. Impossible! It had to be some terrible trick of the mind; he hadn't spoken English in over ten years, surely he had simply misheard!

What had happened? He racked his aching head for answers. Images flickered and danced before his mind's eye, but fled as he grasped for them. He remembered pain and anguish. Christine left with that boy, he recalled with a flash of bitterness. A few images clicked together. I was blind with rage, he thought slowly, Christ, I haven't lost control like that in decades. He remembered destroying his house, and then his workshop.

Erik's thought process froze as another image came forward. The generator, he realized in shock. I attacked the generator with an iron pole, and I had the damned luck to actually live through it! He was again surprised by just how much God hated him; I can't even die by my own stupidity! Am I cursed to live forever!

Forcing himself to be calm, Erik walked himself through what he remembered. So I electrocuted myself to the States? That's impossible; there must be something I'm missing…

Do you believe in time travel?

The voice from his feverish dream echoed through his mind with frightful clarity. Was it possible? Could he really have been sent through time and space to over a hundred years in the future?

He glanced at the strange woman who was babbling into what appeared to be a modified refrigerator. She wore ill-fitting denim trousers, an immodest black undershirt without sleeves, and a pair of worn leather boots; Erik wondered briefly if she was trying to masquerade as a man.

The white, sterile, electric lighting of the room was not helping his headache, or his tired eyes. Looking around, he became more and more aware of how very different this kitchen was from any he had seen. Intricate devices littered the counter; he couldn't even begin to guess their purposes.

It's true, he realized blankly. Somehow, he was indeed in the year 2005. 2005, the sound of the year bewildered him. Oh you must be laughing now, he thought scornfully to God.

"Erik?" The woman's voice cut through his thoughts; he looked up to see her looking at him in concern. "Are you alright?" she asked.

Something snapped in his mind, and frustration surged forward. "Oh, I'm fantastic," he drawled turning to face her slowly. He watched angrily as fear and guilt washed through the woman's blue eyes. "You haven't told me everything," he accused with a quiet snarl, taking a step toward her.

The stare he held her with was that of a cobra before a small mammal, and Erik knew it. He walked toward her with calculated slowness, his eyes unblinking despite the ugly light. The woman stood frozen and wide-eyed at his approach.

"I do not care how much of a man you pretend to be, Ben," he growled hypnotically as he reached her, "You would do well to know your place woman, and answer my questions."

Almost instantly, the woman's fear was gone, her eyes flashed with anger, and Erik remembered that, just occasionally, the small, furry, animal pushed into a corner could be a mongoose.

"My place?" she responded taking an aggressive step forward. It was so unexpected that Erik moved backwards, giving her the upper hand. "My place!" she repeated, her voice gaining in volume, "I'll have you know that this is my place! And for all intents and purposes you might as well consider me a man, because I am your equal," she was pushing him further backwards with the force of her words, "This is not the Opera Populaire," she sneered, "you have no power here!"

Time stood still for a moment as the realization of what she had just said hit both of them.

Erik's blood had run cold in shock. How could she possibly—and then just as quickly, fire replaced the ice and he didn't care that some immodestly dressed tart knew his secrets only that she would dare to use them against him. "What did you say?" he ground out softly with narrowed eyes.

She had paled visibly. "Oh shit," she whispered and ran from the room.

Erik didn't know where his burst of energy came from, but he was grateful for it as he flew after her back into the living room. Reaching out, he grabbed her arm and spun her violently to face him.

The woman gasped in pain and tried to pull away, but he only held her tighter. "I grow weary of your secrets," he purred dangerously, before almost roaring, "Tell me how you know me!"

"Let go of me," she responded.

He couldn't help but be amused at the equal amounts of fear and anger in her expression. "No, I don't think I will," he replied with a wicked smirk beneath his mask, moving his face closer to hers.

Fear seemed to overwhelm the anger as she leaned desperately away from his mask. "Tell me," he ordered again.

Suddenly, his world exploded with pain. Her hand had darted forward to grab his mask, and he instinctively released her to recoil away before he recognized the feint. The woman used his surprise to connect her boot to his groin; he collapsed instantly, curled on the ground, eyes shut, gasping for air as he struggled not to lose himself in the oblivion of agony.

Clever girl, he thought weakly.

