From Sporky: Well, goodness. I am REALLY sorry to those of you that I promised a update to, I'm a bloody liar, and you can beat me up and toss me in a lake to be with Lon, because I certainly deserve it. I'll give a lame excuse, if it makes you feel better- final exams. Yes, blame the finals.

Anyhow, I would gush forever with apologies, but I don't think that's a great way to spend time, and I doubt you want to read it. So, it'll work best for both of us if I stop. :D

From Hota: I firmly concede with the fact that our muses hate us. They sneak up in the middle of the night and go WHABAM! and then small countries wonder where the sky went.

…I just realized that that made absolutely NO sense. I'm sorry, dear reader(s). This is a semi-delusional Hota on Christmas Day. And I have the feeling this will make no sense in a minute or two. Oh well. Hopefully you'll find the chapter more entertaining than a lunatic Hota who can't update in a timely manner. (Sorry guys. I'm gonna go angst about stars and possibly jump off the bow of the Good Ship Javert/Chauvelin OTP.)

---

1879 – Paris, France

The evening had started out innocently enough. Raoul had gone for a few drinks with Jean Louis Castelot-Barbezac, a close friend and neighbor of his, and his brother, Philippe. The three of them had been, as Philippe liked to call it, schmoozing. So far, it had been a stress free, enjoyable evening.

"I tell my father, there is no way that I'm going to invest in something as frivolous as that silly light bulb, it is never going to make it in the real world! Of course, he insists that it will sweep the world and I'll be sorry, but I suppose we will see in a few years, now won't we, my good lads!" Jean-Louis narrated, and the three laughed uproariously at this, knowing full well how futuristic the eldest Castelot-Barbezac was.

Raoul's laughter was a bit louder and more forced than his two comrades. In all honestly, he was feeling quite achy and sick. However, he dismissed it as mere nausea at the bout from the numerous colds going around. He started to get more concerned as he felt a grinding in the core of his being, and his heart skipped a beat and then sped up.

Eyes growing wide, he stammered out an apology of sickness and too many drinks and dashed out of the crowded gentleman's club, down the street, and into any patch of darkness that he could find. Heaving, Raoul leaned heavily upon a brick wall. His world was spinning, and everything had a crimson, demonic aura.

Taking a few deep breaths, he tried to suppress the feeling of his stomach crawling through his throat. He was fairly sure he had succeeded, and was stepping back out through the street when he was suddenly doubled over with a fit of pain. "Oh, sweet Jesus!" he moaned, falling to the ground. "Take the pain away!"

All through his body, he could feel and hear his bones popping and growing. Needles of pain defined his world. He felt as if his face was being sawn off and his limbs were dropping off of their own accord. Out of instinct, he curled into fetal position and whimpered.

He was a lanky heap of a man, trembling on the ground. After a few moments, the form stopped shaking, and rose lithely. A melodic voice rang out softly, "Free…"

After a moment's hesitation, the man shouldered his cloak's hood over his head, covering the unsightliness of his face. He stepped out into the light looking very out of place. Voices nearby attracted his sensitive hearing.

"'Ello, monsieur," a red-headed woman purred at a man on the other end of the street.

A short, grubby man in a shabby top hat weaved his way over to her. "Hello, Lucille," He slurred through the many drinks he'd obviously had that night. "Do you have any time for me tonight, m'dear?"

"When would I not have time for you?" she murmured, clasping her arms about the little man's neck, and pulled him into the darkness of the alley.

He could hear every moan, every gasp, every pant.

"Disgusting. Filth like that should not walk this earth," the cloaked observer finally spoke. Searching the ground, he found a length of rope, and began knotting it as he listened to the two writhing in the darkness, his blind fury building. He stalked over to the alleyway, where he saw the two of them entwined in an intimate embrace. So involved were they that they didn't see a shadow creeping up behind them. Taking advantage of this, the apparition brought the rough noose down upon the man's neck.

Upon the opposing wall, silhouettes danced. A tall man was holding a short figure on a string, making him flit about, arms flailing around. With a tug of the string, like a puppeteer, the small figure twirled into the embrace of the large one, gracefully falling into his arms. Like a lover, the string master bent down to whisper in his puppet's ear.

"Tell Lucifer that Erik Fente sent you."

The shade pulled on the rope violently, and the puppet broke and fell to the ground.

A low scream reminded Erik of the prostitute who was hunched up against the wall, her hands splayed over her face, but peering through her fingers. When he turned to look at her, she shuddered, her face saying what her words could not.

"Well, mademoiselle, if you'll rut with scum like him, a corpse should be no matter for you." Erik growled, realizing that his hood had fallen down.

