A/N: Hey, guys, it's me again. I decided to go ahead and update, because evil cliffies get on my nerves too, and the last thing I'd want is for you to be mad at me. But that was a week ago, because my computer went all wonky from Hurricane Katrina. I have a message board, which you should all visit. (It's under homepage on my profile)I was at Beverly Vulcan Princess' birthday party Saturday, and that was random, obviously. We were gonna watch Phantom to see how many times Gerry flips his cape, but we didn't. Phooey. Anyone who can give me that number will be greatly rewarded. Well, I have to get on, I have to get on!

The Voice Inside Your Head-trust me, you're not ruining the review system. Check out my reviews for A Perfect Cage and Innocent Angel.

I just finished Kay Phantom. What an ending…

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Christine thought that there was some delinquent hiding in the auditorium, so her first impulse was to get the hell out of there. However, she hadn't regained her balance from her fall into whoever was in the shadows, so she tripped again and fell into an awkward position in a chair, banging her head rather hard on an armrest and blacking out.

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Erik had listened to Christine sing, wincing as her voice broke on the high notes. That girl really needs to stop pretending she has a range she does not, he thought. Her lower register will suffer if she keeps ignoring its existence. He really would have to look into getting some of his music published. It would be perfect for her range. Well, obviously, as I wrote it for her.

Belatedly, Erik realized Christine had finished her son and was skipping up toward him. No, that wasn't right. To the door. Wait. Skipping? Seniors don't skip. She was right next to where he was lurking by the door when she tripped over something and came hurtling at him. Erik couldn't hold back a small 'oof!' when she collided with him. He watched in horror as she knocked herself out on a chair arm.

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As Christine is still unconscious, she is not thinking or doing anything important to the plot and so doesn't matter.

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Meg kept stealing glances out the window during the introduction of the piece, where she wouldn't have to worry about getting off-tempo, but she hadn't seen her Hummer go by yet. This vaguely worried her, but she shrugged it off. Christine's probably just sitting in the auditorium. I don't think even she knows how much time she spends in there.

"Meg, this is deplorable!" Mme. Giry shouted, whacking the floor with her cane for emphasis. "You have not missed the opening for months! Do we need to do it with just counts again? I think we do! 5! 6! 7! 8!"

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Nope, Christine's still unconscious. Oh, wait, nevermind. She's coming around.

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The first thing Christine noticed was that it was rather dark. The second thing Christine noticed was that she was lying down on something that seemed more comfortable than a chair in the Grissom auditorium. The third thing Christine noticed was that she had a splitting headache. She managed to push herself up on her elbows, and noted that the limited amount of the room she could see was furnished in a nineteenth century style. So is this what a hole in the space-time continuum feels like? she wondered. She shrugged and wrestled her way out of the clinging silk sheets—as she had figured out that she was on a bed of some kind—and maneuvered over to the door. As Christine walked out, she noticed that unlike the room she had just left, the room she entered was well-lit—by candlelight. She nearly fainted when she noticed the organ, and the man sitting at it.

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A/N: You know, just to be evil, I could end it here…(ducks tomatoes thrown at her). Fine. I wasn't going to, anyway.

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Erik sat at his organ, his back to Christine's door, staring at a particularly stubborn passage of music. He normally would've been able to resolve the problem in a minute, but his thoughts kept wandering inexorably to the eighteen year old girl unconscious somewhere over his left shoulder. No, there shouldn't be a key change there… he thought, scribbling a little bit off of the sheet he was staring over. That means I'll have to transpose all these notes… More scribbling. Something still doesn't look right. Good Lord! She's up! He had heard the click of the door opening behind him. (A/N: Sorry folks, Stranger Than You Dreamt It will be later, if she's stupid enough to mess with the mask.)

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No. This is not happening. This is not happening. It's all an elaborately constructed dream, and as soon as I come to terms with that, I'll wake up and go back to the quite life with school and homework and WDRM. Christine's thoughts were vaguely along this line, as she realized that the Phantom of the Opera was sitting right in front of her, at an organ, poring over a scrap of paper. Well, at least I know not to touch the mask. I already have the upper hand!

Erik turned to face her, saying in an incredibly musical voice (A/N: Dur! He's Erik!), "Ah, Christine. You are awake. Did you enjoy the bed? How are you feeling? Would you like some Tylenol or Advil for your head? You seem to have raised a sizeable lump on it."

Christine blinked. Erik's talking to me. The Erik. Talking to me. It's the end of the world. I love holes in the space-time continuum. Something he had said registered on her. Tylenol? Advil? I doubt those were invented in 1870 or 1881. "Excuse me?" was all she managed to get out.

Erik smiled knowingly. "I imagine you are rather confused, Christine. You are not in the nineteenth century, much as the décor looks it. You're still in Grissom. And I am not just some dorky kid dressing up as the Phantom of the Opera."

Christine blinked again. Erik… Grissom… Now… What in the name of codfish is going on?

She collapsed in a dead faint.

Erik looked at her. Idiot… he thought. You're lucky she didn't have a nervous breakdown! Then he picked her up and carried her back into the room she had just left.

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A/N: Look, I'm sorry, but if you don't want to wait another week, it has to be this short.