Disclaimer: You Don't Own Jack. Nor do I.

A/N: I know this next chapter is less descriptive and more action-based and pointless, but I really really really wanted to include the bit about pirates and Rose's auspicious beginnings at the Opera.

Now get ready to take a ride on the out-of-chacter side!


After a night of romantic but chaste cuddling in Erik's black lace-swathed bed, Rose ventured alone to the stage of the Opera Populaire. Erik had given her a lovely new gown, a white satin dress that clung to her figure, dripping with silver embroidery, seed pearls, and diamonds. She wore a jaunty little tiara to complete the ensemble, and cream satin ballet shoes. She happened upon the manager of the Opera, whose name isn't the least bit important here, and she got his attention. Initially, he believed her to simply be the most beautiful woman alive. Then she proved him wrong by singing for him. Even her untrained voice was enough to make him fall to his knees, begging her to stay on at the Opera as their resident diva, seeing as how La Carlotta had conveniently fallen down some stairs a week earlier, leaving them without a star. Rose simpered prettily, then wowed 'em again with her mad skillz. She cued the orchestral director and danced a perfect ballet routine, rendering little Meg Giry green with envy, for Meg's hair was no where near as long and glossy, nor was her dancing THAT perfect, in comparison to the admirable Mademoiselle Rose. The manager of the Opera nearly had a heart attack at this amazing find. Rose immediately set about learning the routines and songs for that night's opera debut, as well as signing her contract.

Readers: "Hear the beat of dancing feeeeeet…" +hum the tunes from '42nd Street'+

Author: Aw shucks. How could you tell? Gah, now I have a sudden urge to write a 42nd Street and Phantom crossover, in which Julian Marsh kills Billy Lawlor and Dorothy Brock's lover Pat Denning in order to have his obsessive way with Peggy Sawyer while he composes his masterpiece: "Pretty Lady," starring the same Peggy Sawyer. Ew. Ew. Ew. Ew!

That night, Rose gained standing ovation after standing ovation, encore after encore, as she sang and danced her way into the hearts of Paris' shimmering elite. The patrons applauded thunderously, throwing roses upon roses unto the stage, a veritable garden heaping itself at the magnificent diva's feet. Among those patrons was the widower Vicomte Raoul de Chagny. Recently, Christine had died an ultimately forgettable death, and her former husband was now occupied in falling hard for Mademoiselle de l'Angelle. Erik sat alone in Box Five, glorying in his one true love's successes, until his roving eyes swept the audience, coming to rest on the familiar visage of the Vicomte. Too well he recognized the hard glint of lust in the pouty little man's eyes as he gazed at Rose, and Erik felt a momentary clutching at his heart. The freezing sensation of jealousy shot through him, settling in his stomach. Quirking a brow, he steepled his fingers in a suitably evil yet restrained manner, narrowing his gaze at the man.

"So it is STILL to be war between us?" He murmured, no longer caring if Christine was with Raoul or not. Rose was all that mattered to him now, and his love for Christine would only surface as a fleeting remembrance of things past in order to bring angst upon them all, should the plot require it.

Rose, unaware of all the havoc she was creating in the hearts of all these men, returned to her dressing room to swap her costume for something else suitably skimpy and lacy. A knock sounded upon her door, and rising, she went to go answer it. The door swung open slowly to reveal…

PIRATES!

Readers: Wait, isn't Paris a land-locked city?

Author: What? There's the River Seine.

Readers: Well, yeah, but…

Author: Yeah here +gives them caramels+

The pirates leered lustfully at her as they pushed into her dressing room, groping her in a way that she would have found pleasant had it been Erik, but from these men whom she did not know, it was horrendously invasive. As she screamed for help, in swooped Indiana Jones…I mean Raoul.

Anyhow, Raoul fought all the pirates single-handedly and won, even after engaging in deadly and expertly choreographed combat with Captain Jack Sparrow. Rose collapses in a dead faint in his arms, and he revives her, revealing his love for her. Rose, in a daze by her rescuer, no matter how feminine his hair, nor how questionable his side burns, mutely accepts his devotion. How could she know of Raoul and Erik's past confrontation over Christine? Either way, she gives Raoul some vague kind of encouragement, and they have a delightful little make-out session, which is interrupted only by the entrance of a furious Erik.

Rose steps back to watch the action, feeling no shame over the way she has led both men on, only fear that they will fight over her and one of them will die, and she doesn't know which one she now loves more and oh WOE IS HER!

Readers: Bitch.

Author: I quite agree.

The two men circled each other warily, and Rose fled in horror, not wanting to see how it turned out. A few minutes later, she returned to find the dressing room silent and empty. Raoul had fled like a pansy and Erik had disappeared like the angsty man of mystery that he was.

Rose sat to wait and see who would have the balls to return first. Naturally, it was Erik, Punjab lasso in hand. Rose opened her mouth to protest, but Erik cut her off before she spoke a word.

"I know I know, you love him so I can't kill him. I've been through this before. I know the drill. C'mon, we're going back to the lair." They disappeared through the mirror.

Readers: Wtf?

Author: Exactly.

Raoul came clanking down the hall a minute later clad in a full suit of armor, bearing a sword. As he entered the dressing room, he noted its empty state and took up a note from the table, bearing the red wax seal of a deathshead. Tearing it open with fumbling, metal-encased fingers, he scanned it quickly, half-glancing at the bottle beside it.

My Dear Vicomte,

Thought you might like to know that Rose and I have withdrawn to my lair for a night of sexing up by yours truly. I have left you a bottle of fine champagne, which you may enjoy at your leisure in your complete and utter lonely solitude. Yeah, I thought so. How does it feel when it's YOU for a change?

Hahahahahaha! In your FACE, my pansy-assed little friend!

Sincerely,

O.G.

"Biznitch!" screamed Raoul, crushing the note between his metal gauntlets.

Readers: Wow.

Author: MUHUWHAHAHAHAHAHA! Wait...I can't believe I went a whole chapter without describing Rose's physical attributes in great detail. I knew something was missing. Well, for the record, she's still devastatingly gorgeous, her hair is still long, blonde, glossy, and ringlette-ish. She still got huge boozies, violet eyes and a sensual mouth in a heart-shaped face.

Fin. For Now...