Michiro-Chan: spinning in her chair Finally! I get to write a fan fiction based on "Phantom of the Opera" and it's one of the few things that I'll be more than enthusiastic enough to constantly keep adding to! Not sure if I'm going to get even one review for it… but that's okay! Authors write for the thrill, not for the publicity, huh! Okay, you all know the story… so let's begin.
A Word of Warning: To those who sent reviews to "Onegaishimasu" with doubts on my fiddly vocabulary (which was cut down), I recommend you not read the prologue. I'm not sure if the rest of the story is going to be this detailed, but I'll warn readers if so. This section is particularly flowery and many apologies in advance, but I'm not going to change it because it's a piece of the poetic style I don't want to reduce to bare bones. bow Gomennasai!
Dramatis personae:
-Christine (Yuugi)
-"Phantom" (Y. Bakura)
-Raoul (Yami)
-Meg (Shizuka)
-Firmin (Pegasus)
-Andre (Kaiba)
-Carlotta (Anzu)
-Giry (Isis)
-Et cetera…
The Phantom of the Opera
Prologue
The clatter of a timbered gaveling reiterated its din throughout the ghostly chummy of a room… the not unlikely clamor of a mundane silent auction taking place.
Finally subsequent to this pan of appeal in lieu of order amidst its ransacking participants, a dogged, resonant voice echoed throughout means of the aristocrats' and landed gentry's impetuous silence. "Sold!" soft applauding from the swaggering blue-bloods followed as he beckoned yet another antiquity to the garlanded pedestal with the eager intention another courtier would indicate his signpost and offer the most teeming quantities of wealth to allege it as their own.
One hand was gestured rather coyly, whereupon seized the entrepreneurs' direct notice without more ado. His voice contained the joie de vivre of all the cloys of hand-picked hors d'oeuvres as he brought interest to the gentleman by spectators. "Your number, sir? Thank you." the nobleman diffidently motioned his marker, revealing the figure the merchant staged for all to heed once more, "Lot 665, ladies and gentlemen! A papier-mâché musical box in the shape of a barrel organ… Attached! The figure of a monkey in Persian robes playing the symbols. This item! Discovered in the vaults of the theatre, still in working order.
"Showing here--" a somewhat inimitable sachet was sited upon the dais via further partakers on behalf of the freshly pilfered, torn free of its packaging, and the vendor signaled before its resplendent design as if he himself were flaunting the relic to company of his stately dwelling. A noticeably poised brush of wrist against the object, and its closure lifted, baring the rotary of a tiny, exquisite ballet dancer trimmed with sequins and flourishes, while brittle, dithering notes of a mechanized harp began pealing even more exquisite music to the ballerina's fragile dance. This left the audience entranced within its cherubim tone, only increasing hunger for the objet d'art of beyond comparison.
"May I start at twenty Francs?" several placards were coursed aloft vivaciously at his tallying of bidders, one following the other proclaiming highest of values, with expectations it would be sufficient enough in receiving what they desired. "Fifteen? Fifty-nine bid! Twenty, sir--thank you! Twenty-five, thank you, madam!" one brash, scoured hand was summoned which detained the retailer's full concern. "Thirty? Selling at thirty, then? Thirty once, twice--" he thwacked down his mahogany gaveling one closing time, avid addressees rather thwarted at the victor of the bid. "--Sold for thirty Francs, the Vicomte De Chagny! Thank you, sir."
The ripened nobleman lifted the treasure from the mellifluous plane of the bedecked display, elated at his triumph--yet come what may dismayed by a bizarre nostalgia--reddish-heliotrope stare entailing a vast lust for something beyond the antiquity itself. He clutched the mint-conditioned piece, wits harrowed toward the remarkable past within the wake of such a clear-cut statuette, "A collector's piece, indeed… every detail, exactly as she said. She often spoke of you my friend… your velvet lining, and your figurine of lead. Will you still play when all the rest of us are dead?" His fingertips wearily ran to and from the length of its elegant lid.
"Lot 666, then? A chandelier in pieces." bewildering silence broadened along the spectrum of noticeably rattled viewers as the peculiar item was heaved onto the silken rostrum for clearest exhibition. "Some of you may recall the strange affair of the phantom of the opera… a mystery never fully explained. We are told, ladies and gentlemen, that this is the very chandelier, which figures in the famous--" His tenor grew all but unfathomable, so to speak, he may have relished the sudden reticence of the sundry patrons. "--Disaster. Our workshops have restored it, and fitted up parts of it with wiring for the new electric light, so that we may get a hint of what it may look like when reassembled." his oddly calorific lilt seemed to curiously ricochet from the walls as pedestrians took further note of his anecdote. "Perhaps we may frighten away the ghost of so many years ago with a little illumination! Gentlemen--"