Chapter I
Cheesy Songs and Old Acquaintances
Good news! My Once Upon a Time in Mexico story is completed! Some of you may not care, but I certainly do. I started that story over a year ago. Hard to believe, especially for me, but it's true. Hopefully this one will not take so long. It's going rather quickly for me and the pace should pick up now that I've finished Smoke Gets in Your Eyes. :) Also, please feel free to ignore the anachronisms. They're only here to make you laugh, after all.
♪ ♪ ♪
Paris, 1871
"Thisa trooooOOOOOoooOOOOooophyyyyyy… frromma saaaviors,
Frromma saaaaaAAAaaaAAAaaavioooooorsa!
Frrom the enslaaAAaviiIIIiinga foOOorrrce
OoOOffa RrrooooOOOOOoooOOOooome!"
All held their ears in tacit pain as an unwavering aria flooded the theatre. As it was bouncing off of the red and gold walls, it was difficult to detect just where the wretched noise originated. To the blind, that is. Those whose eyeballs were in working condition were able to knew exactly where took look. Because they could see, see? Good. In any case, eyes or no eyes, it should have been common sense to look to the stage if one wanted to find the source of the dreadful semi-warbling. And believe you me, it was dreadful. The song was a nasally one – a clear indication that its vocalist was, in fact, singing through her nose rather from her diaphragm. To add to the dreadfulness of the singing, the diva was a loud one, making her ear-splitting melody blare throughout the entire Opéra House with excruciating vigor. What's more, what the singer had in volume and nasal, she lacked in quality and vibrato. However, this wasn't exactly a bad thing because, as those who study voice are most likely well aware, singing without vibration puts a terrible strain on the vocal cords and there is a serious chance that it will cause damage to the singing voice. So, you see, those listening to the off-key, un-warbling tunes of the nasally diva would not have to suffer for long. They would, however, have to suffer now.
"My God, how ever did she become prima donna?" one scene shifter questioned.
"She and the manager are a, ah, "item," so to speak," a rope-puller whispered back.
"But…isn't he retiring today?"
"…I'd like to begin my retirement as soon as possible," the now former manager explained, briskly escorting the two new managers across the stage, completely oblivious that a rehearsal was taking place and that he was interrupting it. Stopping suddenly and trodding on the big toe of a ballet dancer, the former manager turned to face his followers, finding that he had to tilt his head back almost at a complete ninety-degree angle to see them, as both were incredibly tall. Not to mention thin. But while they shared the same towering height and rail-thin build, their choice of color was clearly very different. One favored red, from his crimson suit coat and bloody cravat, to his flaming hair (styled in a ridiculous and somewhat foppish pompadour, I might add) and strangely scarlet eyes that protruded excitedly from a head covered in equally strange green skin. His partner was no better in his outfit of all violet, thought the former manager, eyeing the midnight purple pants, the long mulberry coat, and the lilac colored vest. His hair was cut in a much more conservative style than that of his partner – slicked back and neat – but the former manager could see that, when the light hit in just right, the 'do was not black, but in fact an abnormally dark purple. Shaking his head and praying that he had handed the Opéra House over to the right people, the former manager quickly collected himself.
"Ah…as I was saying, I would like to make this as quick as possible as I have a retirement to start on. So! Allow me to introduce you to our marvelous staff…M. Alexendre, our conductor…"
A slight young man with elaborately spiked, Beethoven-esque hair gave a sharp not, running a delicate finger along the edge of his baton as he surveyed the new management with intelligent blue eyes. The former manager continued.
"And here we have Mlle. Gazette, mistress of the ballet."
"Unfortunately," a rough voice muttered with knifelike sharpness. Before the trio of managers stood a paragon of darkness, her pale face scrunched with disdain – though it was difficult to tell if she really was disdainful, for she almost always wore an expression of utmost bitterness. The ebon attire she was currently clad in only emphasized her dark atmosphere as she glared up at the world through violet colored hair, her pointed little fingers curling threateningly around a black cane.
"Don't be silly, Mlle. Gazette," the former manager said brusquely. "You do a wonderful job with the corpse de ballet and I for one – oh," he halted after receiving a poisonous glare from the ballet mistress. "Wh – what I mean to say…is…Ah, La Calamari!" he exclaimed, gesturing grandly to a lanky blonde who, as the author's mother would say, 'had legs up to her behind' as well as a very prominent nose. "Messieurs," the former manager began excitedly, "I trust you heard the lovely singing when I escorted you into the theatre? Well, what if I were to tell you that you were in the presence of that music's creator? Mademoiselle Calamari! Our prima donna!"
La Calamari curtsied grandly, making a show of smiling, batting her eyelashes flirtatiously, and just generally being as obnoxious as could be.
"Laahvelleh to 'ave meht yoo," the soprano greeted in her thick (i. e. false) Russian accent, the gold, scarlet, and turquoise folds of her gown rustling noisily as she gave another curtsy.
"And this," the old manager said, gesturing to a boy with an afro of bright, orange hair and a costume that matched Calamari's, "is our lead tenor, Poonchy, Bevitore di Odio."
"I drink hate!" the kid screamed sounding quite pleased with himself.
"Calamari, everyone, allow me to introduce your new managers: Messieurs Rouge and Violet!"
As the staff applauded politely, the new management waved, giving the occasional wink to a ballerina or two.
"Hey, how ya doin?"
"Yeah, that's nice," interrupted Mlle. Gazette dryly. "Look, can we get back to work? Unless you want your corpse de ballet to look more like a bus full of "special" kids."
