A/N: Let the confusion begin. Remember my whole convoluted explanation of what italics meant as far as reality and alternate reality goes? Strike that, reverse it. Or something. Italics are now alternate reality, the stories that are being written, or played out, or whatever you want to call it. Rest assured that this makes at least marginally more sense to me than it does to you. Fun, isn't it?

Chapter Ten: Angel of Confusion

"This is your, er, plot, then, is it?" Said with an eyebrow raised to his hairline, enormous scepticism, arms folded, fedora tipped. He might have been a statue except that he was moving. And talking. He might have been an ensorcelled statue. Except that there weren't any warlocks about.

"You sound terribly British all of a sudden, Stalker Erik," said Allena, tilting her head to one side.

"I know," he said apologetically. "I was eating English muffins."

A roundish, dark-haired girl with protuberant teeth and a determined stare (we'll call her Rude Eleven) leapt upon him for this. "You moron, English muffins don't make you talk English, everyone knows that."

He ignored her and turned to Random, spreading his arms in an expansive gesture and elbowing the girl in the nose, almost but not quite on accident. "Its not much of a plot, is it?"

"Give the woman a break," said Adison, patting Random's shoulder. "Its not like she's got a lot of experience with this sort of thing."

"Yeah, lay off, precious," said Rude Eleven from behind SE. He took a step backwards and landed both feet on top of hers. Totally ignoring the shriek of pain, he stood still for a moment, eyebrows raised as he patiently waited for Random to say something in her own defense.

She appeared to be thinking about it. Eventually, she shrugged and draped her arms around Leroux Erik's neck; she was sitting on his lap and looked a bit tired.

"And you're counting on this power of fiction thing to contain all the Eriks?" he carried on, once more spreading his arms out to his sides to encompass the entire room. He turned from one side to the other, hitting Rude Eleven across the face and then across the back of the head on the return trip. She hit the floor with a loud thud and a gusty sigh of protest, stood back up and pinched him with a triumphant, "Ha!"

There was a collective intake of breath all across the room. Very, very slowly, Stalker Erik turned towards her, taking a step forward. She took one back.

"Do we have issues?" he inquired, his voice low and dangerous, a bit like a frog with superpowers.

"You're the one with issues," she said, shaking her head. "Just because your aunt was carried off by aliens and your dog introduced your grandmother to the Canine religion and your head was smashed by a wall as a child, doesn't give you the right to act like an immature jerk, lover."

There was a strangled shriek of a laugh from Random's general vicinity. A few heads swung around to look at her and she pointed quickly at Leroux Erik.

With great precision and delicacy, Stalker Erik placed his foot between and slightly behind Rude Eleven's. He leaned forward and spoke into her ear. There was complete silence in the room, but no one heard what she said except for Rude Eleven herself, who paled and bared those frightening teeth at him.

He simply smiled.

"You whiny b—"

With a deft twist of his foot, he kicked her legs out from under her. She fell back and hit her head with a crack on the floor. As the room broke into applause, he took a short bow, picking up her feet at the same time and dragging her towards the bathroom door, behind which MPS had stopped pounding long ago.

In response to a glance he tossed over his shoulder, Random quickly scribbled something on her notebook. The door swung open, revealing the blood-encrusted and very-surprised face of MPS; Stalker Erik ignored her, dropped Rude Eleven in a heap on the floor beside her, and then shut the door again. He turned to the room and took another bow, although they had stopped clapping by this time and moved on to more important things.

"Anybody understand what just happened?" called Mademoiselle Phantom. There was a murmur and a general shaking of heads.

"Are we good?" said Random finally, of Stalker Erik. He nodded and rubbed his hands together slowly, settling his shoulders back with a slight sigh. "Alright. Moving on. There's been some volunteers. And I am happy to announce to you that the first writer who gets the chance to work with the Eriks— is Phoenix Angel 13."

There was a shriek from Phoenix Angel and she began to rush through the crowd. Kay Erik tripped her, peevishly, as she ran by him, but she bounced back up and ran on. Coming up beside Random, she turned towards the crowd and clutched her hands together rapturously.

"You like me! You really like me!"

"Mutter," said the crowd. Random eyed her askance.

"Er— you had a plot?"

"Oh boy, did I! I mean, do I!"

"I was asking you, not the other way around."

"And I was indicating that yes, yes, yes I do! Very much so!"

"Ten points for enthusiasm, at least," said Random, blinking a lot and rubbing her nose. "Alright, you have your pick of the Eriks. Go to it."

Phoenix Angel 13 brandished her notebook at the gathered Eriks and they shrank back slightly, lips curling in distaste. She grinned happily.

"I need Charles Dance Erik," she said. "Its going to be one heck of a ride!"

Never were more prophetic words spoken.

"And— action!"

"There's a dead man?"

"Yes," said Gerard quietly. "Joseph Bookcase."

"Cut!"

Simply Elymas leaned over to Grace and whispered in her ear. "This is not promising."

"You're telling me."

"I was telling you."

Grace blinked at her and took a firmer hold on Gerry Phantom's sleeve. He shifted and muttered but made no move to detach her grip; he, along with a few of the other Eriks, had resigned themselves to being loved, adored, squeed over, glomped, stripped, sat on, pinched, nipped, tweaked, pulled, squeezed, snogged, squealed at, worshiped, revered, forehead kissed, starred, admired, honored, venerated, dogged-and-bunnied, petted, patted, neck-bitten, shyed, hugged, spooned, forked, sporked, fooned, zoomed, walled, railed, shelved, kitchen islanded, closeted, Hyded, Hardcored, Deppified, blung, double-treed, boffed, handed both lemons and cranes of love, and generally having their personal space repeatedly invaded. Gerry Phantom, in fact, quite liked the attention, though the same could not quite be said of everyone. "I know," said Grace.