He heard her crouch beside him, and he did not move, waiting for the next blow to fall. You'd deserve it too.

"If you ever touch me like that again, I'll kill you," she told him with quiet authority.

Erik didn't doubt her after that display of strength, but he could only nod in response; had he opened his mouth the searing pain that still burned his spine would have allowed him only to whimper pitifully.

"Now if you're prepared to act civilized, I'll tell you everything I know," she continued. He nodded again, and fell into a coughing fit as he fought for his breath beneath his damned mask. Each spasm of his lungs sent a new wave of agony; you'd think after years of disuse that blasted organ wouldn't be so sensitive, he thought bitterly.

"Have a seat on the couch," she instructed and walked away.

Moving slowly, he was able to unfold himself from the floor holding on the coffee table for support. Almost an eternity later, he settled into the over stuffed sofa and released a long, shuddering breath. Well, that was a lovely first impression, don't you think, his inner demons chuckled gleefully.

His eyes settled on the woma—Ben, he reminded himself, who had returned from the kitchen carrying a clear bag of ice, which she threw at him. He caught it without thought, and instantly became intrigued by the bizarre material, clear as glass, but nearly as flexible as cloth. It was holding that seemingly impossible bag that the strange reality of his situation struck him. 2005, he thought in wonder; They're all dead; everyone I ever knew is dead. A hopeless exhaustion settled on his shoulders; Will I ever die?

"Are you going to put that to good use, or just waste the ice?" Ben's voice cut through his thoughts. He glanced up to catch her stern gaze; Erik's pride flared half-heartedly, but the painful throb in his groin and lower back demanded that he quit being a fool. Placing the bag gently between his legs, he hissed softly through his teeth at the numbing relief. His self-loathing was howling with mirth at his embarrassment; face burning with shame, Erik reached out to grab an oversized pillow to cover his weakness.

Ignoring him, Ben had begun to pace swiftly back and forth as she concentrated. She moved with an easy efficiency that suggested a competency and a latent power; Erik rather wished he'd noticed it five minutes ago. Eventually, she sat in the chair across from him, and spread her hands as if she were about to speak. No sound came, and her brow furrowed more deeply. His eyes unconsciously lingered on her.

To say that she was unlike any woman he'd ever seen would be an incredible understatement. There was nothing save her physical form to tell him that she was even female. Her clothing, while scandalous to his mind, did not look wrong on her; in fact, they matched her masculine body language rather well.

He hadn't realized that she was looking at him until his eyes flicked up from the worn hands folded her lap and locked with hers. They remained that way for a long moment; it was a deceptively comfortable silence.

Finally, she spoke, "I really don't know how to explain this to you, so bear with me. In 1911, a man named Gaston Leroux published a book called The Phantom Of The Opera in which he claimed to tell the true story of a man who kidnapped a young soprano and held her hostage." She said the words slowly as though waiting for him to attack her again; he was too flabbergasted to even consider moving.

Ben continued, "Although Leroux claimed that his story was true, the book was considered a work of fiction and over the years it gained a steady following. What you really need to know about is the new film that just came out."

Erik was barely listening. He knew the name Leroux, but how had some romantic journalist learned about him? Christine would not have told, it would have damaged her precious Viscomte's reputation, he thought with a rush of bitterness. The answer became clear and he fought back a scornful laugh. Oh Daroga, you meddle even when I appear dead! Perhaps you felt the need to cleanse yourself of whatever lingering guilt? When he figured out how to return to Paris, he was going to kill Nadir.

A sudden pressure on his knee made him start violently; he returned to reality to watch Ben pull her hand away from where she had touched him gently, "Sorry, sorry, I just asked if you had heard me," she apologized quickly.

He hadn't, and he knee tingled faintly from the unfamiliar sensation. "No, I'm sorry, I was not paying attention," he replied after a shaky breath. Good lord, she touched me, he thought in awe, just as she would any normal man. What kind of cruel trap are you leading me to, God?

"I said that you're a legend," she told him.

"What?" He couldn't possibly have heard that right.

"You are one of the most recognizable characters of my time. This story has inspired countless books, films, and plays; people can't get enough of it," she explained.

Erik snorted, "Well who wouldn't want to hear about how Beauty escaped the Beast?" he spat.

