A/N: Hi peoples! Sorry about the delay in updating— this chapter just didn't want to be written. I'm still rather unhappy with it, but I want to get to PonR, so I suppose it will have to do.

Disclaimer: AUUUUGGGGHH!

Andre was already beside himself by the time I climbed into the ventilation shaft above his office. Firmin sat in a broad leather armchair behind his partner's desk, massaging his temples and watching with half an eye as Andre paced restlessly around the cluttered, cramped space.

"Gilles, please, will you sit down?"

"No, I will not sit down, nor will I settle down, nor will I cease pacing! Why in God's name are you so bloody calm?"

Firmin tilted his head back with a roll of his dark eyes. "It's called self control, old friend. Pacing isn't going to alleviate our problem here."

"Neither is sitting there yelling at me!"

I pressed a fist to my mouth to smother a laugh. Ah, the delicious taste of chaos! Of course, they were merely making things hard on themselves by trying to find the loopholes in my demands. Had they simply obeyed my simple instructions, they would have been rich, prosperous men by the end of the month.

"What do you propose we do instead?" Firmin snapped, resting his chin in his hand.

"If I knew, we wouldn't be having this conversation!" Andre cried hysterically.

"Let me help you out, boys," I whispered, dropping their letters through the vent. Both managers looked down at the envelopes with matching stares of disbelief. Andre was the first to tear his gaze away, his beady blue eyes darting feverishly around the room.

"Where did those come from?" he demanded in a harsh whisper.

Firmin rose slowly to his feet, shaking his head, his mouth slightly agape. He stepped cautiously toward the envelopes as if they would sprout fangs and devour his feet if he moved too quickly.

"Should we… should we open them?" Andre asked, having gone deathly pale.

I alternated between being entertained by, and impatient with, their little antics. Finally Firmin nudged one of the notes with his toe, flipping it over to reveal the intended recipient.

"It's addressed to you," he said gratuitously, a hint of relief permeating his otherwise businesslike tone.

"Wh-what about the other one?" Andre stuttered, pointing a trembling finger at the remaining envelope. Firmin glowered as he flipped the other note over to reveal his own name, as if he had not expected his partner to make such an intelligent notation. With a sigh, he bent to pick them up, and handed Andre his letter.

"We'll open them together," Firmin decided. His partner nodded vehemently, licking his chapped lips. "On the count of three. One… two…three!"

Both men flinched as they broke the red skeletal seals, as if expecting the lights to flicker, a crack of thunder to sound, or some other ridiculous catastrophic event to miraculously occur. I grinned, tucking the ideas away for another time. The effects would probably be better suited to the overly suspicious Carlotta and Piangi anyway.

The managers read silently for a few moments, their eyes alternately narrowing and widening as they received their new set of threats and instructions.

"What does yours say?" Firmin demanded upon finishing his.

Andre managed to close his gaping mouth, swallow, and squeak out the contents of his letter.

"Monsieur Andre,

I grow weary of being denied your assistance. This will be your last kindly reminder before I inflict more damage upon the things (and persons) you hold dear in life. The entire ordeal with Sorelli and Madame Andre was quite regrettable; I do hope another such instance will not be required in the immediate future. If you choose wisely to end this pointless sequence of unfortunate events, you need only to follow these simple instructions:

Rehearsals are to begin on the first of March for the production of "Don Juan Triumphant." I will allow Madame Giry and Monsieur Reyer to make all casting decisions except the following: Christine Daaé will play Aminta; Signor Piangi will play Don Juan; Carlotta will be assigned a MINOR ROLE of their choosing; and Marguerite Giry is to be the prima ballerina. NO exceptions. I shall give you further direction as to the livery and set construction at a later date.

Looking forward to our impending business arrangement.

Yours respectfully,

O.G."

"Preposterous!" Firmin grumbled, nervously wringing the letter in his hands.

"And yours?" Andre croaked, a vein in his forehead beginning to bulge.

"Monsieur Firmin,

I suppose it would be a pointless gesture to demand my salary for the third time. Perhaps I shall just tap into the Opera Populaire's bank account and retrieve my due earnings, as it appears to be such an overwhelming chore.

By now I'm sure you've spoken with M. Andre concerning the production of "Don Juan Triumphant," but I shall risk being redundant for the sake of making my point unmistakably clear. You will follow my instructions down to every last word, or I shall inflict unimaginable chaos and destruction upon this opera house. Do not take me for a fool; I know I have been denied your cooperation several times in the past without repercussion, but I will be ignored no longer. As all other managers before you, you will yield to my commands.

And now, to business. As I have informed M. Andre, rehearsals are to begin on the first of March and proceed through the premiere on the first of April. Consult your partner for casting directions, and advise your staff not to interfere. This includes, but is certainly not limited to, the Vicomte de Chagny. I will send more instructions concerning the production of my opera within the week.

Sincerely yours,

O.G."