"Oh, God!" She screamed. "No, never!" She tried to stand, but found Erik's cold hands shoving her bare shoulders to the brick wall.

"I don't think you have a choice, Lucille."

"I'd rather die." She spat on his face, yet there was fear in her eyes. Erik merely grinned at her.

"Well, my lady, I can arrange that. Send your lover my compliments." With a flesh-colored blur, his hands were on the prostitute's neck, choking the life out of her. She scratched at his face, leaving welts along his already disfigured visage. She flung her slight weight around as much as she could, and tried to pry her long nails underneath the long pale fingers that withheld her air. Slowly, slowly, her fighting became weaker and weaker, and her eyes bulged out before growing dim, the light fading, fading…

Erik released the woman and let her corpse slide down the wall and fall limply onto the cold alleyway. He flexed his hands. Never before had he felt such power flowing through him. His new strength and abilities had a strange sweet taste that he felt he could never tire of.

"You, there!" called a voice from the entrance of the alleyway.

Erik slowly turned his head towards the noise. The gendarme froze.

"Mother of God…"

Erik let out a mirthless laugh and sauntered past the young officer.

"He—HEY!" he called towards Erik. "Did—Did you kill these two?"

Erik spun on his heel and faced the man. Despite all of his clothing being too short, he made an impressive figure with a malicious glint in his mismatched eyes.

"What do you think, monsieur?" he spoke throatily, but not quite in a growl.

"Monster!" the gendarme cried. He took out his pistol and aimed at Erik's chest. "You filth, you are under arrest by order of the Emperor!"

Erik smirked at the boyish officer, who was shaking visibly, the gun about to fall from his sweaty grasp. "I'd like to see you catch me, boy." With that, he turned and sprinted down the nearest street.

"Halt! Halt, you fiend! In the name of the law, HALT!" he heard the officer call after him, shouting through the shocked people scattered about the street.

Left, right straight, left, left again, right, back down Rue Scribe. Damn! he thought, The bloody opera house! People will be swarming out of here soon! He spied a storm drain, and out of desperation, pried the bars open and slid inside. He paused to let his eyes adjust to the moonlit path before starting off at a sprint again.

He ran until he could no longer hear the ragged breathing of the pursuing policeman. As soon as he thought that he was safe, he took closer look around himself. There was no longer any muted moonlight from the foggy night sky. He heard water dripping down into the lake, whose shore he stood upon, and the occasional scurry of a rodent into a hole in the wall. Touching the walls, he found them moist and covered in moss.

Faintly, he heard footsteps pounding down the path behind him. Cursing, Erik quickly ducked into one of the many shadows near. The young gendarme didn't notice the abundant dampness and ran directly into the black lake. With a grim smile, Erik slipped into the lake after him, and waded to the thrashing child.

"Honestly, boy, don't they teach you how to swim?" Laughing, he held the gendarme under the water just enough so that he could see the air that his body cried out for, could see the wickedly deformed face of his murderer shimmering through the water.

For the second time that night, he felt fingernails claw at his flesh. Sooner than the prostitute, the gendarme stopped fighting and went limp. Erik released him and stood up straight in the waist deep water.

"Bravi, boy," the velvety voice of the murderer murmured. Looking up from the blue-white face of the drowned gendarme, Erik looked across the lake.

Dimly, he saw a flicker of candlelight. A smirk took hold of his mismatched face once more as he headed around the lake, slogging as silently as he could in the shallows. The light started to grow dimmer, but he increased his pace and reached the light's side of the lake. He stepped out of the lake, his trousers dripping loudly. The light stopped moving.

"Who's there? Meg? Is that you?" a woman's voice called softly, with a trace of panic. Erik's smirk broadened into an evil grin.

"Only a ghost, madame," he replied, drawing nearer from behind.

She stiffened. "Mon Dieu," the woman breathed, crossing herself. "My Meg, what have you done with my Meg!"

"Ahhh, little Meg…" he whispered, cocking his head a bit. "My good Madame, I think you would find her quite safe if you were to lead the way to a place where a spirit could find some decent clothes. Oh, and Madame- I would advise you not look behind you." He sang the last bit into her ear, "Or you'll be a ghost, as well…"

The woman gulped, keeping her eyes straight in front of her. "Very well, Monsieur Fantôme, I will take you to the costume room, if only for my daughter's sake."

---

Chuckling, Erik congratulated himself on the wonderful act he had put up. Ingenious, I hope the woman finds her brat so I've got some credibility. Monsieur Fantôme, indeed!

