MademoisellePhantom: I have a feeling that the second review you left for chapter five had more to it— and my curiousity is killing me.

A/N: Thanks for the reviews and I'm glad you all seem to like the story so far. Hopefully I can sustain it— things are getting a little hectic in my life at the moment. Hectic in a good way, though, so its okay. Anyway. There are fourteen in-jokes and references in here, from PPN, PFN, and my former existence as Queen of Crappy Van Helsing fics. If you get them all, you get— something. I'm not sure what yet. But definitely something.

Chapter Six: The Half-Hearted and Surely Doomed Search For Random's Sanity

Patrick Raoul, adequately glomped, had suddenly taken note of the fact that he was in a room dominated by versions of the Phantom of the Opera, and leapt for safety. It was difficult to find; the Administration Office was not cluttered, apart from all the bodies, and boasted only the long table, the bookshelves, and innumerable amounts of chairs for furniture. In the end, he was forced to take cover underneath Adison and VictoriaTai, who willingly shielded him with their bodies.

A bit too willingly, really.

Surprisingly, however, the Eriks were totally ignoring the presence of the ponytailed Vicomte. They were, instead, attempting to set down some rules, regarding physical interaction with the Writers.

No, not that sort of physical interaction. A more painful sort.

No, not that sort either.

"It is not fair that we should be brought here and then passed over," said Crawford Phantom, "I completely agree with that. But is it really necessary to lock that unfortunate Writer in the lavatory?"

"Yes," hissed Kay Erik. "It is."

"I think we should at least try to see things from their side—"

He rambled on in this vein for several minutes before realizing that he was being stared at in a most remarkable manner. His words trailed off and he blinked at the rest of the Eriks.

"What are you looking at me like I'm a mindless drone who has no idea what he's talking about and is too polite for his own good, not to mention extremely British and probably feeds the fish in the lake every day, and I don't mean with dead bodies or something but actually with little pinches of fish food like a normal person would, and they're not pirana or anything like that, not even koi, but teensy goldfish?"

"Because," said Gerry Phantom heavily, "you are a mindless drone who has no idea—"

"See things from their side?" repeated Kay Erik, raising his eyebrows skeptically.

"—what he's talking about and is too polite for his own good, not to mention—"

"I try to see the good in all men," said Crawford Phantom primly.

"—extremely British and probably feeds the fish in the—"

"Do you," said Kay Erik. "Do you, now."

"—lake every day, and I don't mean with dead bodies or anything but with—"

"What is that intended to mean?"

"Getting a bit compassionate, are we? Getting sympathetic? Getting— four-dimensional?"

"—but actually with little pinches of fish food like a normal person would—"

"And what is the problem with that, pray tell?" inquired Crawford Phantom.

Kay Erik, not for the first time, pounded a fist on the table, half-standing and leaning into Crawford Phantom's face. "I do the four-dimensionalism around here, you dolt! I'm the one with the most well-developed character! I'm the Erik with the brain, at least the one who's brain isn't on display at the Smithstonian, for God's sake, and do you think your flashy well-heeled capeitude would go over so well if I hadn't beaten the path with my cynical sarcasm and my devastating remarks and that whole subplot with my mother and then fathering a child on my deathbed? That's a miracle for you. Do you really think you're more popular than I am? Me, Kay Erik? Me, the four-dimensional Phantom of the Opera?"

They stared, nose to nose, or rather, nose to not-nose, at each other for a few tense moments.

"— and they're not pirana or anything like that, not even koi, but teensy goldfish," finished Gerry Phantom rapidly.

Kay Erik sank back down into his chair.

"I understand where you're coming from," he said miserably. "Surely every man must wish to have a well-developed character. It is only natural to want such a thing. Are you to be denied it simply because Andrew Lloyd Webber likes to put cape twirls and repetitious songs in everywhere he can't think of something intelligent to say? Surely not. I share my four-dimensionalism with you, my son— I bequeath it to everyone. Let us all have sympathy for the Writers— God knows they need all the help they can get."

"Thank you," said Willow Rose sincerely as she walked past him.

Kay Erik stuck out a foot and tripped her.