Andre's left eye began to twitch almost imperceptibly as his partner finished the letter. Silent heaves of laughter had me bracing one hand against the wall for support and clamping the other tightly over my nose and mouth. I had forgotten, in my consuming anguish over Christine, how utterly satisfying supremacy was to the thirsty soul.

"What-what are we going to do?" Andre asked, his voice wavering in pitch like that of an adolescent boy. His partner opened his mouth to answer, but before a single sound could escape the door swung open with a resounding bang. Both managers whirled around in terror, as if expecting the Red Death to appear again.

The Vicomte stood in the doorframe, panting slightly. A determined scowl was painted across his face, and he glared at the two men as if they had committed mortal sins against him.

"Monsieur le—" Firmin began, his horror dissolving into mild surprise.

"We need to talk," Raoul interrupted hastily, gesturing to the hall behind him. "Walk with me." The managers exchanged fleeting glances before hopping to their feet and trailing obediently after their young patron. I followed with a small smirk, immensely entertained by the fact that I had caused him such flagrant anxiety.

"Is everything quite alright, Monsieur le Vicomte?"

"We do hope nothing's wrong—"

"Something is very wrong," Raoul snapped, his stride long and clipped as he made his way toward the auditorium. "We have a serious problem, gentlemen, and it's high time we held a staff conference."

"Staff conference?"

"Problem?"

"Well, this should be interesting," I murmured.

The Vicomte burst through the main auditorium's entrance, swinging the doors wide open so they came clattering shut in the faces of the frazzled managers. My ribs began to burn from restraining hysterical laughter, tears of mirth clouding my vision as I made my way to the rafters.

The musicians in the orchestra pit stopped one by one to turn and gawk at their superiors, much to the exasperation of Reyer. The ballerinas, in turn, ceased dancing even as Madame Giry rapped her cane indignantly on the stage. At last the entire rehearsal came to a screeching halt, and within moments the auditorium was abuzz with murmured gossip.

The performers parted for the Vicomte as he strode up the steps and directly across the stage, while the managers sputtered their apologies and scurried huffily after him. Giry and Reyer exchanged brief glances before transferring charge to veteran ballerinas and musicians and hurrying in direct pursuit of their patron. Unsurprisingly, Carlotta and Piangi, too, abandoned their fellow actors and joined the train, undoubtedly wanting to be in the center of the chaos. I eyed the stage disinterestedly, knowing Christine was not among the chorus girls, and wound deftly through the catwalks just above Raoul's head.

"Monsieur de Chagny, please!" Firmin panted, trying to keep up with the boy's rapid pace. "What is the meaning of this?"

"Bear with me, everyone," he interrupted, staring straight ahead. "I think I might have found the solution to our problems with Monsieur le Fantôme."

"Pray tell!" Andre puffed, gaping incredulously at the determined patron.

"Yes, Monsieur," I echoed under my breath, my lips curling in an expression somewhere between a sneer and a smirk. "Pray tell."

The boy walked in silence for a moment more before his voice cut sharply through the air, each syllable over-annunciated with barely-contained rage.

We have all been blind,

And yet the answer is staring us in the face!

This could be the chance

To ensnare our clever friend…

I raised an eyebrow, giving a snort of derisive laughter. Oh, this should be good, I mused.

"We're listening!" Andre interjected seriously.

"Go on!" Firmin urged.

We shall play his game,

Perform his work, but remember we hold the ace!

For if Miss Daaé sings

He is certain to attend.

My eyes widened incredulously. I had always been unimpressed with the boy's level of intelligence, but this— this was not even laughable, it was so pathetic! He was going to play along, and bow to my every whim? He might as well have rolled belly-up and waved a white flag. I had expected to have to bribe, cajole, and blackmail the living daylights out of every last staff member to get my way, and here my nemesis was suggesting surrender before the fight even began? I couldn't believe my ears.

We are certain the doors are barred! Andre cried with a firm nod.

We are certain the police are there! Firmin added.

We are certain they're armed! The Vicomte agreed, his chest swelling importantly.

"You're kidding," I begged, rolling my eyes upwards in desperation to the God I didn't believe in. "Tell me they're kidding!" This was obscene. This was wrong. My opponents had the brain capacities of two-year-olds (but then, that was an insult to two-year-olds)! It was an insult to my wits to take on such unworthy adversaries. Their brilliant, outstanding, invincible plan was to station underpaid, overworked gendarmes in the secret passages they didn't know existed? Even if I had used the main entrances and halls of the opera house as these imbeciles presumed, I could have stepped within two meters of an armed police officer, in plain view, and ducked into a shadowed hiding place before he could cock his gun. I shook my head in stunned silence at their sickening display of idiocy.

Christine left me for HIM? I quickly shook the thought away, as it caused bile to rise up in my throat. I loved the child more than life itself, but she continually proved her tastes to be far below mediocre.

Not for long, I insisted. If the Vicomte and managers were so unbelievably stupid as to conceive such a dysfunctional plan, well… so be it. They were only making my job easier, tipping their hats to me as they paved the way directly to Christine.