Ben held her hands up defensively, "Lemme tell you something Erik, it isn't the Beauty that makes people love the story," she replied quietly, looking down.

He narrowed his eyes, "Do not pretend to know me," he growled softly, resentment, bitterness, shame, and rage surged forward at the pity in her tone. His mind filled with visions of audiences laughing as some clownish man with a skull mask shuffled about screaming. The makings of a fine comedy, the demons snickered cruelly. Restraining the urge to destroy something, Erik forced his anger to cool; as he'd already painfully learned, it would serve no purpose. A deep, heavy melancholy filled him in its place. No rest for the wicked, the dark thought came of its own accord, and he couldn't deny it.

What the Devil have I been thrown into? He didn't like feeling overwhelmed, he didn't like feeling confused, he didn't like having to rely on a person he didn't know, and he sure as hell didn't like having to do all three at once.

Looking down, he suddenly realized that his trousers were soaked. Fine, perfect, fan-bleeding-tastic, he thought with frown as he stood and surveyed the large wet patch. What am I supposed to do with a bag of water?

Ben stood with him, "Here I'll take care of that," she offered. Erik held out the bag to her; her fingers grazed his hand as she took it. He had to be dreaming; how else could he explain a woman touching him twice as if it were nothing at all?

He followed her as she dropped the strange bag into the sink. "Look," she began turning to face him again, "I wanted to apologize for," she waved a hand in the general area of his groin, "uh, everything," she finished awkwardly.

He couldn't stop a smirk forming beneath his mask.

"I don't know if I'm insane, or dreaming, or stuck in some celestial thing," she continued mirroring his own thoughts, "but either way, there's nothing to be done tonight."

Erik could see no reason to object, so he followed the rapidly moving woman through the door adjacent to the room in which he had initially awoken.

This new room was plainly but comfortably furnished. He listened with half an ear as Ben pointed out the bathroom that they would share and then mentioned something about a shower in the morning. Erik didn't care if it rained or not. His focus was on the bed; just seeing it increased his exhaustion ten fold, and it teased him now as his host insisted on naming and pointing out every minute detail.

"Thank you," he cut her off suddenly, "I'll be fine." He noted that Ben seemed more relieved than hurt that he had interrupted her; Perhaps she knew she was babbling, he thought apathetically as she bid him good night.

As soon as she was gone, Erik lowered the harsh light in the room to a much more tolerable level. His eyes had been on the verge of watering under so much electric lighting. It may be practical, but certainly not as comfortable as gaslight. He snorted in scornful amusement at himself; Look how old you've gotten!

Stretching slowly, Erik's brow creased in surprise. He felt…well, good, for lack of a better word. Certainly, his bruises, hands, and groin still ached, but his joints and back weren't complaining as they had for almost ten years now. Flexing his hands as much as he could in the bandages, he was shocked when his arthritis didn't flair.

Sitting on the edge of the bed in the dark, Erik removed his mask and ran a hand through his hair in wonder. Had I known electrocution was so good for the system, I would have begun a regimen of it years ago.

Lying down gently on the bed, he wondered briefly if he would sleep. The dream began almost instantly.

He recognized the endless depths of the library instantly. You still have to find that book, he reminded himself, and he took off walking swiftly through the rows, his footsteps echoing crisply through the empty building.

"Your hands are still bleeding." The specter appeared moving at his side suddenly; Erik stopped and glanced down to see that his hands indeed were bleeding freely through the old bandages. The figure moved around to stand before him.

"What's going on?" he asked it.

The specter began to remove the bandages from his hands; Erik did not pull away. "I told you," it said finally. "The original equation is no longer valid. Changes had to be made in order for balance to be achieved."

"What kind of changes?"

The figure was applying new wrappings now. "You had to be changed" it answered cryptically. "Your health is required for the Living Receiver to perform the task."

Erik was very tired of esoteric answers, and he pulled his hands away from the specter. "What do you mean 'my health'? You tell me why I'm here," he demanded angrily.

The figure gave no reaction to his outburst. "You are the Artifact," was its simple answer.

To Be Continued...

A/N: Ok, so those of you familiar with Donnie Darko should start recognize what's going on. If you haven't seen Donnie Darko, I highly recommend seeing the film. It made my brain go "Whoa."