Notes: The 'T.G.' thing was more or less borrowed from Lizzie, but I didn't really know how else for our ghost to sign his notes. XD; So. . . .
It wasn't long before many of Mokuba's acquaintances and friends were congregating at the theatre to make certain he was alright. Seto, of course, had arrived much sooner—a KaibaCorp doctor in tow. Mokuba was resting on a couch backstage (Téa sitting nearby and trying to comfort him, as she had come to get the final results of her audition and had seen the light falling), shaken but physically fine. Once Seto made sure of this, he went about demanding to know what had caused the stagelight to tear free when it had been supposed to have been secure. But no one seemed to know. This did not make for a very happy Seto.
"It was secure, my foot," he muttered, coming back to where Mokuba and Téa were. "Obviously it wasn't." Again he gave his brother a searching look, trying to see if there were any injuries he had overlooked. The child appeared well, however, and was highly gratified that his brother was here now—though he wouldn't admit to how upset he really felt.
"Everything's alright, big brother," he tried to smile weakly. "I'm sure it was just some weird malfunction." He shrugged, leaning back into the couch.
"Ordinarily I might agree," Seto retorted, "but something seems strange about all of this. These kinds of things weren't happening until work began on this latest production." He crossed his arms, annoyed with the odd things that they were continually being plagued with. It was hard for him to believe that any time strange things happened it was more than just coincidence, but he was starting to be forced to believe it—especially when some of the strange things were happening to his younger brother.
Mokuba frowned. "But why would someone wanna ruin The Phantom of the Opera?" he wondered. Or, he asked himself, does Seto mean that they're trying to ruin us? KaibaCorp owned the theatre. If these strange accidents continued to happen and to grow more serious, someone could eventually wind up hurt or even dead. And then KaibaCorp could be blamed.
Seto shook his head. He had considered the possibility, and also the thought that Del Vinci's minions were still at large and trying to hurt his brother, but in the end he found himself rejecting both thoughts and just hoping that it all was a coincidence. "You could have been killed," he remarked now. "Maybe it would be better if you didn't continue your job here." But even as he spoke, he knew Mokuba would protest—and he knew exactly what the boy would say, as well.
"But you wouldn't leave just because some weird things happened." Mokuba looked at Seto with blue-gray eyes, pleading silently to be allowed to stay. He didn't want to quit working at the theatre. It was something he enjoyed immensely and that, until now, was something that he could do without life-threatening disasters intruding.
Seto sighed, rubbing his forehead. He knew that Mokuba was right—and that he couldn't protect his brother forever. But that didn't change his feelings of wishing that Mokuba wouldn't work here.
"Mokuba!"
Both Kaiba brothers and Téa looked up at the sound of the voice. Marik was now running over, accompanied by Bakura. Behind them were Yugi, Joey, and Tristan.
"Are you alright, my friend?" Marik asked, stopping in front of the couch and studying the child in concern. It hadn't been that long ago that Mokuba had been at the Ishtars' home. He had left to go to the theatre shortly after Marik and Bakura had promised that they would come visit. They would have gone with him right then, only Marik had been partially watching some bread Ishizu had been baking while the woman had gone to the store. By the time she had returned, the news of the falling stagelight was being broadcast on the news. Marik and Bakura had wasted no time in heading to the theatre, meeting up with Yugi, Joey, and Tristan along the way.
"Yeah," Mokuba smiled a bit, looking up at the Egyptian boy. "It really didn't hit me or anything. I was able to get out of the way." He laughed weakly. "I wanted to show you and Bakura around, but it looks like things aren't gonna go the way I'd hoped." He glanced over at the janitors, who were cleaning up the mess of broken glass and twisted metal on the stage.
"What do they think caused this?" Yugi asked after greeting everyone.
