A/N: Quickly. I know a bunch more of you asked to be put in here, I can tell you if you don't show up now you will show in the outtakes. An exceptionally early update, I know, but all complaints can be directed to Stalker Erik. I felt bad for the poor quality (for a given value of the word "quality") of the last chapter, and hastened to update, spurred on by the dedicated manly-squeeing of my pretend-spouse. Dear readers, this is the last chapter of the phic proper, but don't despair, for there is much more insanity to come. Alright, despair if you want to. Until the next time, I remain, your obedient writer, Random.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN: Or Is It?

The Eriks were huddled in conference, once again, whilst the Writers amused themselves in the corner by playing Spin The Bottle until Stalker Erik accused Meta-Chi of using a loaded bottle, and some small, specialized chaos ensued.

"They want to take over our lives," hissed Kay Erik. "This will not be tolerated."

"Oh, I don't know, it sounded like a fairly good plan to me," said Gerry Phantom. Most of the Writers had stolen his clothes for use as objects of reverence as he removed them, but a pair of trousers had been procured— they didn't fit very well, but on him it didn't matter.

"You mealy-mouthed twit," said Kay Erik contemptuously.

"Your insults are getting worse," guffawed Gerry Phantom.

Kay Erik glared daggers at him and turned his attention back to the matter at hand, which Leroux Erik wanted to solve by punjabbing the entire squadron of Writers. Several times during the conversation he had to be physically restrained from carrying out this suggestion all on his own, though most of the remaining Eriks were entirely in agreement with him.

"I know what to do," said Crawford Phantom quietly.

A series of disbelieving looks were turned on him and he shifted uncomfortably under them.

"You know, it really isn't fair that I don't get to be the smart phantom. I mean, what else have I got going for me?"

"Theatrical training," suggested Gerry Phantom. Crawford Phantom brightened.

"Well, yes, there is that, I suppose."

"I know what to do," said Kay Erik, who had taken the mantle of smart phantom on his own shoulders and did not appreciate the position being usurped. Expectant gazes were turned on him. "They have not blocked off the entrance into the labyrinth. We can, if we are careful, escape through there."

"Why do you suppose they didn't block it off?" mused Gerry Phantom, rubbing at his chin, which was now sprouting stubble. This was perceived by the rest of the Eriks as further proof that he wasn't really one of them, as they all remained perfectly clean-shaven. Gerry Phantom, inwardly, thought it was proof that he was more manly than any of them.

Kay Erik glared at him, as he so often did. "I don't know— perhaps because they are overconfident imbeciles who think that we would not be intelligent enough to find a way out? They underestimate us, monsieurs."

"Or," suggested Gerry Phantom, "maybe they just forgot—"

Kay Erik hefted the punjab.

"One of these days, sir, you will regret making these brainless comments, and learn to keep an intelligent tongue in your head— or lose it."

"Lose my tongue? Or lose my head?"

"Whichever you wish, monsieur," said Kay Erik silkily.

Gerry Phantom scoffed and made the Loser sign on his forehead. Quite to his surprise, and also to the writer's since she wasn't aware that they had the Loser sign all those fictional years ago, Kay Erik did it back.

"What do we do?" Crawford Phantom whispered.

"We move one by one to the entrance to the labyrinth," whispered Kay Erik. "And then—"

"Yes?" said Crawford Phantom breathlessly.

"We escape."

"Ooh! Good plan. I like it. A lot. One question."

"Yes?" sighed Kay Erik.

"What about the remaining Christines?" Crawford Phantom gestured at the small amount of sleeping Christines who lay some ways away. Most of them, and there weren't that many left, were on their backs, with their hands folded on their breasts, princess style, and had even gone to the extremes of finding flowers to hold in their arms. But a few of them were snoring.

Kay Erik watched them, infinite sadness, regret, and four-dimensionalism reflected in his eyes.

"Leave them behind," he whispered.

There was a silence, and then shrugs of agreement from the Eriks. Kay Erik looked surprised at them.

"I must admit to being a bit— shocked at the cavalier attitude you portray in abandoning your true loves."

"Eh," said the Eriks, shrugging again. Kay Erik thought about this, then shrugged as well.

"Perhaps," he suggested, "we can find some way of freeing them later."

Gerry Phantom looked up from contemplating the floor. "Oh, do we have to? I was planning on finding Genn."

Kay Erik sent him another glare.

"Right," said Gerry Phantom, "I'll just be quiet then."

"And so we proceed with my original plan," said Kay Erik quietly. "We slip towards the entrance to the lair, where the fops so recently hid, and then— silently as smoke on the wind— we escape!"

"Yess!" cheered Crawford Phantom loudly, and was hurriedly and almost fatally shushed.

"Question," said Gerry Phantom, holding up a finger. "What do we do if the Writers notice that we are leaving?"

