That night, Erik returned to his dark apartment alone. He lived, if one could call it that, in a finished basement studio, beneath one of the less desirable condominiums on the edge of the city. Here, people kept to themselves and didn't ask questions, which suited him. He had no desire to live around the false gleam of politicians and ambitious government peons, especially not those who wished to network with every waking breath.
He kept his space sparsely furnished, with a secondhand futon that he rarely bothered to make into a proper bed, a cluttered desk, and one true extravagance—his upright piano. Looking around the blank, dim room, he kicked his shoes against the wall, tossed his briefcase to the floor, and hung his blazer on the closet doorknob. He would hang it in the actual closet eventually, probably. But for now, he wanted to savor the silence. At last, after two cramped days, he was alone.
The solitude was familiar, and after so many years, he had expertly numbed the loneliness that once accompanied it. He spent his days looking over his shoulder, but in his home, the only shadows were his own. It was a comfort. A comfort that, by the end of each day navigating the stares and insipid expectations of the other agents, he'd rightfully earned.
And now his freedom was further threatened. Certainly, he'd never been able to secure the liberties he'd sought from the bureau. He still had regulations, reports, and meetings with the higher ups, primarily Kahn, because thankfully, no one else really cared what he was getting up to with his "fairytales" and "boogeymen." He'd tried to become a ghost to them. But the arrival of Daaé meant he was under new scrutiny. He would be monitored and he would be followed. And she would be there, every single day, turning on the lights in the basement office and chattering about teamwork. He poured himself a glass of bourbon. As he removed his mask to drink with greater ease, the same thought that had been circling within him shouted again. This would be the way to scare her off. Just show her your face, and you'll be on your own again.
But he knew it would only buy him time before they discovered a replacement, potentially someone incompetent and even more prone to morality. He would not show his poor excuse for a face to every new agent in DC.
Before he could slip into a distasteful bout of self-pity, his phone rang. Careful to avoid catching his reflection in the screen, he lifted his cell phone to his ear.
"Kahn," he said. "I'm off the clock at the moment."
"That's not how this works or has ever worked, my friend," Kahn laughed.
Erik rolled his eyes and took a gulp of his drink. Had everyone caught some virus of forced camaraderie? It came as no surprise that he was the one immune.
"What do you want, Daroga."
"Never one for small talk, were you?"
"No." If the old man didn't hurry up, he would become truly annoyed.
"I simply wanted to check in about your new partner. Off the record, a bit." On the other end of the line, Kahn cleared his throat. "You both survived your first mission. Well done."
"It was an absolute farce. The police in that town must be utter dimwits to think the case merited our involvement."
"Now I recall that investigating those particular abduction reports was your idea."
"There should have never been reports. A moron could trip over that drug den."
"There are many drug dens and few resources. I for one am glad Daaé had a soft ball thrown her way. How was she then?"
Erik leaned against his kitchen counter. "My opinion doesn't seem to matter much."
"Don't be a baby, Erik."
"First names, 'off the record.' Now what's done and what isn't done?"
Kahn gave a long sigh. "You are determined to be impossible."
Erik let the bourbon wash against the back of his teeth. "The girl is adequate."
"I know you're unhappy, but you could probably benefit from a good cop. Someone to engage with people, build their trust."
"Are you saying that people aren't my strong suit? I'm hurt, Daroga."
"Hypnotism doesn't count. In fact, you really shouldn't be doing it, and you know that very well," Kahn said.
"You're lucky I don't put words in your mouth right now."
"Maybe she'll be a help."
"She'll slow me down."
"She's highly trained, extremely bright."
"I like to work alone."
To Erik's horror, Kahn chuckled through the phone. "Oh, Erik. I know you think that."
Erik tightened his grip on his glass. "Good night, old man. I do not appreciate the call."