"Very well, Mlle. Gazette," said the former manager. "Get on with it – ah, M. le Vicomte! How good of you to arrive…"
All heads – from the chorus girls to the stagehands, from the ballet rats to the musicians, from the managers to the seamstresses, and from La Calamari to someone who could actually carry a tune without the aid of a bucket – turned just in time to see a bespectacled young boy quickly threading his way through the theatre. He was clad in black pants and a crisp, white button up shirt, and over that he had thrown a navy blue coat that touched his ankles. He also happened to have a rather large head that was only enhanced by a single, towering, scythe-like spike of hair. One would think that he would want to draw attention away from a head so large, but no. This boy was, perhaps, the kind of person who deliberately drew attention to himself so he would have something to complain about. Regrettably, there were and still are many like this in the world, the young Vicomte, however, was one of the less annoying ones.
"Sorry I'm late, everyone," he panted as he clambered onto the stage. "I got sidetracked while going through the woods. I thought I saw Big…foot…" Upon noticing that every set of eyes was upon him, the Vicomte rubbed the back of his neck and let out a nervous laugh. "Uhhh…"
"M. le Vicomte de Dibier," the former owner announced uncertainly, gesturing to the equally uneasy Dibier, who waved vaguely.
♪ ♪ ♪
"Oh snap!" a ballerina gasped upon seeing the viscount. She quickly attempted to become one with the red velvet curtains that flanked the stage.
"Silvie?" another dancer asked, her blue eyes wide with concern.
"Did he see me?"
"Did who see you, Silvie?"
"The viscount, Tyia, who d'you think?"
Tyia turned from the cowering ballerina to look at the spiky-haired Vicomte de Dibier who was currently making an attempt to salvage what was left of his good name by assuring everyone that he really did see Bigfoot. No! He really did see him this time, but that monster was tricky and blended into the woods so easily that it was impossible to find him. And if you didn't believe the story, then that's just because you're a stupid, closed-minded jerk – oh. Sorry.
Tyia quirked an eyebrow and, flipping her long auburn hair over her shoulder, returned her gaze to the distraught Silvie, who also happened to be her sister.
"Care to explain?"
Silvie rolled her odd, gray eyes. "Don't you remember?"
"Probably not."
"Figures," Silvie muttered, tugging absently on one her of her dark brown curls. "The Vicomte de Dibier chased after me all the time when we were kids!"
"Aww…"
"Not like that, Tyia."
"Oh."
"Yeah. He thought I was a witch or something. A few of my guesses are scarily accurate and suddenly I'm clairvoyant. Sheesh! He really wasn't that bad – he probably would've been a nice kid if he hadn't kept making all of these unfounded accusations. Plus there was the stalking. He stalked me. A lot. And he would probably still be stalking me if I hadn't filed that restraining order."
"Oh," Tyia said, adjusting her small, oval glasses.
"Let's just hope he doesn't remember me," Silvie went on, eyeing Dib with distaste.
"Well," said the other dancer cheerfully, "he hasn't seen you, yet, so that's a good sign!"
♪ ♪ ♪
"Look," Dibier began apologetically, "I'm late and I'm holding up your rehearsal…how 'bout –"
"—you increase your patriotism?" the former owner supplied good-naturedly. "Excellent idea! Don't you agree, gentlemen?"
"What does 'increased patriotism' mean?" Rouge whispered to his partner.
"Uh, I think it means that the big-headed kid's gonna give us more moneys," Violet replied knowingly.
"My head's not big!" Dibier complained.
"Yes it is," Mlle. Gazette stated flatly.
"Gaz?" the viscount gasped finally taking notice of his sister. Really, for a paranormal investigator in training, he wasn't all that observant when it came to things that stood out. "Everyone thought you'd been kidnapped by some crazed psycho – well, that's what the newspapers said. But I knew the truth! I knew my sister could take on any kidnapper, so I figured that you must have been hypnotized by vampires! So…what are you doing here?"
"Trying to get away from you," Gaz responded in the same toneless…tone.
"And you…came to the…Paris Opéra House?"
"Yes."
"O…kaaay." Dib eyed his scary sister nervously for several seconds before slowly edging away.
"Ehscuseh me," Calamari broke in unexpectedly, "buta Aye do believa dat ve vere een de meeddle of a rrrehearsal?"
"Oh. Yeah," the former manager said as if he had just now realized this – which he had. "Carry on, then."
And so, the rehearsal continued. Which means that Calamari continued singing. Which means that the writer was on the brink of ripping out her own hair. However, she quickly refrained from doing so once she remembered that there was some talking before La Calamari got to open her mouth again and thanked whoever for small favors.
The corps de ballet filed out on stage. All of the dancers were hooked together with chains – faux chains, of course, as real chains would be quite heavy and might interfere with the dancing – to remind us all that they were to be slave girls. Each ballerina was clad in very risqué belly-dancer costumes of gold, orange, and red. And when the author said risqué, she meant risqué for 1871. For people of today, their outfits were probably nothing compared to what Briteny Spears flaunts, but they were way out-of-line for the Victorian era. But that's Joel Schumacher for you.
"Hey," M. Rouge said to Mlle. Gazette as he pointed to one of the dancers. "Who's that? I like her hair."
"Tyia," Gaz answered, observing the ballerinas' progress through her sharp amber eyes. "She's one of the better dancers. I've only had to whack her twice this week." And she brandished a sleek, ebony cane to prove her point. The every member of the corps de ballet as well as a few chorus members let out gasps of terror and rushed to pick up the pace.
"Eeeee, chains! Ow! Sorry!" one of the ballerinas cried as she became hopelessly entangled.
"And, ah, who's that?" Violet wanted to know.
"Silvie," Mlle. Gazette replied with distaste. "Tyia's sister. If their dad hadn't died and if the old ballet mistress, Madame Bitters, hadn't been a complete idiot and sympathized, we wouldn't be stuck with either of them."
"Wait. 'Dad?' Didn't the computer say that humans have two parents?" Rouge wondered out loud.
"Yeah!" Violet agreed, hitting Rouge upside the head. "We certainly had two! Yep! We sure did!"
Mlle. Gazette raised an eyebrow.