"In that case," sighed Kay Erik testily, "and I do not foresee that occurring, for as you can see they are currently engrossed in watching the one called Adison trying to kiss the one called Stalker Erik, which in my opinion is an exercise that is fully wasted, for when one is in a room with real Eriks, why should one pursue a pretend one, regardless of whether or not this so-called Stalker Erik is actually not a fictional character, which sometimes I doubt— I would advise you to run."

"Alright," said Gerry Phantom, who'd gotten lost in the enormity of that sentence, and did.

"I didn't mean now!" howled Kay Erik, pelting after him in pursuit.

Most of the Eriks watched them for a second and then followed.

Now, fascinating as the spectacle of Stalker Erik trying desperately to escape the clutches of his harem girls is, it is as nothing when compared to the sight of a thundering herd of Phantoms in full flight. Needless to say, and so I don't know why I'm saying it, the Writers turned towards them and stared, open-mouthed as Emmy Christine.

It took three full minutes for the situation to sink in, and by that time most of the Eriks had escaped, except for Gerry Phantom, who, inexplicably, returned on his own, Kay Erik and Crawford Phantom who followed him, Leroux Erik who had never left, and Robert Englund Erik, who sought out sparklyscorpion and took her off into a remote corner for some "punjab instruction," because I like to make my readers happy if I can.

DarkPriestessofAssimbya, thinking quickly, yanked out her notebook and scribbled a gate over the entrance to the labyrinth, too, and the remaining Eriks crashed to a stop just in front of it.

"Dang," said Random quietly. "I was hoping no one would do that."

"Why not?"

"Because if they hadn't, there could have been a chase sequence through the labyrinth. That might have been good for another chapter."

"Boss."

"Yes?"

"Why do you keep breaking into the middle of the chapter?"

"Boredom, I suppose. I won't do it anymore."

The few phantoms that were left turned around to confront the Writers, who stood in a line, staring at them, arms folded.

Le Chat broke the silence first.

"You guys— you tried to escape! That's— that's just so— cheating!"

Kay Erik shrugged. "Phantom," he reminded her.

The Writers thought about this.

"Oh, right," said Le Chat. "I guess that's okay then."

"Just so long as you never do it again," added Meta-Chi.

The Eriks thought about this.

"Oh, no," they said, making obscure gestures with their hands. "Of course not."

Meta-Chi squinted at them.

"You wouldn't— lie to me, would you?"

The Eriks thought about this, too, and then did the same thing as they had last time. Meta-Chi beamed.

"Okay. I thought not."

"Well, sure," said thusser-scout, shrugging, "if you can't trust the Phantoms of the Opera, who can you trust?"

"Exactly," murmured most of the Writers, and all appeared to be forgiven.

Except for Stalker Erik, who crept up to the Eriks and said, "I thought I asked you to take me with you?"

Kay Erik stared at him balefully. "Do you think you have the forbearance to undergo the Initiation Ceremony?"

This question caught Stalker Erik completely off-guard, and he stammered for a moment before saying, "Yes—?"

"And do you think," continued Kay Erik in tones of darkest dire, "that pain and the total disfiguration of your face is merely an obstacle to be overcome in the pursuit of your goal?"

"My face?" said Stalker Erik vaguely, lifting one hand to pinch the skin under his jawline thoughtfully. "Um— my face. Right. Um. Yes. I think."

"And did you think," said Kay Erik, lowering his voice impressively, "that we actually had an Initiation Ceremony for people to join some sort of Brothership of Eriks, or something?"

Stalker Erik closed his mouth.

"No," he said, lightly. "No. No. Of course not. I suppose all this was to prove once again that the Phantom of the Opera really does have a sense of humour?"

Kay Erik ignored him.

"Hey, boss."

"Yes?"

"Why does the stalker get all the good lines?"

"What?"

"Why does the stalker get all the good lines?"

"You interrupted the phic to complain about that?"

"Well, it does seem that you favour him a bit."

Random exchanged glances with Masque de Nuit, who shrugged and raised his eyebrows at her. "Well, its not a question of favouring him, really— its just that his name is Erik, and I just thought it'd be funny to kind of contrast his eternal quest to— crap, that sentence sounded really good at the beginning. Not much follow through, though. Look, I just thought the inclusion of another, real Erik would be funny. That's all." She shrugged. "No favouring."

Masque de Nuit smiled to himself and began to play a different tune.

"And now, O Writers," said Crawford Phantom, venturing forth once more, "what must we do in order to make you relax your terms? We would not wish to have our lives controlled, you see, as you seem to want to do. Can't some sort of compromise be reached?"

The Writers exchanged glances, and went into a huddle.

Kay Erik groaned.

"I think this is a positive step," said Gerry Phantom brightly.

"Nothing good comes out of a huddle," said Kay Erik, shaking his head. "Nothing, nothing good."

Leroux Erik was off in a corner, braiding himself a new punjab, in case you're wondering why he hasn't shown up in a while. And, for that matter, Patrick Raoul was playing Spin the Bottle with himself, and losing, but he now came over for a final confrontation with the Eriks.

