Ah, I frighten you, do I? . . . I daresay . . . Perhaps you think that I have another mask, eh, and that this . . . this . . . my head is a mask?

--From The Phantom of the Opera by Gaston Leroux

Christine grunted softly as she hitched her backpack higher up on her aching shoulder, then blinked at the unladylike noise and looked around to see if anyone had heard her. Strangely, the street was almost empty and foreboding in the gloomy grey of the afternoon; she couldn't help but glance over her shoulder for the hundredth time. She suddenly wished that she'd just stayed with Mandi at the store for a few hours rather than act bold and get directions from her to get to her flat before her and start a dinner for everyone. Had to play at being a big girl didn't we? Well, look at yourself now, wandering down a street you've never heard of with only a hope that you're going in the right way.

Out of no where a bird called out loudly, and she yelped softly in fright, holding a hand up defensively. The bird called again as she struggled to catch her breath, her eyes lifted to the naked tree that rose out of a small, walled garden. Sitting on the nearest branch sat a single magpie, staring at her; Christine rolled her eyes at herself and glared at it. "Well, what do you want?" she asked it briskly. The harlequin bird only hopped about on its perch a moment, then called again. "Oh shut-up..." she murmured to herself as she turned away and pulled her bag up again.

"That's one for sorrow ya know," the male voice made her jump suddenly and she whirled around once more to see Erik emerging from the alley next to her. His voice was muffled and neutral as he approached her, eyes downcast while he held his hands curled before his mouth, lighting a cigarette. To her mind he looked as if he'd walked right out ofsome American movie–the classic rebel. He was even dressed the part, standing there in a pair of skin-tight denim trousers that were ripped and worn across the knees and a well-used wife-beater which accented his lean, muscled frame.

He took a drag then looked up to her, holding the cig loosely between index and middle finger; Christine realized she was staring and blushed faintly, clearing her throat. "Excuse me?" She asked, remembering that he had actually spoken to her.

Erik's lips split into a half-grin at her blush, and he nodded up to the magpie above them. "Old wive's tale," he said simply. "Ye count magpies, an' the number is an omen of what's to come." Her brows furrowed a bit in thought as he lifted an arm and pointed one long finger, "That's one for sorrow." When she frowned lightly at the bird, he laughed softly and winked at her as he took another drag from his smoke. "Bad luck that."

She snorted softly at his wink, then took a step forward and adjusted her bag once more, feeling far more at ease around this new incarnation of Erik. His eyes were bright with intelligence and good humor, and while he still looked a bit pale and definitely exhausted, his entire body language radiated a calm, relaxed demeanor. Lifting a hand to indicate the tattoo encircling his arm, she lifted a brow and looked up at him, "So how many is that?"

He exhaled a lazy stream of smoke away from her direction then lifted his arm a bit, looking at the ring of birds. "S'ten for the Devil," he answered with a faint frown; she almost swore that a shadow passed over his eyes before he grinned once more and suddenly reached forward towards her. She flinched back in surprise with a gasp, then sighed out that same breath in relief when he simply took a hold of her backpack and lifted it gently from her shoulders. Erik frowned at her reaction and muttered a soft apology before turning away to start walking down the street. "The flat's this way," he called back to her.

As they walked passed the alley he'd come from, Christine glanced down and saw the figure of a scrawny man hunched over against the wall as if in pain. She realized it was the drummer from Erik's band when he looked up and sneered openly at her; curiosity reared its ugly head. "What were you doing down there?"

He paused and looked at her over his shoulder, then flicked a glance to the alley in question; once again something dark moved over his eyes before shrugging lightly and moving forward again as he replied, "Business."

Clearly this was not a matter open to further discussion, so she kept quiet as they continued walking down the empty street. In fact, she decided not to say anything at all him; her inner feministhad grown a spine once more and declared that she certainly didn't have pander to his male ego just because he was playing nice now to make it up to her for being such a complete pig. By the time they had turned into his apartment building, she had worked herself up into a fine fit of righteous anger and was ready to tear him apart at the slightest provocation. These punk boys were all the same after all, lazy disenchanted things that only saw as far as their next lay or pack of fags.

She was pulled suddenly from her feminist rampage by a strange sound. Erik was singing as they moved up the stairs, and Christine blinked as she recognized the string of high notes he was hitting before he began the chorus of "Good-bye yellow brick road..."

She stifled a laugh as she looked up through the stairway to the boy on the next twist of the stairs, "Are you singing Elton John?"

He froze and glanced down to her before affecting an easy shrug as he pulled his keys out to open the door. "So what if I am? Darren turned me on to him," here he paused a moment, then continued a bit more defensively with a distinctly embarrassed pull at the corner of his mouth. "He's a legitimate artist," he muttered softly, "Even if he does prance about like the Queen of the Fairies."

Christine laughed softly as she came back up to his side and then moved into the darkened flat while he held the door open. "That's perfectly ok, just never thought you'd like him is all," she shrugged lightly

He snorted lightly as he waved for her to follow him down the hall towards the bedroom, "Princess you have no idea what I like." Pressing the door open to Mandi's room, he set her bag down next to the bed then crossed his arms over his chest and faced her, tilting his head a bit with a lopsided grin. "I'll bet you just love the Bay City Rollers, don't ya sweetheart? A nice little bird like you has just got ta have their picture in yer locker."

She threw her head back and laughed loudly this time before mimicking his posture back to him with the same tilt of her head. "Princess, you have no idea what I like."

Mandi and Darren were taking the stairs a bit faster than usual as they looked worriedly back and forth between each other. "What were ye thinking, letting her come over here alone?" he was asking her for the hundredth time.

She huffed out an exasperated breath and raised a hand defensively, "I told ye before, I didn't know you were goin' ta be out today!" They shared a worried look and continued upward with a renewed burst of speed. "Maybe he just stayed in his room, nappin', ya said yerself he was still feelin' poorly..." Mandi hazarded after a few moments.

Darren frowned thoughtfully as they alighted on their penultimate floor, then glanced to his hand on the rail. "Judging from the feel of that bass, ain't no one on our level goin' ta be sleepin'." And just a few stairs higher the throbbing beats were unmistakable as they vibrated through both of their chests and the wood beneath their feet; the high end of the track just barely reaching them.

When they finally reached the door and could clearly hear Jethro Tull blasting through the flat at full volume. Mandi shot Darren a near-panicked look, "He's playing Aqua Lung! He's torturing her!"

Together they nearly fell through the door in their hurry to get in. The music in the flat was nearly tangible as they muddled through, looking around for any sign of life. She had her hands clapped over her ears and he clenched his jaw to keep the bass from rattling his teeth. Christ, Darren thought, it's like a fuckin' battlefield. Where are they? He caught a bit of movement in the kitchen and made his way there, Mandi following.

They stared slack-jawed at the sight before them. The kitchen was filled with steam and the smell of cooking as Christine moved through the small space expertly, her hair covered by one of Erik's red bandanas. The man himself sat happy as a lark in spring on the counter nearby, singing loudly along with the track; Darren realized they were bobbing their heads in tandem to the music.

The music came to an end moments later and blessed silence fell over the flat, and the two in the door heaved a sigh of relief in tandem. Christine spun to face them, proudly holding a spatula in one hand. Erik flashed them both a wide grin that suited him despite being in unfamiliar territory and pointed at the girl next to him with one long index finger. "She," he said decisively, "can come over any time she wants."