"Yeeeah…unless one of them dies. Silvie and Tyia's mom did, so their dad had the bright idea to bring them here. Then he had to go and contract this deadly toe fungus or something, so now he's feeding the worms –"
"What do worms have to do with being dead?" Rouge wanted to know.
"Shut up, you idiot!" Violet hissed.
Gazette ignored them.
"I guess Mme. Bitters was a friend of the family, or maybe she was just stupid, I dunno, but she let them stay in the dormitories and taught them to be ballerinas. Or she tried to teach Silvie, anyway."
They all watched as the curly haired dancer attempted a jeté entrelacé and wound up on her rear instead. Blush staining her cheeks, Silvie quickly picked herself up and, flashing Mlle. Gazette an apologetic smile, got back to dancing. The poor girl had only been on her feet for three seconds before she crashed headlong into the unbearably imperious Calamari.
"'Ay! 'oo do youa tink you arrre barrrshging intooa me lika dat?"
"Sorry!" Silvie cried sadly, not really understanding a word the diva had said.
"'Ow darrre youa! Dis wassa my fahvorrrite foot!"
"Geeze, I said I was sorry." Silvie paused to raise a questioning eyebrow at the still ranting prima donna. "Your favorite foot? Who the heck favors a foot?"
"I happen to favor my left earlobe," M. Alexendre spoke up calmly.
"Not helping, Alex," Silvie muttered in annoyance.
"Dat's eet!" Calamari declared suddenly. "Aye am leaffing!"
"Hey," Mlle. Gazette said to Rouge and Violet, "if you're done ogling the dancers, your prima donna's about to leave."
The new managers stared at her blankly as the old one seemed to have disappeared some time ago.
"Your lead singer," Gaz tried to clarify.
"…"
"The star."
"…"
Mlle. Gazette let out a sigh of disgust. "The person who your real identities depend on because, if the show went on without her, then everyone would know that you guys are really aliens and not human beings."
"What?"
Panicked, the two excruciatingly tall managers scrambled after Calamari, completely ignoring the fact that Mlle. Gazette had just informed them that she knew full-well that they weren't human managers, bur alien managers instead. Well, just because they were capable of ruling an entire planet, or, in this case, an opera house doesn't mean that they were smart.
"Wait, wait, wait!" Rouge called."Somebody stop that short, noise-making human!"
"Vhat?" Calamari demanded, spinning around to glare at the new managers.
"You can't leave! The purple ballet monkey says we need you," Violet explained hastily.
"Aye don'ta care!" Calamari proclaimed. "No one apprrreesheeates my moozak! Mah costumes arre nevah feenished! Ahnd the leettlest ballet rrat brroke mah foot! Therrefore…Aye am leaffing!"
"Au revoir!" her fellow cast members chorused cheerfully as she huffed indignantly and spun on her heel.
"Aww, man…" whined Rouge. "Pur, do something!"
Violet signed tiredly all the while wondering why he and Red had decided to disguise themselves as managers in the first place. It certainly hadn't been his idea.
"But we really need you, skinny…singing…thing. Cuz you're, uh…really, really good."
"Oh? Vell…" Calamari batted her eyelashes and tried not to appear too flattered.
"Oooh, I know!" cried Rouge. "Why don't you sing for us?"
The rest of the performer's eyes widened in horror.
"Yeah!" Violet nodded encouragingly. "That'll prove how much we need you around!"
"Verreh vell…" the diva purred lasciviously. "All offa you be qviet!"
Silence descended immediately. Smiling sweetly, Calamari nodded to the conductor. "M. Alexendre."
"Huh? Oh. Right. From the top, guys."
A soft tune began to issue from the orchestra's piano as Calamari readied herself. All around her the other members of the house were hurrying to shove cotton in their ears in the hopes of dulling sordid melody that would soon fill the theatre. With her arms flung out and her mouth stretched to its full extent, Calamari cleared her throat and began to sing.
"Rrrreeeememba meee…
Rrrmemba dearly
Wheeeeen ve've parrrted vaaaaays!
Rrrreeeemema meee…
Rrrreeeemema always
Each ahnd ev'ry daaaaay!
On dat daaaay…
Dat not so deeestant daaaay
Ven you are far avay – "
"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!" shrieked Tyia as the backdrop came crashing down upon Calamari. "Oh, God! It's the Opera Ghost! He's here!" she cried, clutching her sister's shoulders and shaking her violently.
"What a nice guy," Silvie remarked, thinking that the ghost couldn't be all that bad if he had taking the liberty of silencing Calamari if only for a few minutes.
Tyia blinked.
"Keefé!" M. Alexendre yelled up into the rafters.
A small boy with a single pouf of bright orange hair appeared at his side at once.
"Yes, sir?" he asked brightly.
Alexendre jumped, startled by the boy's sudden appearance. "Geezum Crowe! Uh…yeah. Keefé. Why did you let that backdrop…drop?"
"I swear it wasn't me, sir! I was looking for the ghost!"
"The gho –"
"Dat's eet!" Calamari raged, shoving away the hands that tried to help her. "Aye am seeek of dis! Dis 'as been 'appening forra seeex months now, and Aye am fed uppa vith eet! No, no, don'tta trrry to stoppa me – Aye am leaffing! Mah maids are leaffing! Ahnd mah doggeh ees leaffing tooah! You two!" she ordered, pointing to the pair of maids that doubled as cronies. "Breeeng me Teenkerbell and let's go!" She abruptly turned her back on the pair of managers. "Goodbye, ta ta, bye-bye!"
And she stormed out of the theatre without a second thought.
Violet threw up his hands.
"Great! Now what are we supposed to do? Soon the whole world will know who we really are! The whole world, Red!" he yelled, shaking his partner by the shoulders. "The whole world!"
"Buddy, you need some drugs," M. Alexendre commented critically.
Violet whirled on the conductor and pointed a thin, green, threatening finger.
"You shut up! You don't have to put up with this!"
"Actually, I do."