She fell to the ground and, rather unfortunately, shattered into three pieces.

There was a shocked silence, though I'm not sure why because, really, this sort of thing happens all the time.

The three pieces of Willow Rose picked themselves up, brushed themselves off, and named themselves Kat, Kate, and Kathryn. The Eriks looked totally horrified— the Writers simply glanced at each other.

"Does this mean what I think it means?" asked Lady Lomode.

"Maybe—" said TennisFanatic21 doubtfully.

"Depends," countered Boomer. "What do you think it means?"

"I think it means that requests are really starting to be answered."

Circe Rose glanced around her. "I dunno— Terik hasn't showed up yet."

Gerry Phantom looked up at them and quirked an eyebrow immediately. "That sounds promising—"

"Terik?" repeated Kay Erik, in that terribly dry sarcastic repeating tone that only he can do really well.

"Terik," said Circe Rose, shrugging slightly.

"Terik?" said Phoenix Angel 13, brow furrowing. "What the—"

"Terry Erik," said Circe Rose, in the tones of one who has said this far too many times. "Terry from Tomb Raider II. Erik from— oh, just guess."

There were some murmurs and some sighs. Random sat up straight, glanced around alertly, said, "My God, the Russians are attacking!" then put her head on Stalker Erik's lap and went back to sleep.

Circe Rose shrugged. "Terik. His hair is really short. He wears a mask on occasion. He shoots people and betrays Christine for Pandora's box."

She was getting some strange looks until she added, "Oh, and he can do upside down push-ups," and then she got some very, very attentive looks indeed.

"Tell us more."

"Well—"

"Question," said Random, sitting up again and putting a declamatory finger in the air. "Eriks have chest hair, yes, no?"

Another shocked silence, but this was the good kind. Along the table there was a mad rush to fold arms across chests, and amongst the Writers there were some speculative glances.

"Its just I have this sudden inexplicable vision of Erik walking down the street shirtless, followed by a squirrel."

"We could find out for you," offered Melissa Brandybuck .

"Oh, yeah, find out no problem," said RoseWithABlackRibbon, with a great but nonetheless unconvincing show of nonchalance.

"Never mind," said Random, wrinkled her nose, turned the other way and put her feet in Stalker Erik's lap instead. Then she sat up again. "Humans are really weird, you know?"

"Ye-es..." said OieCuite nervously.

"I mean, take cows for example."

"—cows?"

"Yes. What kind of person wakes up one day, looks at a cow, and says, by golly, I'm going to drink whatever I can squeeze out of those things?"

A general silence greeted this, and some stifled snickers. Random shook her head at the depravity of the human race, shifted, put her head on Stalker Erik's knee and closed her eyes again.

Hoshi walked over to her and bent down, peering at her worriedly. "Boss, is your brain coming back yet?"

"Hey!" said Random.

"Whoa. Um. What?"

"Where's my notebook?"

Hoshi looked at her nervously. "You're turning normal again, aren't you. Dang it. I mean— yay."

Random sat up very, very slowly and looked around her, turning a stern glare on everyone in turn.

"I give you all," she said distinctly, "lemons of love, and cable cars, and warring bakery items, and what do you give me in return? Chippendale Erik! Did I ask for a stripping Erik? Well, did I? Because if I didn't— because if I didn't— because if I didn't, what is wrong with me?"

"Slowly but surely," said Hoshi softly, and regarded the notebook with sad eyes. "I had the power for such a short time— and squandered it on reading that romance novel!"

Random got shakily to her feet and said, "Whose Erik this is, I think I know/ She's sobbing in the corner, though/ She will not see me linger tonight/ to clutch him close and hold him tight/ perhaps if I give him a tip/ I can convince Erik to strip—"

Patrick Raoul, who had been making noises indicating he wished to be gotten off of before he passed out from lack of air, finally succeeded in escaping the dedicated clutches of Tori and Adison. Rising to his feet slowly, the first thing that met his eyes was Random, corrupting Frost; not a good sight at any time of the day, and especially not then, when he'd just nearly been smothered by his fangirls. He blinked at her.

"What is wrong with her?" he said, but the writer's case was immediately taken up by her lackeys and minions.