"Hi," he said, amiably.

The Eriks sneered at him.

"Did you try to leave the Christines behind?" Patrick Raoul smiled. "I suppose you finally realized that I was the better man, in this case—"

Kay Erik stood up straight. "You, sir, are the dog turd permanently stuck in the tread of the great Running Shoe of Life."

Patrick Raoul merely blinked, and Random reflected to herself that there had been better opportunities to put a line like that in, elsewhere.

"Got it," said Mandy the O, as the huddle broke up. The Eriks turned to face their captors— shoulders back, arms behind their backs, chins up, and Gerry Phantom chewing on the remains of a muffin he'd found on the floor.

The Writers took a deep breath.

"We want," said Songwind quietly.

The Eriks held their breaths.

"— Leroux Erik to sing for us."

There was a dumbstruck pause.

"Is that all?" asked Kay Erik. "I can scarcely believe it!"

"Well, we would much appreciate it if you would occasionally drop by and help us with our phics. I mean, we don't want to rule your lives—" Songwind grinned. "Unusual for a group of phan-girls, I know."

"And rather a sappy realization to have, in a Random Battlecry phic," said Stalker Erik, frowning upwards.

"Is this what they call fourth-wall humour?

"Shut up, Erik."

"Well, then," said Crawford Phantom, clearing his throat. "I suppose we'll just have to get Leroux Erik to sing for you, then. I say— Leroux Erik!"

"Don't know why you didn't ask me," mumbled Gerry Phantom to himself. "I could have done it. I stripped for you all, for Pete's sake—"

"Leroux Erik! Could we borrow you for a minute?"

Leroux Erik looked up from his punjab and stared at them for a moment. In his eyes was reflected the madness of millennia, the anger of rejection, the heartbreak of his solitary life, the strange mix of joy and irritation that had been there since Kay Erik first invaded his lair, and also the group of people staring at him, because when you have a reflective surface, it tends to reflect whatever is in front of it. That's physics. Or— something.

He cast a glance at the remaining Christines who lay a few feet away.

He inhaled a deep breath.

He stood, and the mask covering his face slipped just the tiniest bit as he began to sing.

And this is the point where Random's obsession with the Phantom of the Opera really kicked in, because she constructed a lovingly-written portrait of the original Phantom, the real poor, unhappy Erik—

His voice was a strange and yet familiar blend of

—which unfortunately she deleted because it was too sappy to stick in the middle of a humour phic. Instead, she will replace it with five seconds of Gerry Butler—

"Hi! I'm Gerry But—"

— and a dissertation on the difference in the Erik's voices. She was going to have Stalker Erik give it, but since the complaint about his getting all the good lines came, she decided to do a random insertion instead, and so for a brief moment, Streight, from her novel "Comeback Jack" was there in the lair, shimmering like a hologram.

"The voices of the Eriks—" said Streight, and cleared his throat. "Gerry Phantom's voice is chocolate— Crawford Phantom's voice is starlight— Kay Erik sings as seductively as the devil— and it is Leroux Erik, the true Erik, who sings like an angel. His voice alone truly inspires.

Stalker Erik? He's pretty good too."

The hologram blipped out and Leroux Erik's voice went on, penetrating the soul of everyone in the lair, except for those who were asleep. The Leroux phangirls sobbed uncontrollably, the other Eriks were shamefaced, Patrick Raoul began to throw up in the lake— all was a lovely chaos, surmounted by the Voice—

All too soon, it was over, and everyone was panting for breath, looking for their heartbeats, which had inexplicably deserted them.

Leroux Erik held them in his palm.

With his strange golden eyes, he looked down at the invisible thump-thump-thumps, pulsing in his hand, and felt the power of his own, taking control. For a few moments, the lives of everyone in the room depended on his.

Then, with a quick flick of his long fingers, he let them fly back to their owners, and took a short, but theatrical, bow.

Many other things happened, things which might make you laugh, and might make you cry, and might make Stalker Erik go all big-eyed and threaten me with a punjab—

But, if I may be allowed to ruthlessly steal a line from one of the greatest fantasy books ever written, those are other stories and shall be told other times.

Trust me, it was all, ultimately, random.

There was silence now in the Administrative Office where Random Battlecry sat chained to Masque's desk— silence except for the quiet crying that was being done by the writer.

"I hate endings," she sniffed. "They make me so miserable. I mean, I like them because I get good reviews, and I don't have to worry about updating any more— but I hate them too."

The minions and the PR agent stood against the wall, unsure of how to comfort her.

Random clutched the pen in her left hand and wiped her eyes with her right. Masque de Nuit put a hand on her arm.

"Let it go," he said quietly. "Just— let it go."

Random inhaled deeply, and let out a last, shuddering sob. With a trembling hand, she wrote the final word in red ink.

FIN

And then, because she couldn't help herself, and because tradition is a stronger force than originality, she scrawled—

OR IS IT?