"Arrrrgh! Just…tell me…is there a replacement for that foul, noise-making human?"
"Relax," Mlle. Gazette assured the new managers. "Calamari doesn't have an understudy –"
"Aaaaaaaaaaaaiiiiiiiiiiieeeeeee!"
"I guess I shouldn't tell you that I have a letter from the Opéra Ghost. Oh well." She held out a white envelope edged in black and held shut with a red wax seal. As his partner was still in hysterics, Rouge accepted the note.
"He seems to think I'm his message girl," Gaz informed him cynically. "I've told him that I'll rip his feet off and make them into a hat if he doesn't knock it off, but he has the tendency to go deft whenever anyone but him is talking."
"Yeah, how 'bout that…" Rouge said absently. He was busy peering intently at the wax seal. "Hey, Pur, does this look familiar to you?"
"We're DOOMed! I knew I shouldn't have let Red steer the Massive! I knew we'd crash! I knew it! Sweet mother of Irk, we're DOOMed!"
"Uhh…" Rouge eyed the other manager for several seconds before turning back to the letter. "I could swear this looks like the Irken insignia…oh well." He was only a few lines into the note before his red eyes narrowed and he turned to Mlle. Gazette in fury. "I'm supposed to pay this guy? With my moneys? For what? What does he do?"
Gaz shrugged.
"He haunts the theatre and causes mayhem and annoys me."
"And he wants these boxes all for himself?"
"Box Eight. And Six. And Three. And sometimes Five, but only on weekends. Yeah."
"Tch," Rouge sniffed disdainfully. "I'll bet this 'ghost' is just some stupid short thing who likes to toy with people, ah?"
"Actually, the people who've seen him say he's pretty tall."
"Taller than me?" Rouge demanded at once.
"I dunno. I've never seen him."
"Lotta help you are – Pur, would ya stop that?"
"Who are we gonna get to replace her? Who?"
"I know who," Mlle. Gazette said quietly.
Violet stopped in his tracks.
"Say 'what' and I'll tear your tongue out and hand it to you," Gaz warned. "Silvie," she went on to explain. "She can sing it."
All eyes turned to the silver eyed, curly haired sylph in curiosity. Silvie blushed and glanced around nervously.
"She'd do better as a singer than a dancer any day," Mlle. Gazette went on to say. "Plus she's been getting lessons."
"From who?" Rouge asked of the little ballerina.
Silvie shifted uncomfortable. "I…don't…knooow… Except he seems really, really tall."
"Taller than me?" both of the managers demanded.
"Um…no?" she offered helplessly.
"Oh, forget it," Rouge sighed wearily. "Just sing…sing the stupid song, and hope to Irk that you're good or else…" He drew himself up importantly. "…you're goin' out the air lock!"
Silvie blinked.
"'kay."
M. Alexendre gave a sharp nod and raised his baton.
"From the beginning of the corny '80s pop ballad, then."
"Oh Irk, let it be good," murmured Violet as Silvie took center stage.
"Remember me…
Remember dearly
When we've parted ways."
A hushed veil of awe fell over the cast and they gazed in wonderment at the small girl who was emitting such a sweet melody.
"Remember me…
Remember me always
Each and ev'ry day.
On that day,
That not so distant day…
When you are far away from me,
If the urge happens to hit you
Do remember me…"
In one gigantic, swirling motion we travel forward in time to that night. Obviously, Rouge and Violet had liked Silvie's singing and decided to go ahead and make her the new prima donna. Calamari would not have been happy upon hearing this news, but no one liked her anyway.
Silvie stood in the center of the stage wearing a huge, white, poofy dress that sparked each time she moved, as well as what appeared to be ninja stars in her hair. She was practically glowing all over. All of her. Even her face. Well, it reflected her innocence and purity and angel-like beauty, albeit, she looked remarkably like she had just taken a tour through a nuclear power plant. But she looked radiantly beautifully radioactive, so it all worked out. This ethereal glow was brought to you in part by Nicky's House of Radioactive Material! The fibers in Silvie's dress mixed with the paint from Nicky's nuclear plant created a strange, yet perfectly harmless glow that all could enjoy. Unfortunately, all the paint that was put on her outfit dried under the blinding stage lights, stiffening the gown and making it somewhat difficult to move. And so, poor Silvie was forced to remain stationary and stand in the middle of the stage like some kind of mannequin– a thin, white, pretty glowing mannequin.
"Though it's true
Though it was always true
Our love was never meant to be.
Please swear to me that sometimes
You'll remember me.
Remember springtime when the skies were blue
Remember how the flow'rs were bright and new.
Remember me
Remember me smiling –
Soft and warm and bright.
Remember me
Learning to love
With all my burning might.
Remember me,
Please do remember me
No matter what you choose to do,
For I'll always spare a second
And remember you!"
The author scowled, wishing that she could have done more with that than simply type up the cheesy lyrics. She did not take all of the blame, however, for Emmy Rossum gave her nothing to work with. She just stood on stage and sang. Oh, and at one point her right arm was partially outstretched for some reason. Other than that she simply stood there and sang the words. And since the author couldn't remember what Christine did when she went to see the show on Broadway…she was at a loss to express Silvie's debut any further. She would like to apologize deeply to her readers for ranting and making pointless excuses, however, even though she knew that they were all intelligent, creative individuals who were quite capable of amusing themselves whilst they read the block of corny lyrics that had been forced upon them.
Assured, the author sat back in her computer chair and continued to type, confident that, despite Silvie's lack of movement, the readers had enjoyed the cheesy new lyrics and had pictured hand movements and lots of nice choreography to go along with said lyrics.
Now, back to our parody.
The audience thundered with applause as Silvie gave a beaming smile, adding to her appearance of a halogen watt bulb, and gave a stiff curtsy. Unbeknownst to her, despite being stationed about five stories below the theatre, someone who was not an audience member was listening intently to her triumph with growing hauteur. That is, until an odd, mechanical contraption that could only be described as an iron monkey came crashing into this mysterious someone, upsetting his listening. Meanwhile, also unbeknownst to Silvie, high up in one of the boxes that didn't belong to the Opéra Ghost, a certain viscount/paranormal-investigator-in-training was watching the performance in amazement.