"What do you mean what's wrong with her!" said SarahBelle.

"What's usually wrong with her!" said Regina.

"Random's prill!" put in Chat.

"Random's a genius!" said Killthefop, bugging her eyes out dramatically to make her point.

"A can't-tell-her-bum-from-a-teakettle genius, but a genius nonetheless," amended Twisted realistically.

"Well," said Patrick Raoul, fingering his ponytail. "Clearly, mademoiselles, genius has turned to madness."

There was an intake of breath, and then several of the writers threw their fists in the air and shouted as if with one voice, in fact it sounded amazingly like one voice, if one voice sounds like several voices all shouting in unison, which I don't suppose it does, "Kill the fop!"

Random detached Stalker Erik from the marauding horde and pushed him into a chair so she could reach his forehead.

"What is this/ this thing that is/ a forehead kiss/ a pathway to bliss/ a boo and a hiss/ or just a near miss?"

Stalker Erik leaned back in the chair. "Let the woman be mad. I can take it."

There was chaos, and it was a lovely thing. The Eriks themselves got rather excited and went after Patrick Raoul with an astounding variety of weapons. It was a bit like a fox hunt, actually. In the end, Patrick Raoul escaped only by taking refuge on the bookshelves, where he was glared at by Regina Scorpio and Mongie.

"Did we ask you up here?"

"No," said Patrick Raoul.

"Did Random ask you up here?"

"No," said Patrick Raoul.

"Will you pay us for the privilege of being up here?"

"Yes," said Patrick Raoul.

"Welcome," said Reg and Mongie, and all was smiles.

The Eriks were trying to figure out how to detach the bookshelves from its moorings and bring it down when Hoshi stepped onto the table and shouted at the top of her voice—

"Everybody stop!"

She was uncompromisingly ignored by everyone there. The Eriks were busy hunting the fop; the Writers were busy cheering them on; Random was busy having an altercation with Le Chat. Post-forehead kiss, she had perched on Stalker Erik's knee to observe the goings on from said vantage point, and Chat, feeling that this was an encroachment on her territory, bit her on the ankle. They were now yelling body parts in capital letters, while Stalker Erik got bored with the whole thing and went to make some tea.

"LAP!"

"KNEE!"

"LAP!"

"KNEE!"

"LAP!"

"ANKLE!"

"ANKLE!"

"WRIST!"

"WRIST!"

"WHAT?"

"WRIST AND ANKLE!"

"KNEE!"

"LAP!"

"FOREHEAD!"

"GAH!"

Hoshi, with the quick thinking that characterized her Chief Minion status, though I'm not quite sure what that phrase meant just now, but lets ignore that for the moment, set a bomb off on the table.

It caused a rumpus.

Actually, it caused an explosion, but this really isn't the time to split hairs.

The rumpus caused a ruckus, the ruckus caused a tumult, the tumult caused a din, the din caused a lunch, the lunch caused a breakfast, at length there was afternoon tea and so everyone became calm again. This is logic at work for you.

"Hey," said Hoshi quietly. The bomb had made a large crater in the floor, where once there had been a table, and her hair stood on end, her face smudged with soot.

"Yes?" said everyone, very very politely.

"We need to find Random's brain," she said, "so that we can get this show on the road. I mean, look, chapter six already and nothing of note has happened at all. And when I say nothing of note, I mean nothing of note apart from all the versions of Erik that ever were being herded into the Admin Office, and Boss losing her mind, and the hunting of the fop, and numerous occasions for tea, and the fact that Mandy just dropped a bucket of paint on my head. That is what I mean." She stood up and chased Mandy until she gave up, then tried to go take a shower to wash the paint off. She kicked the door. There was, on the other side, a faint kick in return. Hoshi frowned slightly.

"Either MPS is still alive, or there's a phantom kicker in the bathroom."

"Or both," said Idril.

"They're both equally likely," pointed out Erik's Persephone.

"Should we try to find out?"

"Not now, I'm drinking tea, " said everyone.

Tea was drunk.

It was a pleasant interlude.

Does it surprise you to learn that I can't think of a good ending for this chapter?