Téa bit her lip. "They don't really know yet," she admitted, "but the manager is insisting that it must have just came loose and fell." She wanted to believe that—oh how badly did she want to!—but she was afraid that it hadn't been an accident. And judging from Seto's cold expression, he felt the same. But she didn't understand why someone would sabotage the theatre. It didn't make sense!
"I kinda doubt that's really what happened," Joey could be heard to mutter.
"Then that makes two of us!" came a worried voice from behind the Brooklyn boy. Instantly he whirled around, along with the others, to find a tall, raven-haired man with messy hair. He looked as if he had been most heartily stressing over everything. A nametag on his left pocket announced him as Gerald Richards, Theatre Manager.
Téa stood up to frown at the man. "But you told the police that it was an accident!" she cried indignantly, her hands flying to her hips.
"I know," Gerald retorted, "but there's no point in giving the theatre any more bad publicity than it already has. Actually," he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "some of the other stagehands found that the wires had been neatly cut through. Someone was up on the catwalk, sawing through those wires in order to bring the light crashing to the stage!" He clenched his fists. "Just think what would've happened if it had hit Mokuba!"
Seto stood and came over to the man, his ice blue eyes narrowed darkly. "Oh, I'm thinking of it," he snapped. "I'm thinking of it every moment. And now you're admitting that you lied to the police! Why do you dare to tell this now, in front of me? You should know that I could give you much more grief for this than any police officer."
Gerald glared at him, then looked back to Joey and the others, none of whom were looking very happy. "I was thinking of your collective reputation as mystery solvers," he replied, "because I need some answers quite badly!" He looked back to Seto. "The last thing I need is for the police to be involved, but if your friends could work undercover here in the theatre, maybe we could get somewhere!" He swallowed hard. There were other elements to this that he hadn't told them yet. But if they agreed to help, then he would reveal the rest. "I'm willing to pay, of course," he added.
Yugi stepped forward. "We wouldn't do it for money," he said firmly.
"And if we did agree to help you find the perpetrator, it wouldn't be for your sake," Marik frowned, not liking the fact that the man had lied to the police because of his fear of bad publicity. "It would be because we wouldn't want another disaster like this to happen and wind up killing someone!" He gestured toward the stage.
"I don't care why you would be accepting the mystery," Gerald retorted. "I just want it solved before this production is scheduled to go on." He looked back to Seto. "Mokuba would not have to continue working here if you would prefer it, Mr. Kaiba," he said. It was really of no consequence to him, except that if something really did happen to Mokuba—a child—the theatre would take a serious blow, especially since Mokuba already had come through a harrowing experience.
"No!" Mokuba exclaimed, getting up and coming over. "This doesn't scare me. I wanna find out what's going on myself. I'm not gonna just back out of this because weird things are happening." He really wasn't surprised that Gerald hadn't given the police the truth. The man was obsessed with his theatre and with getting good publicity. Mokuba didn't really like him at all, but he liked the theatre and the job he'd secured as a stagehand.
Seto growled. "For now, Mokuba can stay," he said, half-turning. "But if anything like this happens again, he will have to accept my decision to leave." He pretended not to hear Mokuba's sigh of resignation. His little brother—his only family—had nearly been killed. He didn't think he was being overprotective. If anything, he thought he was being too lenient.
"So . . . how long have these things been going on?" Tristan spoke up now, looking around the area and suddenly wondering if they were being overheard. Maybe he was just seeing things, but it almost looked like he could see a dark, silent shadow slip around a backdrop out of sight, the soft flutter of a coat heard brushing against the scenery.
"Too long," Gerald growled. "But let's not discuss it here. If you're going to solve the mystery, let's discuss it in my office."
Yugi exchanged looks with the others, who nodded, and then looked back to Gerald. "Alright," he said finally. "We'll help." I guess it was too much to hope for, that things would continue being peaceful, he thought to himself ruefully.