"It's really…
It's really…Silvie?"
The Vicomte de Dibier looked down at the young, radioactive chanteuse and let out a stunned "Wow!"
He rose from his seat and quickly exited the box, hurrying through the Opéra House in the hopes of catching Silvie before she was bombarded with fans, as he was certain she would be. And as he went, he happened to break into a familiar song.
"Let her go,
I should just let her go.
I can feel it in my brain,
If I tried to approach her
She'd think I was insane – Aaaaaaaaaaaaaah!"
In his haste to rush backstage, Dibier was oblivious to everything and therefore never noticed a certain purple-haired ballet mistress when she detached herself from the shadows, stuck out a foot, and sent the Vicomte spiraling head-first down the grand staircase. Mlle. Gazette smirked to herself and went back to watching the performance. Meanwhile, back on stage, Silvie was busy wrapping up the corny '80s pop ballad – er, that is, the heartwarming aria.
"When you've flown,
When our own love has flown,
Recall this single, heartfelt plea:
If you ever find a moment,
Say…you…will…"
(Opera singing)
"Remember me!"
Upon hearing the sensational cadenza, the crowd of theatergoers broke into an uproar of praise, shouting lovely compliments such as "Woo!" and "Silvie rocks!" and "You go, girl!" and "Yeah, baby! Take it oooooooooff!"
Trying not to show her delight too much, Silvie beamed and bowed her head shyly before curtsying to show her appreciation, though she knew that a curtsy – no matter how grand – could never express the gratitude she now felt. Or how stiff she felt. Under the heat of the stage lights the radioactive had hardened until Silvie's dress had no more flexibility than a rock.
"Um, could someone gimme a hand, here?" she called to the people standing backstage once the curtains had closed and successfully shielded her from the euphoric audience. "I like being on stage and all but this is trés uncomfortable."
She smiled gratefully as two burly stagehands (who we'll call Justin and Ray-Ray) entered from either side of the stage to lift her little incandescent form (Justin grabbed her head, Ray-Ray grabbed her feet) and cart her off like a piece of furniture.
♪ ♪ ♪
"Vell? 'ow vas she?" Calamari demanded.
"Mam'selle, it's a…a little cold out here, ya know," her servant stammered, shivering as he gazed into the open widow of a bright pink brougham stationed outside the Opéra House, a brougham that La Calamari and Poonchy, Bevitore di Odio happened to be sitting in. How the opera went on without its lead tenor remains a mystery. The point is that Melvin was freezing his toes off and he only had seven toes to begin with. "I think I may be contracting hypothermia…" he whined to Calamari.
"You vill contrrrract vhen Aye tell you too!" the former diva shrieked. "Now tell me, Melveeen…'ow vas she?"
"Yeah, umm…she was…goooood…"
Calamari's sharp blue eyes narrowed.
"'Ow good?" she growled ominously.
"Mmm…" Melvin said, furrowing his brow in thought. He was thinking very hard and it was clear that when he responded, his answer was going to be profound, deeply inspired, and positively reek of creativity. "I'd say…" he began slowly, "Pretty goooood…"
"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgh!"
"I drink hate!"
♪ ♪ ♪
Backstage the cast was just as talkative as the audience had been. The crowd of chorus members, patrons, ballet rats, and fans was so dense that Tyia found extreme difficulties in threading her way through the throngs of people. Twelve minutes, seven seconds, three crunched toes, and one bruised shin later, she reached her destination.
Pushing open the door of the Opéra House's nonsensical little chapel, she caroled softly "Siiiilvie? Siiiilvieeeee?"
"Siiiiiiilvieeeeeee…" the room seemed to echo.
Kneeling before the altar, Silvie, still decked in her slightly more pliant yet still sparkly and white costume, turned from lighting a candle and smiled softly. Returning the grin, Tyia knelt beside her.
"Where in the heck have you been lurking?
Honestly, you're amazing!
Who in the world is your new teacher?
He must be quite the artiste."
"Tyia," Silvie began quietly, "this'll sound weird, but… ya remember how Daddy used to tell us all kinds of made-up, magical, mystical mumbo-jumbo when we were kids? Okay, well, y'know how my favorite story was the one about the pixie? Good. So, when Daddy was dying from chronic toe fungus, he told me that he would send that dear little pixie to watch over me. And Tyia," she whispered, leaning over conspiringly, "he did! When we first came to live here, I would go to this nonsensical little chapel and light a candle for Daddy – y'know, like I always do."
"Uh huh."
"Well, every time I would come here, I would hear this wonderful voice – it was positively angelic, Tyia! But thankfully, when I told my doctor about it, he prescribed these little pink pills and that made everything alllll better! But recently – like, six months ago – the voice started again! Only this time it was…different. It was still a beautiful voice, but…I dunno…it wasn't as sublime, I guess. I asked my doctor to up my dosage. He complied, although he was starting to worry that I'd become addicted to the pills. But," she concluded in a tone even quieter than before, "the voice didn't stop! So I figured that it must be Daddy's dear little pixie come to watch over me at long last!" She grinned, knowing her sister would understand completely.
Tyia stared at her blankly.
Silvie continued to grin.
Tyia blinked. Twice. Then, after several seconds, she said "And you…just…assumed that it was the pixie and that Dad had sent it?"
"Yes!"
Tyia resumed staring for several seconds. Her reddish eyebrows knitted in concern as she eyed her beaming sister.
"So, lemme get this straight," she started slowly. "He was my daddy too, but what do I get? A spot in the bloody chorus and the purple-haired horror pummeling me every ten minutes? What a rip!"
"Are you saying you don't believe me?" Silvie asked, perplexed.