He hung up and drained his drink. He would have that old fool pretending to know him better than he knew himself. For each of his thirty-five years, life had taught him all he needed to know about other people. Kahn was bearable. Kahn had gotten him this job, given him the opportunity to find the answers he'd sought for so long.
But everyone else? They could keep their distance.
They generally preferred it that way as well.
"People," Erik spat to his empty kitchen. How sure he was that he was hardly one of them. He had no parents, no lineage, no bloodline. He could do things no other member of the human race could, especially with that cursed voice. And who would look at his dead face, his glowing eyes, his wasted body, and count him among mankind?
No one.
He poured another glass of bourbon. He was so tired of their rules, their ideals, their cowardice. But if he was to find the truth, perhaps there was no other way.
When had he first suspected his true origins? Perhaps he'd been eight, pouring over the library books he'd spread across his squeaky cot while everyone else took their little field trip to the park. Even though staying behind doubled the already high chance that the security guards would find a reason to beat him, he did not go on field trips, out in the world, where people would gawk and point and cower. No one invited him twice, not even the kindest of the social workers, the one who snuck him tapes and a plastic walkman. Even as a child, Erik realized that he did not belong with the others. He did not belong anywhere.
But, suddenly, in those science books, in those pictures of galaxies and lunar soil, he found the seed of an idea. Perhaps his freakishness had a source. Perhaps he really didn't belong here, on this Earth, among men.
Perhaps he was something else.
As time went on and his theories solidified and his housing became less and less stable, he became increasingly certain that he was never born. Someone, something had created him. For instance, his belly button was a strange hollow slash, nothing like those he'd seen in medical books. And, even stranger, although his memories of early childhood were hazy, when he strained, he could sense the surgical masks and bright lights, the tubing and tests. As a preteen, he only visited the doctor—his "special" doctor—once a year, but this was still much more often than the other children in the home. Much more. And they'd drawn so much blood, hadn't they? What had they been testing him for? As an adult, he'd pulled every string he could think of to search for those medical files he was sure existed. Nothing nothing nothing.
Erik sat down at his piano with a thud. Although they were now infused with imagery of later horror, the medical nightmares had not softened with time. He still woke up panting, drenched in sweat, convinced that some strange hand was plunging a scalpel into the gaping cavity that should be his nose.
Of course he had tried to run away from the pathetic string of pathetic homes. But every time, they had caught him. When he fought, they'd locked him in storage closets, basements, and backyard sheds, different prisons hidden in the shadows of different foster homes. If he was lucky, and the social workers and guardians weren't prone to corporal punishment, he would sometimes spend weeks in a small, windowless room with nothing but his own thoughts and dreams of music. Always, he could erect palaces of music in his mind. Even when a particularly violent guardian made a habit of lashing twelve-year-old Erik's shoulders and spine, after the first moments of searing pain, he could escape into his imagined symphonies.
In some ways, he was grateful to the man with the whip. The year he lived in that house, he suffered enough debasement to finally convince him it was time to devote his intelligence to an escape that would stick. He was finally tall enough, and strong enough, and scarred enough to manage it.
Shaking himself out of his too-frequent journey into the past, Erik ran his fingers along the piano keys, surprising himself with a new melody. He didn't know how his anomalies had added up to his supernatural gift for music, but he was grateful. He would force himself to endure this life until he found out who he was. But until they, he could still cherish this blissful reprieve.
He played well into the night.
The council had debated the girl. But, all said, she was hardly a threat. She would serve as a distraction, slant his anger and suspicion just so. He would indulge that troublesome penchant for rebellion on their terms. They had to strike a fine balance with the monster. This they knew. On this, they all agreed.
He was much too clever to be set loose on the world. He had learned too much, and he was hungry for more.
So much like a rat scurrying through a maze.
They had to keep him entertained, even if that meant he encountered a classified curiosity or two. This was a sacrifice they were willing to make. They would give him his string of breadcrumbs—his fleeting, shallow victories.
He would never even know he was lost.