As the group followed Gerald down the backstage halls, the man turned and looked at Téa. "By the way, you're in," he announced. "You're playing Meg." The decision had been made a while ago, but Gerald felt that even if it hadn't been he would have decided to accept her. It would be a perfect way to have his new detectives become involved with the production, since Téa's friends would naturally come to the rehearsals and such. He was certain that the group would be able to solve this.
Téa blinked in surprise, finding this a strange time to tell her so. But she had no time to reply before they arrived at Gerald's office.
Valon was the one who answered the door when Hilda happened to arrive. The two stared each other up and down, trying to decide what they thought of each other. At last Hilda's eye twitched and she frowned, obviously not impressed with the short, muscular, wild-haired Australian. In her hand she held a cat carrier and she looked around Valon, as if looking for Raphael. Though she wasn't entirely certain she'd gotten the right address, she imagined that she probably had, since Valon looked like he was another "hoodlum."
"If you're Hilda and you want Raph, he's in the kitchen," Valon remarked then, deciding he didn't like Hilda either.
"You can just give him this," Hilda replied with a bored sigh, thrusting the cat carrier into Valon's arms. The Australian became aware that the steadily purring motor he had been hearing belonged to the occupant of the valise.
Raphael came out then, drying his hands on a towel and surveying the scene before him. His eyes narrowed as it was apparent what Hilda thought of Valon—and of the modest house. He could barely stand to be around his cousin anymore because of her increasingly horrible attitude towards anyone who wasn't as monetarily wealthy as she herself.
Before he could say anything, Hilda spoke again. "Here's your cat, Raphael. I'm sure you'll find it quite to your satisfaction. After all, you always liked any cat that came your way." She brushed a few stray cat hairs off her sharp business suit with an annoyed frown. "Just as you seemed to like any hoodlum who came your way as well."
"Hey!" Valon cried angrily. "What's that supposed to mean?" But he knew very well what it meant, and Raphael obviously did as well. The blonde's eyes narrowed further as he stepped forward.
"This is my house," he growled, looking Hilda in the eyes, "and I won't tolerate your insults." He knew it was useless to tell her that Valon and Alister weren't "hoodlums," as she would only continue to believe so with her narrow-mindedness. Honestly, she was so different from the childhood friend he had once known.
Hilda shrugged and turned to go. "Call Paulette if, for any reason, you wind up not being pleased with the cat, as its previous owners were." She idly wondered where Raphael's other friend, the redhead, was—not that she really cared, of course. She had already spent as much time in this neighborhood as she wanted to.
"I'm sure it will be fine," Raphael retorted low. He wished he could say something like that it was good to see her, but he knew it would be a lie. When she appeared just to deliver a cat and couldn't refrain from being rude, Raphael was simply and completely disgusted.
Valon slammed the door with his foot as soon as Hilda had gotten in her car and driven off. "That's your cousin, mate? She's even more nasty than you and Alister made her sound." He frowned darkly, not in a very good mood after that fiasco.
Raphael shook his head, taking the cat carrier from Valon and setting it on the couch before sitting down himself. "She's been that way for a long time now," he replied, not wanting to elaborate. Carefully he unlocked the door and reached inside to get the cat out.
As it turned out, he didn't have to. As soon as the door was opened, the cat—who was off-white with lilac/blue markings—leaped out on his lap, continuing to loudly purr. Both Raphael and Valon blinked at this.
"It looks like the kitty's already settlin' in," Valon remarked, not having had much experience with cats this friendly. Most of the ones he had known were angry creatures that scratched and bit at anyone who came near.
"It looks that way," Raphael agreed, giving the animal a gentle stroke. The cat half-closed her eyes in contentment.
Joey blinked at the room in surprise as they entered. Everything was neatly organized and nothing was out of place. It almost seemed a contradiction when one looked at Gerald and his wild hair. But Gerald seemed not to notice or care about Joey's reaction—or anyone else's.