"Lemme put it this way," her sister began gently, placing a hand on Silvie's shoulder and gazing intently into her gray eyes. "Pixies aren't sent by daddies, and if they were, they wouldn't hide in little girl's nonsensical chapels and sing to them."
Silvie gasped, appalled. "Don't say that, Tyia! Every time someone says that, a pixie falls down dead!" She glanced around and clapped her hands feverishly. "I do believe in pixies, I do, I do!"
Her sister eyed her warily.
"Don't you see, Tyia?" Silvie asked, worry penetrating the happiness in her voice.
"Daddy told me of a pixie.
And now I know that it's near.
This chapel, the stage, in my bedroom –
It's everywhere!"
As if to express her point, Silvie rose and spun around the nonsensical little chapel with her arms outstretched as if to encompass the entire world at once.
"Here, in this room it's always talking,
Things about DOOM and destruction.
That's how I know it's always with me –
It, the sweet wood sprite."
Tyia grasped her sister's shoulders tightly to stop the girl's extant twirling.
"Silvie, I'm sorry, you're crazy!
I pray it's all a pretense.
Silvie, your eyes hint of madness
And you make no sense!"
But her sister seemed not to hear her as she gazed around the room in euphoric wonder, looking positively radiant as she clasped her hands together, tilted her head toward the ceiling and sang,
"Dear little pixie,
Come out right now!
Prove to her my sanity!"
She glanced around and began to laugh nervously when her savior did not appear.
"Dear little pixie,
Stop this hiding!
Things are looking bad for me!"
Silvie turned to Tyia, her silvery eyes expressing a silent plea for her sister to believe her outrageous tale.
"He's with me now, I swear!"
"Of course he is," her sister replied with false reassurance.
"Always with me…" Silvie murmured distantly, glancing around the chapel.
"My God, Silvie," cried Tyia. "You're pale!"
Silvie's gaze snapped back to her sister in confusion.
"I always am."
"Oh" Tyia looked embarrassed.
"I'm sorry…"
♪ ♪ ♪
Silvie's lovely eyes magnified twice their size as a sudden outbreak of flowers overtook her when she opened the door to her new dressing room. On each and every surface imaginable sat an arrangement of posies. From each corner peeked lilies, carnations, and a vast rainbow of roses. No surface had escaped her flock of admirers.
"Wowww…"
"Yeah. A lot of people are glad you quit the ballet," Mlle. Gazette remarked, shoving past the dazed chanteuse and storming into the room.
Seeming not to hear her, Silvie continued to gaze around, absorbing every detail as though it were all a mere dream that she would awake from in a matter of seconds. Despite an unfortunate preponderance of pink in the décor, her dressing room (formerly La Calamari's) was quite beautiful. Rectangular with rosy walls and pale coral paneling, the dressing room contained a number of expensive articles of furniture. Several small tables made of deep cherry wood dotted the room. A gleaming dressing table of the same rich wood came with three gilded vanity mirrors and sat against the wall to the left of the door, while a plush, pink feinting couch resided near the other. And taking up the final wall, drawing all of the attention to its sparkling surface, stood a gigantic, full-length mirror.
Suddenly, Mlle. Gazette scoffed.
"Looking at the rest of your room, I'd say your pixie's gift is pretty lame." Wordlessly she held out a single rose of the darkest shade of purple. A plain black ribbon of crisp silk had been neatly tied to a smooth, green stem that was utterly devoid of thorns.
"Oooh, isso pretty…" Silvie breathed, gladly accepting the purple bloom. "I've never seen one this color before."
"Uh huh," Mlle. Gazette replied, clearly uninterested as she watched the new prima donna sit at the vanity mirror. "Whatever." Without another word she placed a can of mace (don't ask where she'd been keeping it; you'll only be hurting yourself) and set it on the corner of the dresser. Silvie looked up at her in puzzlement.
"Thought I should warn you," the ballet mistress explained, "my brother's here tonight and he'll probably be looking for you."
Silvie's mouth fell open in shock. Her left eye twitched.
"Does he still think I'm a witch?" she asked warily.
Mlle. Gazette raised a skeptical brow.
"What d'you think the mace is for?"
♪ ♪ ♪
"O-kaaay…sooo…tell me again…why are we brining the good singing-human flowers?"
M. Violet sighed, running a hand through his dark purple hair (wig). Truly his fellow manager was an idiot. If they hadn't happened to be the same height, Violet wouldn't even have had to bother with Rouge. Had this been the case, chucking the red-clad manager out the airlock would have been M. Violet's first order of business.
"We're catering to her so she won't ditch us like the bad singing-human did," he explained hotly.
"Oh." M. Rouge paused, busy juggling two bushels of bright red roses. "Heheh, my flowers are better than yoooours…"
M. Violet hit him over the head with his own bouquet of bright pink roses and then glared at said flowers distastefully.
"Why don't these things come in purple?"
Poor M. Violet. He obviously did not realize that in order for Silvie to seem extra-specially-special, only the title character is permitted to send her purple roses that happen to be as inexplicable as the Opéra House chapel. The author, however, understood this logic perfectly. After all, what self-inserting – that is, self-respecting writer would deprive their OW of being extra-specially-special? Thus, the inexplicable purple roses were only accessible to Silvie's pixie.
"Wait! Hold on!" cried a voice from behind. The managers turned around in time to see a bedraggled-looking Vicomte de Dibier detaching himself from the crowd of thespians.
"Hey, it's that kid with the moneys," said Violet, looking mildly interested as he watched the viscount rush up.
"Where?" asked Rouge, trying to peer around his two gigantic bouquets.
Violet ignored him.
"D'you guys know where Silvie is – a…hey…" Dibier narrowed his eyes suspiciously as he took in the two towering manager's pale green skin, three fingered-hands, and lack of ears and nose. The young viscount's eyes widened. "You're not –"
"The good-singer human is right through this door, big-headed kid," Violet informed him quickly, gesturing to the pink dressing room door behind him.