The woman had led him to a large room filled with racks upon racks of clothing, and then fled for her life and her daughter. Most were hugely elaborate dresses, which Erik disregarded for obvious reasons. Instead, he focused his attention on the more masculine articles. He realized, however, that "masculine" could barely be applied to the clothing in the room.

Flicking through the hangers, his hopes for even finding a decent article of clothing fell. He found several interesting articles, including a pink confection of lace, a ribbon-bedecked yellow fop costume, and many large, flouncing hats on the shelf above the rack.

He looked through two more racks before finally giving up hope for finding anything that was even remotely suitable to wear. He was halfway through a fourth rack when he found something of interest. It was an enormous black opera cloak with many embroideries and black beads sewn into the shoulders and back of the cloak.

"My, my, what have we here?" Erik murmured.

He took the cloak off of its hanger and held it at arm's length. The small beads sparkled in the little bit of light left from the candle lit near the door. The cloak was a very fine and well-tailored article of clothing. Despite the beading, there was no doubt that it was a masculine object.

"Oh yes, I like this very much," Erik smirked and took off Raoul's too-short cloak and replaced it with the grand one he had been admiring. "Magnificent."

Feeling rather full of himself, he took to examining the rest of the costumes. There were many odd pieces of faux armor lying around. When Erik was moving to a new rack, he absent-mindedly kicked a peeling breastplate out of the way, and immediately regretted doing so. His feet took this moment to remind him of their painful confinement. How had he forgotten?

"Bloody blue bloods and their small feet," he muttered darkly as he sat down to remove the Vicomte's shoes. Carefully, he eased his aching feet out of the shoes. Finally free, he wiggled them about to regain circulation. As he was about to lob the shoe into the darkness, he noticed something peeking out from under the breastplate. A portion of a white mask was staring at him with one eye. He quickly lost any intention of throwing the shoe.

Cautiously, Erik pulled the mask out from under the faux armor and examined it. It was a huge domino mask that covered from the upper lip all the way to the hairline. The leather was smooth on both the painted front and the unfinished underside. A ripped length of dirty, black ribbon came out from the edges of the mask at about eye level.

Fascinated, Erik held the mask up to the dim light coming from the door, which was propped open. He brought a pale hand up to his ravaged face, massaging it gently, and then reverently placed the mask over it, savoring the feel of the cool leather against his face. The mask was a bit too large, but as he struggled to tie the broken ribbons, he found himself strangely fearless in the face of humanity. The mask could be trimmed to only cover what was needed, and hiding in the shadows would no longer be necessary. I am not asking to be normal, he thought grimly, just to be presentable. Just in case an "opportunity" arises… I can't stroll about the streets with half my face gone.

He stood up and smoothed back his hair with both hands and let them continue down to readjust his cloak, letting it pool out around him, almost allowing him to meld with the shadows around the room. When he was standing at his full height, the contrast of the mask and cloak completed his commanding look.

A gasp came from the doorway. "Maman?" the voice of a young girl queried. Peering into the slim bar of light, Erik saw the silhouette of a teenage girl. Poised just inside the door, her soft voice trembled as she asked for her mother again. Oh dear, it seems little Meg has wandered a bit far from home… who else could it be?

"Meg, my dear, how nice it is for you to come," Erik nearly sang to the youth. The girl's eyes opened even wider.

"H—How do you know my name?" she cried almost inaudibly.

Erik smiled thinly and simply stated: "What does a ghost not know?"

Meg stumbled backwards, tears flowing down her face. She turned around and started screaming wildly. "Le Fantôme de L'Opéra! Le Fantôme!"

He laughed dryly and melted into the shadows.

---

"MAMAN!" Meg sobbed as she charged blindly down the corridor, as if she was being chased by the devil himself. Her blonde hair streamed out behind her, her hair ribbon long lost. Finally finding her way to the ballet dormitory, she heaved herself up against the door before fumbling the doorknob open.

She threw herself into the room, interrupting a gossip circle of blonde heads. "Meg? Mon Dieu, what has happened?" Sorelli crooned as she drew the shaking girl into a friendly embrace. Meg violently shook her head and gasped for a breath. "Oh, dove, what did Stefan do? I told you he was no good! With older men like that, you can only get into trou—"

"No!" Meg panted. "I….looking for Maman…costume room…. Sorelli, I saw a ghost!"

The girls gathered around her, interest shining in their eyes. "A ghost, Meggie?" "Was he transparent?" "A man or a woman?" "Oh, Meg, you're so brave! I would have just fainted on the spot!" "Did you talk to it?"

Sorelli, in a display of her leadership over the loud group of girls, clapped her hands together loudly. "Girls! Give her some room to breathe, I'm sure she'll tell us the whole story in time, but not if she dies of asphyxiation!"