He went immediately to his desk and opened a drawer, removing several pieces of paper. "The problem," he announced now, "is that someone seems to think we should literally become involved with our production's story." He crossed his arms and leaned back, allowing the teenagers—and Mokuba—to come over and look at the various notes, which were all written in red ink.
"What the heck?" Joey cried in complete confusion as he scanned the one nearest to him. "'Don't forget to keep my usual seat open for me. I'll be observing the performance, as always. T.G.'" He slammed the paper back down on the desk. "It doesn't make any sense!"
"It does if you know the story of The Phantom of the Opera," Bakura spoke up quietly, remembering that he had long ago seen that play with Iyoko and Amane.
Gerald nodded in agreement. "You see," he said, looking at Joey, "the basic story involves a supposed 'ghost' who is haunting the Paris Opera House. The stage managers often receive various letters from this 'ghost,' detailing various instructions he wants to have carried out. Many of the notes are reminders to keep Box Five open for him so he can view the performances. Of course, the stage managers believed it all to be some sort of joke—and that was their mistake. Everything became more dangerous from there." He sighed, running a hand through his hair and succeeding in messing it up even more. "And it looks like I haven't been able to stop it from reaching that point."
"So . . . someone's pretending to be a theatre ghost?" Tristan blinked.
"It sure looks that way," Téa said, feeling stunned. "And that's probably what the 'T.G.' stands for—Theatre Ghost. In the play—and the book—the ghost signs his notes 'O.G.', for Opera Ghost." She had been a fan of the story for quite some time, ever since she had read the book several years previous. She had also attended several local performances of the musical version and had been thrilled at the chance to now be a part of the tale she had loved for so long. But she hadn't realized that things would take this turn. It was so strange! If the notes were the only things similar to the events of the story, it might be amusing. Unfortunately, things were, indeed, starting to get dangerous.
"I started getting these notes two weeks ago, when we were just starting to get ready to hold the auditions," Gerald announced now. "It seemed harmless enough at first and I thought someone was just a fanatic who wanted to show off his knowledge of the story. But that's when the strange accidents started happening." His eyes narrowed. "And even they were harmless to begin with. What happened with the light is the first actual disaster we've had. And I think we can probably expect more of them!"
Seto didn't look happy. "If it's supposed to be a joke, the culprit has a very twisted, sick sense of humor." Indeed, he was in a very bad mood today. But he had a perfect right to be. Mokuba could have been killed!
"For once, I agree with ya!" Joey said, hitting his palm with his fist. "We've gotta stop this nutcase before someone gets hurt!"
That was when the door opened and a girl Mokuba didn't recognize came in. Obviously she had overheard Joey's remark, because her first words were, "I'm afraid it's too late for that." Then, turning to Gerald, she continued. "One of the other stagehands found a strange young man. He was lifeless in a closet, a crowbar on the floor next to him!"
Instantly everyone was gawking at her in horror and disbelief. Gerald frowned, easing himself out of his chair. "What do you mean by a 'strange young man'?" he wanted to know. "And by 'lifeless,' do you mean he's dead?"
The woman shrugged. "He's strange because he hasn't been around here before," she replied, thinking that perhaps she should have substituted the word "unfamiliar" for "strange." Then she half-turned to head back up the hall. "And I don't know whether he's dead or not. You'll all have to come with me to find out."
Mokuba swallowed hard, checking to make sure that Seto and his friends were all still there. When he saw that no one was missing, he gave a sigh of relief. It wasn't any of them. But who was it? He felt a certain dread as they went to find out.
"What did he look like?" Gerald snapped now, suddenly wondering and worrying if it could have been a random reporter come to investigate the scene. Now that would go over horribly!
The woman sighed now. "I only saw him for a minute. His body fell out from between two stored backdrops. But he was wearing a dark coat and had reddish hair."
Tristan shuddered, unable to get the memory of the person he thought he'd seen out of his mind. It sounded as though maybe he truly had seen the person—and now, only a few minutes later, that entity was dead. The thought was undeniably disturbing.