"My head's not big!" Dibier protested out of habit.
"Coulda fooled me!" Rouge laughed nastily. Dibier rubbed his rather large head self-consciously, scowling up at the tall, redheaded manager.
"You wanna see the Silvie-thingy? Here," Violet said in a panic, hastily shoving his bouquet of pink roses into Dibier's arms. "Give these to her and get lost!"
"But you're –"
"Don't worry, big-headed kid!" Rouge assured Dibier, forcing his flowers into the viscount's arms as well. "I'm sure she'll be delighted to see you!"
"Hey! Ow! Don't shove – watch it! Aaaaaah!"
Dibier continued to emit cries of pain and protest as the two tall managers threw him mercilessly against Silvie's pink dressing room door and hurried away, disappearing into the crowd.
♪ ♪ ♪
A loud BANGcame from the other side of Silvie's door, making the curly-haired singer jump. Her hairbrush slipped from her hand and landed with a soft thump on the berry colored carpeting. The little diva barely acknowledged the sound, as her gray eyes were fixed intently on her dressing room door. Another BANGresounded, causing her door to vibrate dangerously.
BANG, BANG, BANG!
Silvie's eyes widened as she listened to the extant onomatopoeia. Slowly, she reached for the can of mace Mlle. Gazette had left her.
A pained "Owww…" followed a low moan and then someone knocked tentatively.
"Silvie?"
The singer cringed, tightening her grip on the mace.
"M. le Vicomte?"
"Uh…yeah," Dibier replied awkwardly, his voice slightly muffled. "You don't hafta call me that, ya know."
"'kay," she said just as awkwardly.
"Can I come in?"
Silvie scowled, eyeing the door suspiciously. "D'you still think I'm a witch?"
"Well," said the Vicomte's fairly, "you did know that it was me at the door…"
"Dibier!"
"Sorry, sorry, okay! Geeze… So can I come in, or what?"
"Fiiiine," Silvie sighed, bored. And she rose to open the door, taking care to step back as the Vicomte tumbled inside. Apparently he had had his ear pressed against the door, not wanting to miss a singled word Silvie might have said. Said chanteuse eyed the boy at her feet, who in turned flashed a nervous smile. Silvie glared and pointed her can of mace at him in a most threatening manner.
"No stealing anything of mine for scientific study, Dibier," she warned. "If I find one single follicle of hair, skin, toenails, etceteras missing from my body…" She waved the mace can fiercely to prove her point. "And Vicomte or no, I won't hesitate. "
"Okay, okay…" Dibier held up his hands defensively. "I know you're not a witch now, anyway. That's what I wanted to talk to you about."
When Silvie continued to aim the mace at him, Dib tried another tack.
"Uh, you're really good, by the way?" he attempted hopefully. "I had no idea you could sing!"
"That's cuz you were too busy STALKING ME!" the tiny diva raged, her eyes glittering furiously. "But because of your kind words I am willing to overlook your past behavior," she informed him calmly, so calmly, in fact, that she even bit at a hangnail. Dibier watched her cautiously.
"Uh…good."
"Hey!" Silvie cried suddenly.
"What? What is it?" Dibier asked, looking around the room, desperately in search for the cause of the singer's outburst.
"Nothin,'" Silvie answered simply. "Just that….well, I really shouldn't have accused you of not paying attention to me. See, cuz you couldn't have known I was a good singer cuz I kinda wasn't until a while ago. Yeah, see, when my daddy was on his deathbed and he told me that he'd send a pixie to look out for me."
Dib's eyes widened.
"Pixie?"
"Yuh huh. And after seven long years he's finally shown up and is giving me music lessons."
"A pixie that gives music lessons," Dibier stated.
"Yes."
"…………Wow! Oh man, are you serious? Silvie – you gotta tell me everything you know about this pixie! When did it start visiting you? How did it happen? How long has it been going on? What does it smell like? I need to know! It might be in league with that Sasquatch I saw earlier…"
Silvie gasped in horror.
"You're not gonna do anything not nice to my pixie, are you?" she asked sounding distressed.
"Oh, no, of course not," Dibier assured her offhandedly. "I mean, electro shocks might hurt a bit, but other than that –"
"Dibier!" Silvie cried out, horrified. "Don't you dare hurt my pixie!"
"I gotta go get my HF Detector," the Vicomte was muttering to himself, quite unaware that talking out loud in an unnatural manner is a sure sign of insanity and, if not that, then it wasn't about to help him score points with Silvie. "I'm sure it'll work on pixies, too…if I could only remember where I put it…" he murmured rapidly, hurrying out of the room without so much as a word to the little singer.
"Dibier, tell me what you intend to do to my pixie!"
"…the glove compartment, of course! And I think I left some gum in there, too – pixies love gum! I'll bet I can lure it out with it, then catch it in the butterfly net, and then I can study it! I bet I can even get some info on Bigfoot out of it, too!"
Completely unaware that he had just blurted out his entire plan (rather loudly, one might add) and thus giving Silvie's pixie, who was most likely lurking somewhere in the room at that very moment, the upper hand, Dibier sprinted out of the room as quickly as a person with a head that big could run. The Vicomte was so consumed by the thought of at last overturning paranormal entity that he brushed right past his sister Mlle. Gazette, not even bothering to acknowledge her let alone offer some kind of greeting. How rude. It was probably best this way, however, as Mlle. Gazette didn't care for her older brother all that much anyway. Besides, she was busy keeping watch on someone much more important.
As the Vicomte de Dibier came barreling through the front doors of the Opéra House, every single candle, every gas lamp, every source of light imaginable flickered every so slightly…and went out.
Mlle. Gazette stood beside the door of Silvie's dressing room, unfazed by the sudden power outage. Instead, she snorted in disgust and spoke, seemingly to herself for there wasn't a single person in the vicinity. At least…no one who could be seen.