"Shh," said Sarah Belle, looking up from her sewing— as the seamstress minion, she'd been drafted to make the costumes for all the phics. "I'm trying to pay attention."

There was, in fact, a bit of drama going on now.

"No one ever comes back from those basements alive," hissed a miscellaneous cast member. It was Twisted, actually, as a few of the writers had enthusiastically jumped at the chance to roleplay.

"Oh yes?" said Dance Erik with a delicately raised eyebrow. "If no one escapes, then where do the stories come from, I wonder?"

Phoenix Angel 13 tossed her hands in the air, the notebook and pencil flying out of them. "He's Jack-izing again." Dance Erik, having recently been introduced to Pirates of the Caribbean, had found in it a role model that he was most anxious to emulate, largely in the doubtful hope that this would somehow make him cool.

"Better than Jackassing," offered Sarah Belle consolingly. As if in response— in fact, it probably was in response, given the perfect timing— Dance Erik put a finger to his lips.

"I wonder if I can crash through that brick wall," he said, "if I run fast enough. Do you dare me?" Without waiting for an answer, he pelted towards it as fast as he could go. There was a hissing intake of breath from the audience as he ran smack into it, and Phoenix Angel clapped her hand to her forehead.

"What am I supposed to do now?" she said.

"Wipe the blood off," suggested Regina.

"No, not about that! Look at his nice curly fluffy hair! Its all flattened!"

"I'm on it," broke in Sarah Belle, hauling a brush and a blow-drier out of her huge tote bag and advancing on Dance Erik, who lay prone on the ground.

"Shall we move on to the entrance of the fop?" Random suggested kindly. "He's all ready and waiting."

They glanced over to one side, where Patrick Raoul had inexplicably been joined by the picture-perfect embodiment of male ego.

There was a brief silence.

"He looks like Brooke Shields," opined Celtic Heart.

"And that," said Random with a cheerful smile, "is exactly why that little name tag that he managed to pin not only to his shirt but to his chest as well, says 'Brooke' on it."

Brooke sashayed forwards and smiled at everyone. Everyone smiled back. Quite a few of them laughed as well.

"I'm ready for my close up, Ms. Fangirl," he purred.

Phoenix Angel heaved a sigh and began to try and make a man of him, whilst a few of the Writers took Dance Erik by the feet and dragged him over to the rest of the Eriks to let him recover.

Kay Erik sneered down at him.

"You ridiculous little poofy-haired man," he said.

"You hate everyone, don't you," said Dance Erik, with his voice like a Las Vegas performer, or like Gene Wilder on speed. "Why should I be surprised that you hate me?"

"No one hardly even knows who you are," said Kay Erik, sneering on.

"That can't be grammatically correct, can it?"

"And, for the record," said Crawford Phantom, unexpectedly weighing in, " 'I am a friend as well as an admirer' is not an effective pick-up line. Just so you know."

"Well, it worked, didn't it?"

"Did you get to kiss your Christine?"

"No, she kissed me!"

"On the mouth?"

"What possible difference does it make?"

"On the mouth?" repeated Kay Erik, who was determined to make his point.

"On the forehead, like a good nice girl," said Dance Erik, sitting up slightly and folding his arms.

"On the forehead like a good nice girl who isn't the least bit attracted to you, probably because of your poofy hair and the fact that your mask is beige," said Crawford Phantom rapidly, and the listeners got the feeling that he'd been wanting to say this for quite a long time. Dance Erik stared at him.

"Do we have problems that we need to work out?" he said. "Because I happen to know a good therapist."

"You know what's funny," said Gerry Phantom dreamily. "The word 'therapist' looks like 'the rapist.' Isn't that weird?"

This garnered him some strange looks, but he appeared to have gone to the place in his head where rational thought could not penetrate.

"Call yourself an Erik," said Kay Erik disgustedly, shaking his head.

"Alright," said Gerry Phantom, chewing on a thumbnail. Leroux Erik made an exclamation of disgust and snatched his hand away from Gerry Phantom's mouth, telling him in italicized French to keep his filthy teeth to himself. Gerry Phantom didn't appear to notice. "I'm an Erik."

Kay Erik sat up, narrowing his eyes. "Say 'I'm a moron.'"

"You're a moron," repeated Gerry Phantom obediently. Kay Erik snorted violently and everyone else sniggered.

"Could have told you that would happen," said Crawford Phantom, sipping his tea delicately.

"Can we have Dance Erik back over here please?" called Phoenix Angel. "If he's quite recovered—"

"Help me, won't you help me?" said Christine.

"I've a better idea," said Dance Erik gallantly. "Go prostitute yourself to the Vicomte. He seemed to like you, maybe he'll help you out. Here." He disappeared for a moment, returning and holding a garment out to her with a friendly smile. "You can borrow my dress."

Phoenix Angel glanced up from her notebook, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

"What is this, some sort of farce?"

"May the farce be with you," hollered PJ from across the room, then cracked up.

"Onward," sighed Phoenix Angel, burying her head in her hands.

"Won't you please, please help me?" said Christine, eyes shining brightly, from love or from fever, it was difficult to tell. Perhaps she was drunk. Perhaps it was all three.

"When you were younger," Dance Erik began, "so much younger than today, you never needed anybody's help in any way."

"But now those days are gone," she cried. "I'm not so self assured— I've come to find I changed my mind, I've opened up the door— help me if you can, I'm feeling down—"

"Cut!"