Chapter 3

"Please! Please come back! Please! I'm sorry! Please don't leave me here!"

She had tired herself out between screaming at him for her release and unsuccessful attempts at escape. The bars were set too closely together to squeeze through and they were made of pure iron; she'd never be able to bend them even if she had the aid of a tool. Throwing herself against the sides to rock it and knock it over proved fruitless; it was too heavy and it didn't even budge, as if it had been bolted to the floor. She had no sense of time, but after her earlier explorations and her exertions of trying to get herself out of the cage, she was exhausted. She found that if she curled up on her side, she was able to lie down. Not comfortably, but more so than sitting up against the cold metal. She tried her best to arrange the long silken skirts of her borrowed dress around her legs, making sure to hide the prosthetic and both feet from view. Ang was mentally berating and kicking herself now. What on earth had possessed her to take her clothes off and play dress up like some five year old kindergartner? The dress was restrictive and not nearly as cozy as her show blacks. She was longing for her jeans and tee shirt, not only because they were familiar and comfortable, but with them on, no one would have suspected she had a disability by looking at her. Do you really think he'd care? Ang scowled at her voice in her head. I care! she spat back.

She stayed in that curled position for several minutes before craning her head back to look behind her. Spotting something of use, she snaked her arm through the bars to drag the drop cloth in with her, the one that the... she whimpered at what had to be her sanity slipping... that the Phantom had discarded. Ang balled it up and shoved it under her head. The only noise that filled her ears was the constant flow of water that fed the lake, but that hardly drowned out the panic spinning in her head. Her eyes stared through the bars at the organ on the other side of the cavern. What sort of music had been created on its keys? Would anyone ever know about it? She was proof that stories survived, but did any of the actual music?

Her eyes began to sting and she sniffed once before clamping both eyes tightly shut in an effort to stem the flow of tears she felt coming. She would not cry. She wouldn't. She wasn't a child anymore; she would not cry. Something would happen. Someone would..., At some point, someone had to... It wasn't like he could keep her down here forever. Could he? The dam broke and hot tears dripped from her eyes into her hair and the wadded up linen sheet beneath her head until her sobbing shook her frame. At some point during her cry, due to exhaustion from several directions, she fell asleep.

Ang woke up disoriented and sore, and started to stretch her arms and legs outward before realizing she couldn't do both at once. Storm gray eyes snapped open. There were bars on all sides of her. Her impossible situation rushed back like a tidal wave and crashed over her head. Her heart kicked into high gear, drumming triple time against her chest, and she panted as sheer panic mounted within her. Stop it, Ang. Stop it! Now! You can't let yourself do that! Breathe. In. Out. In. Out. Her breathing was shallow, too shallow, and she shuddered with each one. Her blood rushed through her ears until it was all she could hear. White spots danced before her as blackness slowly began to overtake the edges of her vision.

"Seriously, Ang! You've got to... to stop! You're gonna make yourself pass out!" she scolded herself aloud, both hands reaching out and curling tightly around a bar on either side of her as if to ground herself. Her brain scrambled for the breathing exercises her psychologist taught her to use when a panic attack arose. Funny that her body had chosen this moment to fall apart. Not when she woke up underground in what looked like some sort of over-sized fall-out shelter. Not when she came face to face with a fictitious character from a book. Not when that same impossible person locked her in a cage like she was a bird. But now.

It took several minutes, but her mind at long last gained control over her body and her heartbeat slowed again, her lungs didn't bellow as frequently, and she was finally able to breathe in a steady, even rhythm. Her eyes had teared as they usually did, an automatic response, leaving damp streaks on her cheeks. But at long last the worst of it was over, and she took a few more deep, calming breaths.

Now that her mind was clearer, she was able to perceive that something in her surroundings had changed, and slender eyebrows drew together in confusion. Ang lifted her head and let it drop back again. She blinked and twisted her head to the side, glanced down toward her cheek. Instead of a dusty sheet, a thick, velvet pillow, intricately embroidered and decorated with golden tassels, had been slipped beneath her head in its place. She sat up quickly and took stock. She was covered with a soft, woven afghan. There was only one explanation as to whom and how, but why? The legendary Opera Ghost wasn't the type to set intruders at ease and comfort. He would sooner kill people that disturbed him if his persona in the book or stage play was any indication. Yet here were two pieces of evidence that contradicted that.

The distinct smell of freshly baked bread distracted her from any further thought on the matter. She quickly looked around and spotted the source of the sweet aroma: a polished silver platter sat on the outside of the cage holding half a dozen rolls that still emitted tendrils of steam, as well as several slices of ripe melon. Again, she glanced around before lowering her head to sniff at the plate once she drew it closer. It smelled safe; her nose didn't detect any signs of harmful tampering, but then she was no expert in the field. He could have laced it with arsenic and she would have had no idea until it was too late. Genius has turned to madness. She paused and straightened, still staring at the plate. This character - she had to keep reminding herself he was just a character, and that it couldn't be real - was depicted as a man that killed without remorse. Would he poison her? Drawing her lower lip between her teeth, she debated silently until the growl in her stomach decided for her. If it couldn't be real, then there was no danger of being poisoned, was there? She took up a roll and nibbled at it. As she had observed before, it was still warm, and so soft that it practically melted on her tongue. Any other hindrances were banished and she finished the bread in a couple minutes before turning her attention to the fruit.

