AN: "Open up your mind, let your phan-tasies unwind…" I knew I heard that wrong.
Sadly, as we all have now come to expect, I own nothing of the Phantom or his story (cries silently)… that belongs to more distinguished persons on whom Fate has smiled kinder than I… I believe we are all well aware of this by now, heh.
Even my names I admit come from various sources… and I can make no claim whatsoever to Erik. But if the story—Raian's story and Jaqueline's story—entertains you for a while, then, well, I did my best.
So, without further ado:
Chapter 1: Perfect Place for Murder
Raian ducked into the alley, trying to throw off pursuit in his twisted course. Acutely aware of the beating of his footsteps on stone, he tried to run softer—his shoes tapped out a steady tattoo against the wet paving stones that sounded agonizingly loud… but with little success. After a moment he decided it wasn't worth the sacrifice in speed and picked up the pace again.
The rain earlier that day left the streets wet and slippery. Rounding one corner his foot skidded out and he landed heavily on one knew, grunting with pain as he scrambled back to his feet, regretting the seconds lost in the fall. Every step jolted his bruised knee and he gritted his teeth in frustration as he inevitably slowed, breathing hard.
The moon gleamed eerily down between the clouds as his breath came in short gasps. He had lost all track of time in the chase. And a chase it was… for the first time, he regretted fighting his brother in court. Raian doubled over, coughing, and tried to keep running at the same time.
Fighting for Jaqueline's rightful portion of his Father's will ended up with him running from a band of hired thugs in the alleys of Paris. He would have laughed, had he the breath for it. Instead he turned another corner, uncomfortably aware that his choices of places to run were rapidly thinning. They were herding him on, like a sheep before a pack of wolves. But where?
His mind outraced his feet. He could imagine Gerard's instructions: "Do it somewhere out of sight, where he won't be found for a while. I don't want this linked to Father's will."
Well, there were plenty of dark, abandoned holes in Paris to dump him in. For the life of him, though, he couldn't imagine a place that would forgo investigation.
They street opened up into an abandoned courtyard and Raian duly started across, aware of the shapes of men running out of other adjoining alleys and streets. In the middle of a courtyard? he thought in amazement as they closed in a semicircle, pushing him towards an abandoned building that he recognized with a chill. My God, the Opera Populaire…
Since the recent chandelier fiasco and the elusive "Opera Ghost" the Opera Populaire had been abandoned. It had been little over a year, and there were rumors of a prospective buyer of the place with plans to renovate and reopen. For now it stood silently, a mute monolith against the night, and the perfect place to perform murder. As he shoved his way past unused doors into the Atrium, that was the thought dominating Ryan's mind.
The groan of doors and slap of footsteps on stone far above resounded against the empty corridors and angled walls throughout the Opera Populaire. It was as if a ghostly army had unceremoniously swept the abandoned place into its eternal battlefield.
Yet there was only one ghost who haunted the opera house, who had over the years exerted proof of his singular domain. Pausing, fingers hovering over the keys of the piano, his green eyes narrowed dangerously, ill pleased at the interruption.
Raian stumbled blindly into the dark interior of the opera house. Dust, and the crumbling decay of neglect, had only just begun to take hold, and he took some comfort that he left no footprints. Had he the breath, he would have laughed at himself. They were already right behind him—
Something snagged his foot and he tumbled to his knees, gasping as his injured leg hit the ground and twisted at an odd angle. Something hard slammed into his back and he sprawled forward, curling up in an attempt to ward off a sharp kick. Raian, this is pathetic! He made a determined effort to stand, lunging up, vowing he'd get at least one of the scoundrels. The fist hit him face-on and everything went white for a second.
Some insane part of his subconscious demanded that he stand, and he mindlessly struggled for a moment through the buffeting, but the rain of blows didn't abate. His mind was hazy and his thoughts forced themselves slowly through, coming with less and less frequency. Even the pain began to slip away. Blurred shapes danced in front of his eyes—Gerard—he blinked but something wet was trickling into his eyes, it was what—he fumbled for the word—blood—yes, that was it—he tasted iron on his tongue—the shapes become more hazy and indistinct, racing past him violently.
Raian tumbled from consciousness into a yawning pit of blessed oblivion, his last thought one of detached curiosity. His fogged mind couldn't quite place the scream of a grown man in fear as his life was cut short.
Then falling, falling into blackness…