"You can make all the lights in the Opéra go out at once…but you have to lock a door manually? Some all-powerful Opera Ghost."
"Sileeeeence!" commanded a furious voice.
And the mistress of the ballet rolled her eyes as a claw-like hand, swathed in a glove of black leather, reached out and turned the key to the dressing room door, locking the young singer inside.
♪ ♪ ♪
Another chapter finished. The next one…eh…I'm not sure how long it will take for me to get that one up. Rewriting the title song and "Music of the Night" shall be difficult. But I'll work on it as much as I can. As always, praise is welcome, although I prefer constructive criticism – remember: compliments may make you feel good, but critiques help in the long run. :D
Notes…she lacked in quality and vibrato – I study voice. Can ya tell?
A slight young man with elaborately spiked, Beethoven-esque hair - my friend Alex let me put him in the parody under one condition: that I would give him Beethoven hair. Honestly, I think he would look very good like this IRL.
La Calamari - basically, she's a combination of every woman I couldn't stand, such as Catherine from my Once Upon a Time in Mexico stories, some obnoxious cheerleader not worth remembering, said cheerleader's faithful sidekick, Hilary Duff, Paris Hilton... She can't seem to remember what country she's from, actually, as she keeps switching accents if anyone noticed. Incidentally, "calamari" is a popular Italian dish – fried squid. Hee...
Tyia - she has to be Meg just...because. She's a Meg reincarnate, I swear. Musical!Meg, anyway. And I loved Movie-verse Meg -- she was too cute, as is Sister Tyia, thus confirming that she needed to be Meg. u.u Plus, as much as I love IZ, they are seriously lacking in female characters. And the ones that they do have don't fit these roles very well. I mean, Tak as Christine? Gaz as Meg? No. Just...no.
Risqué belly-dancer costumes - they were risqué. Had the ballerinas gone on stage in those kind of get-ups in the 1800s...women would be whipping out their fans and letting out cries of "Scandalous!" and "Good Lord!" and "Who do they think they are?"
"...I've only had to whack her twice this week." - Tyia's a good ballerina, mmmyep. Even if she is too tall. :(
The old ballet mistress, Madame Bitters - I debating giving the role of Mme. Giry to Miss Bitters. She fits it eerily well. But so does Gaz. And I like Gaz more than I like Miss Bitters. Besides, there weren't exactly many options for Gaz, you know, and since I wanted her in the parody.../Gaz: And since I threatened to maim her if she made me Meg.../...I decided to make her Mme. Giry but make a mention of Miss Bitters being the old ballet mistress.
"I happen to favor my left earlobe" - he would so say this. I called and asked him to confirm it. u.u
Geezum Crowe – is this a quote of some sort? It sounds like a quote, but I'm not sure…
"Breeeng me Teenkerbell" - Tinkerbell is the name of Paris Hilton's little Chihuahua if I'm not mistaken, and I don't think I am seeing as how the Paris Hilton episode is my favorite South Park ep. of all time. :D
Box Eight - Maskerade ref! Long live Terry Pratchett! Huzzah!
"And sometimes Five, but only on weekends" - cuz Erik uses it during the rest of the week. u.u
Ninja stars in her hair - c'mon. They are so ninja stars. I think Christine takes women's self-defense courses at the local YWCA. Yep, I'll bet'cha that's it.
She just stood on stage and sang - sorry, Emmy fans, but I do not like Miss Rossum at all . MHO: she's not all that pretty, she has no expression save for that irritating gaping mouth and that constant 'doe-in-the-headlights' look, and her singing voice is rather weak. And don't even get me started on her diction. Her fans make her all the more unbearable for me, though.
(Opera singing) - XD! I feel the need to explain. No, I did not cheap out on the writing. This is, by far, one of the biggest in-joke in the PotO fandom. Allow me to explain. While I do not condone in Mary Sue bashing, I do frequent Sue bashing communities on Live Journal so I know what not to do when I write a piece of fanfiction. Moving along, one of said communities took the liberty of fustigating a Phantom fic in which the Sue sang "Think of Me" (by heart, of course!) in the most angelic voice ever imaginable – yes, even more angelic than Christine. The author even took the liberty of posting all of the lyrics for us in case we didn't know them already (read: SARCASM) and the end of the song went as follows: "But please promise me that sometimes you will think... (Opera singing) Of me!" That was all. Since then, icons, banners, jokes, and even a community have been made to honor what is probably the most beautiful cadenza ever written in Phantom-Sue history. And now I have contributed to the (Opera Singing) Shrine as well. Aww… that makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. :B
The Opéra House's nonsensical little chapel - repeat after me: This did not exist. Not in the Paris Opéra House, at least. In Andrew Lloyd Webber's magical alternate universe, however, it most definitely does exist, along with the ballet dormitories and that little roof where Christine and Raoul go to confess their undying love to one another.
Dear Little Pixie - if you spotted the Terry Pratchett reference, you get a prize:D In his book Maskerade (part of the Discworld series as well as something of a PotO parody) Christine says "Because my dear father told me that one day a dear little pixie would arrive to help me achieve my great ambition..." I read that and went with it. Now, stop reading this at once and go read Pratchett. Now.
"…the glove compartment, of course! And I think I left some gum in there, too – pixies love gum! I'll bet I can lure it out with it, then catch it in the butterfly net, and then I can study it! I bet I can even get some info on Bigfoot out of it, too!" - don't ask where this came from. I'm just as lost as you are.
"So…you can make all the lights in the Opéra go out at once…but you have to lock a door manually? " - Mlle. Gazette rocks. She says what we're all thinking. Or at least...she says what my friends and I were thinking whilst watching the movie. :D
Wow. Many, many notes. Sorry about that, but I can't help it if I have a lot to say. Anyway, I'm sure you all like this better than if I would insert obnoxious A/Ns throughout the story, yes? Yes. Thought so. u.u