The three men strode side by side, their voices strong and ostentatious as they sung out:

The curtain falls— his reign will end!

I supposed it would be pointless to inform them that by the time the curtain closed, Christine would have devoted her heart to me and escaped through the hidden trapdoor in the center of the stage. It probably would have only served to clutter their confused minds further, so I decided against it.

Madame Giry, on the other hand, still seemed to believe that there was a shred of reason left in their minds. She threw her hands up in the air and made a scoffing noise in the back of her throat. "Monsieur de Chagny, I must protest—"

"Hold your tongue, Madame," Firmin interrupted, fixing her with a cold glare. "We already know you have devotedly served the 'Opera Ghost' for the past fifteen years. Consider yourself lucky that we continue to employ you."

"Indeed," Andre snorted. "Either stay and remain silent, or go back to your rehearsals."

Madame Giry's mouth fell slightly open, her brows knitting indignantly. The Punjab lasso was in my hand in a flash; how dare they take such a tone with a woman of her seniority— let alone for assisting me! I refrained from snapping their necks by concentrating as hard as I could on Christine. If I killed them now, the production of Don Juan Triumphant would never follow through to another set of managers. Much as it pained me to do so, I would have to tolerate their mindless antics for the next five weeks.

Just five weeks. Five… endless… weeks. I groaned, scrubbing my eyes as if it would assuage the throbbing beneath them. Rehearsals would be an unbearable headache— I could sense that already. I made a mental note to destroy any bottles of alcohol I might have stashed in my lair; the temptation would soon be too great to resist, I predicted morbidly.

Unable to stand the sight of the traitorous idiots any longer, I flipped the edge of my cloak and climbed a series of wooden beams to the trapdoor near the ceiling of the backstage area. Now seemed as good a time as any to deliver the remainder of my letters, as each of the recipients was occupied with hearing the details of the Vicomte's ingenious plan.

I spent the next twenty minutes traversing the opera's complex web of secret hallways, dropping Madame Giry's letter in her office, and Piangi's and Carlotta's in their respective dressing rooms. They read:

Giry,

I expected more from you. Surely you have better taste than to join this mad circus. I am not yet angered— merely disappointed. You KNOW who runs this opera house, and it is certainly not those impudent fools Andre and Firmin. I pray your unfaltering common sense will prevail in the upcoming months.

That said, I will need your cooperation when rehearsals begin on the first of March. I have secured the role of prima ballerina for your talented daughter— she has certainly earned it, and with Sorelli out of the picture, there should now be no one to stand in the path of her success. Don't test me, Giry, if not for your sake, then for your daughter's. I do not wish to threaten you, but current circumstances leave me no other option. I fear your devotion is wavering. Prove me wrong, and no more of these letters will be necessary.

Erik

Signor Piangi,

Fondest salutations, good monsieur. I pray this letter finds you in good health, for you will certainly need your strength to tackle the upcoming role of Don Juan. Should you follow my careful instructions over the next month, I'm sure you will find that this role will propel you to fame and prosperity beyond your wildest dreams. Your name will go down in history after this opera, Signor Piangi, I promise you that much.

My primary concern involves Christine Daaé. I am fully well aware that the contents of this impending opera are of a sensitive and seemingly crude nature, and therefore you must take extra care to perform tastefully. I must stress that this means you should avoid intimate and inappropriate gestures, caresses, and dare I say "relations" with Miss Daaé, both onstage and off. I recognize that you are an actor and it is in your nature to try to stay "in character," but for your own benefit, stay away from Christine, or I shall simply have to find another Don Juan.

I hope I do not appear overly menacing— if so, I heartily apologize. I look forward to overseeing the impending production. Until then, Signor, I remain,

Reverently yours,

O.G.

Signora Giudicelli,

Please do not take your demotion in my upcoming opera as an insult— rather, a learning experience. All great stars must share the limelight from time to time, and you, Signora, have dominated the stage for five seasons. Perhaps it is time to switch to another opera house? Rumor has it the London Opera is in desperate need of a new diva. Just a thought. If you are not interested in relocating at the moment, I would highly suggest that you impress me in this imminent production. After all, there are no small parts, only small actors… and you, Signora, hardly fit that description.

O.G.

With the last letter delivered, I nodded once with a satisfied smile and hurried off toward home. Only six days until rehearsals started, and I had so much left to do! There were costumes to design, blueprints to copy, stage directions to write, props to order, and a thousand other chores I would not trust any ordinary craftsman, let alone one of the managers, to oversee. Don Juan Triumphant was my last chance to reclaim Christine; everything needed to be absolutely perfect.

A/N: I love you all to pieces, but I've recently been informed that stories are being taken down if authors post review responses. NO idea why, but I don't want to chance losing all this work. –apologetic look- I'll try to get the next chapter posted much more quickly as an I'm-sorry gift, okay? –cookies and brownies for everyone-