Half way through her third slice, she paused and lifted her head once more to look around. There was no sign of her masked captor, but that didn't mean he wasn't nearby. "Thank you," she offered quietly, and now she ate slower, keeping her ears strained on the sounds around her to pick up anything out of the ordinary.

With the plate cleaned save for a few crumbs, she set the pillow against the bars and almost happily lounged back against it. Her stomach felt pleasantly full now, and she let her lids droop closed for a brief few moments.

Something stirred her hair against her back, and she shot forward with a yelp, whipping around and pressing her back against the opposite side of the cage. There sat Erik, the frightening, infamous Opera Ghost, crouching balanced on the balls of his feet, one hand still slightly outstretched in the position it had been while he fingered a few pieces of her hair. His dark gaze stared at her through the holes of his mask, face expressionless but his breathing suggested that he was as startled as she was.

She finally breathed easier; at least it was him and not some gutter mouse nibbling at her. "You scared me!"

The Opera Ghost snorted derisively. "It is nothing new," he remarked, his native French origin apparent in each accented word.

"Oh, no. Not that like," she amended quickly, her features softening. "I-I only meant that you surprised me. I didn't know you were there."

For a long while, the pair stared at each other through the wall of bars. He was dressed in a gold waistcoat and cravat, under which was a pressed white shirt. Sleeves billowed loosely, the cuffs kept together by polished cufflinks. Both hands were covered in white gloves. Black pant legs strained across his thighs as he crouched there. Perched atop his head was a shiny gentleman's tophat. Dark eyes stared at her through the holes of his mask, face expressionless as far as she could tell. The off white plaster came down to where she supposed his cheek bones ended, as well as covering his nose, leaving his mouth and jawline exposed. He was clean shaven, and besides a hint of red peeking from the lower edges of the mask, he seemed perfectly normal. He didn't have swollen lips as depicted in the famous stage musical, although he did wear a full mask rather than a half-sided one.

Finally, he spoke again. "What are you doing?"

"I'm sorry?"

"No one has ever just looked at me before."

Ang relaxed some, sitting forward away from the cage at her back, tugging the afghan up toward her chest to hug it. "Well, I've never seen you before. I tend to look at new people."

Erik leaned forward, almost so that his plaster forehead rested against the cage. In spite of herself, she leaned back for a moment, parroting him. "You are not frightened of me?"

She lightly shook her head, a soft smile curling her lips. "No."

The answer confused him and he narrowed his eyes at her. "Why not?"

Blinking, she gently lifted her shoulders. "Maybe because I already know you."

"No one knows me," he scoffed.

She bowed her head, the movement sending a lock of strawberry blonde hair over one bared shoulder. "Of course; my mistake. But I think I know you better than most." Ang peeked up at him again." For example, I know your name, and that you're a musician and composer. You're an illusionist and a magician, and an architect. And you must have a strong grasp of architecture and direction to find your way through all these tunnels without a map. And didn't you build a boat down here somewhere?"

He bristled. "How can you know any of that?" His eyes went a little wide, and for a moment, the Opera Ghost looked frightened, himself. "Are you a witch?"

"No!" she laughed softly, reaching forward momentarily to reassure him before letting her hand fall back in her lap. "I promise, I'm not a witch. But I don't think you'd believe the truth even if I tried to explain it to you. I don't believe it and I'm in the middle of it." The conversation felt almost normal, as if she hadn't recently fallen out of modern America and into a book. Or a script. She still wasn't sure which. But that was neither here nor there; he was talking, and if she kept him talking, perhaps he'd trust her enough to let her go. What else did she know of him, something that might set him at ease? She started humming a song from the Broadway musical, the one that the monkey music box played. He seemed to be intrigued, tipping his head this way and that, but not as if he was familiar with it. Ang stopped. All right; so she hadn't fallen into that script. She hummed a bit from the piece her own theater was working on, but his reaction appeared to be the same. And then a thought struck her.

"Oh! I know! Have you started writing… oh, what was the name of it?... Something- something Triumphant?"

His expression twisted from curiosity to fury and he lunged at the bars, arm shooting through the cage, seizing her by the throat and yanking her forward until her chest and face were pressed against the hard metal rods. "Some cruel prank. Witch. Spy. Thief," he snarled, his voice deep and frightening as a demon's from hell. "I do not know how you discovered me or found out about my work, but you will never see the light of day."

Her arms flailed a little. She clamped both hands around the offending wrist before she gripped the bars and pushed back, an attempt to pull herself free from his grasp. "Not...a..." Her vision swam and began dimming in color as stars flickered in and out. "Please… please… Erik…" Hands reached for him, clawing at his arm to try and get him to relent. In a last ditch effort, her fingers splayed wide, the tips just able to catch the edge of his mask enough to dislodge it from his face. A wail erupted from him as he flung her away from him, both hands slapping against the mask to keep it in place. He breathed heavily, a huddled mass akin to an injured and frightened animal.

Ang doubled over, hand against her neck, coughing and dragging in gulps of air. "I'm sorry," she said hoarsely.

He leapt to his feet and ran from where she was kept, leaving her alone as she continued to fight for air through her bruised throat.

A/N: Hope you all enjoyed the third installment. As I mentioned before, I am brand new to the world of fanfic, so I'm trying to puzzle together how I thought he would legitimately react to her. If you have an idea as to where you'd like this story to go, I take requests! ^_^ R&R if you feel so inclined (I hope you do - validation is always appreciated if for no other reason than to tell me that people are actually reading this thing).