The mob quieted down, and settled down on the floor around Meg, who had finally lost the wild look in her eye. "Well, I skipped practice this morning to go see Stefan—"

Meg was interrupted by several whistles and giggles. She shot the girls withering looks and flipped her hair. They might call him a good-for-nothing stagehand, but they didn't know him, they just saw what every pompous dancer saw—someone below them.

"No," she enunciated, "Nothing happened. I couldn't even find him! So, I go for a walk, because practice isn't over yet, and I'll need to look flushed as I'm lying in bed pretending to be sick. Of course, I have to go roaming around in the cellars, because no one is down there to see me. After about an hour, I come back up.

"Now, I'm on my guard for Maman. Perhaps I was a bit paranoid, because it seemed like all the shadows were reaching out for me, trying to grab a hold of my skirts!" For emphasis, she reached out her hand and lunged at all the girls around her. A few laughed nervously.

"I'm passing by the costume room when I hear some rustling. You girls know how they are fanatical about keeping the door closed so that the costumes stay in tact longer… well, the door was open.

"I had to investigate. I opened up the door a bit more, and slipped inside when it slammed shut with a huge bang! Terrified, I scrambled towards where the door had been, only to find that it wasn't there."

The reaction was astounding. A girl screamed, and several others covered their mouths in shock. Meg, basking in the attention, plunged forth into her tale.

"I was afraid to breathe. I kept telling myself to calm down, it was just a breeze that had blown the door shut, but then I heard a voice. 'Meg Giry!' it sang to me in the most melodious voice ever! After it repeated my name a few times, getting closer each one, I felt breath down the back of my neck, and my whole body grew cold. I felt him—I'm sure it was a man—reaching through my skin for my very soul, trying to snatch it away so that he could feed on it and grow stronger!

"Well, as frightened as I was, I am no fool! I remembered what Joseph Buquet told us about ghosts. "What in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost do you want?" I asked, trying to stop my voice from trembling. Suddenly, he was in front of me. I tried to turn to try to find the door again, but I couldn't! I was rooted to the spot. He was laughing, and oh, I hope I never hear the sound again! There was such mirth; he was a demon straight from the bowels of Hell!" She shuddered, and then continued.

"He was walking straight towards me, five feet away, four, three, two, one, he was right up this close to me!" She put her hand in front of her face to demonstrate the closeness. "I could see his face! He had flaming yellow eyes, and a white mask covering his entire face! And a huge black cape! He stared at me for what I could swear was a lifetime, and then, with another laugh, was gone!

"As soon as he left, the door cracked back open, just to my left! Naturally, I ran as fast as I could down here. I would rather face Maman any day than that horrid ghost again! So, here I am, telling you about Le Fantôme de L'Opéra…"

Terrified, the pale girls squeaked and grasped each other's hands for support. "Meg, you must be exhausted!"

Sorelli took it upon herself to escort Meg to her bed. "That was terrifying, Meg! You're so brave, mon ami, I would have died!"

As Meg snuggled underneath her woolen blankets, she heard the other girls murmuring about the brave Mlle. Fantôme and her brush with the ghost. Why, by the way the story was growing, she was practically the ghost's lady now! With a smile, Meg started to drift into a troubled sleep. Shortly after closing her eyes, the ballet dormitory door opened wide again.

"Girls," she heard her mother say softly. "Sorelli? Have you seen my Meg?"

Sorelli looked up from the gossiping circle that she was engrossed in, recounting Meg's adventure. Meg shut her eyes tight and hoped to anything remotely holy that Sorelli wouldn't snitch on her.

"Yes, Madame, she just returned from the bathroom a few minutes ago," Sorelli lied innocently. Mme. Giry nearly sagged against the doorway with relief but held herself together.

"Thank you," she said. Closing the door, Mme. Giry slid down the door and sat on the top stair, moaning with relief. "She's safe, he didn't get to her…"

Within the dormitory, Meg tossed and turned restlessly, but she could not get the image of the masked man out of her head. She only felt slightly bad for telling such a lie, but it got Sorelli, of all the girls, to call her brave. Meg Giry, Mlle.Fantôme, brave! She smiled to herself, and rolled over again.

Still not finding sleep, she re-adjusted her other side, only to find a note sitting on her bed stand. Sitting up, she picked up the note and read it in the dim light.

Mademoiselle Giry,

I believe that you lost this in your hurry back to your dormitory.

Signed,

Monsieur Fantôme de L'Opéra

Underneath the neatly folded note lay her hair ribbon.