Okay! After I asked people to vote for either a now-days phic or a Erik/Christine under-the-opera phic, and they did, I went ahead and did what I warned them I was going to do... I ignored them completely. Anyway, here it is. And its alright if some of it doesn't make sense. It doesn't make sense to me either.

Chapter One: Cursed With Immortality

The impossible happened.

It wasn't something incredibly, majorly impossible, not something that would affect the course of the universe or anything like that. But it did involve some rather strange circumstances, which I will now proceed to relate to you.

A man named Erik, who's last name is lost to us through the capriciousness of fiction, was cursed. It wasn't your normal sort of curse, the sort of Egypt-y, Pharaoh-y curse, but rather one that, had it been given to most people, would have been looked upon as the most incredible good luck.

Erik was cursed with living forever.

Doomed to immortality.

At first he didn't really mind. He simply shrugged and went on his way. Even then, he was fully cognizant of his stature as one of the greatest fictional characters ever created— he was an intelligent man, not one to deny the truth when it stared him in the face— he had even had an almost fatherly relationship with Gaston Leroux, who called him into being and gave him a name.

He'd had a terrible past, of course, though for the life of him he couldn't remember details. And the events of the recent months had been heart-wrenching, soul-tearing, life-threatening, hellish. He had fallen in love. He had been rejected. He had been hunted down. And now he would never die.

He lived below the Opera house. This detail is well known to pretty much everyone who has ever heard of the Phantom of the Opera. Even those who don't know his name, knew where he lived. It was mostly by the grace of God and Gaston Leroux that the Opera underneath which he resided was also fictional, and had never truly entered reality, as he had— else he would almost certainly have been bombarded by wave after wave of fans and well-wishers.

No, that would come later.

He lived on for some years in the same place, that refuge from reality, until by a startling set of circumstances, involving a book-burning, he was forced to enter, for a time at least, into the world which we inhabit. He thought it was a temporary move. He wasn't entirely correct.

He left the Opera Populaire behind and emerged into England of the late 1950s, into a bookshop, to be precise, where a shipment of new copies of "The Phantom of the Opera," had just arrived. The clerk was surprised to see him climb out of the box, but, being British and not easily swayed, didn't make much of a fuss.

And so Erik went on his way.

He lived in England for another twenty-five years, during which time he finally began to notice that he never seemed to get any older. It was then that he began to worry about this curse of immortality— it seemed to be working. He had never been able to ascertain the full extent to which this curse would continue— he hoped, one day, to find a way to make it abate, and then he could sink down into the blessed oblivion of death, leaving all his troubles far behind—

Meanwhile, he moved to New York.

He found himself with a distinctly troubling lack of funds. For some time he wandered about the homeless on the streets of the great city, when one day, as he passed by a theatre on Broadway which had an poster out for a certain musical, it suddenly struck him that he was famous.

His subsequent rush into the theatre and demanding that the actor playing him be replaced was of course discounted, and nearly landed him in jail. But the actor was a nice, middle-aged Briton who begged the audience to transfer their attention to his understudy, whilst the actor himself took Erik out for a bite to eat. During supper he questioned Erik closely about his past, and afterwards sent him on his way with a few dollars in his pocket— he had purchased Erik's fedora. He said it matched the part.

And the next day someone found Erik and recommended a nice publicist where he could go and get himself some well-deserved fame.

And so the years wound on. Erik found himself quite famous in his own way, giving seminars on the intimate workings of opera, writing music on occasion, showing up at Social Functions, and just generally out-living the daylights out of people. He even had fans, a few refined people who didn't attempt to touch him, only begged him for his autograph, which he always gave— scrawling the four letters of his name with his left hand, using the specially-provided red ink pen. Every once in a while someone would ask him shyly to sign it "O.G." He usually fixed these persons with an inimical stare— if they backed off, which they usually did, he would sign his name— if they stared back, he would accede to their request. It was a sort of game he played to ascertain the strength of people's characters.

And then, after quite some time, tragedy struck.

There had been a filmic version in the works for some time, but Erik's publicist told him not to worry about it, as it would probably never come to fruition. Erik had taken his advice— he didn't worry about it. Erik never went to movies, or to the theatre— he had never, apart from his brief intrusion on the first matinee, even seen the much-discussed musical version. He owned a worn first edition of the original book, but had avoided all subsequent explorations of his character entirely. He was not a star. He was not a celebrity. He was not famous. He was only Erik.

Now, though, things began to change.

It was subtle at first.

There was of course an outrage over the possibility of some Spaniard being cast as the Phantom—

And there was the outrage over the idea of the American ingenue being cast as Christine—

There was a much smaller outrage over the casting of Raoul, because only a very few people actually cared about his part—

There was the usual bickering between studio heads and directors, between directors and writers, between writers and the Originator, who had two last names to his credit, as well as a title, and so lorded it over everyone else, between the Originator and the proposed actors, between the proposed actors and the other proposed actors—

Then, quite suddenly, it was real, and quickly it became a threat to Erik's privacy.

From the moment the final casting was announced, Erik began to feel eyes on him when he walked down the street. Not the eyes he was used to, either— young eyes. Female eyes. Eyes who knew who the main actor was and who were suitably impressed at seeing the real Phantom of the Opera.

Filming progressed, amidst the usual squabbles, and the fangirls became a definite nuisance. They even took on a new spelling for themselves, "phangirls," as though they were a different species from all the other young morons running around chasing after Hugh Jackman. Which, to be perfectly blunt, they were. Erik's phangirls were even more lecherous— Jackman was at least, to some extent, protected by the sanctity of his marriage— Erik had no such commitment.

As time wound on, commitment began to sound very alluring—

Ah well. He could deal with this. It was nothing too major, he could handle himself around a few hundred females. He was the bloody Phantom of the Opera, after all.

Then the film opened, and in one night Erik's world went straight to the fiery depths of Hades.

Now he did not even dare to walk down the street. He didn't dare open the door. They had found out, somehow, where he lived, and they were there, all the time, clustered around his doorstep and around the windows. He invested in heavy curtains. He stocked up on tinned food. He wrapped himself in his cloak and stared with bleary eyes at the television footage of the man who was pretending to be the Phantom, obviously perfectly at ease with the female adoration that surrounded him on all sides—

Erik began to hate that man with a passion.

Tears blurred his vision.

He had spent so long cooped up on his own below the Opera—

Now he was here, in a different world, and yet trapped again—

Trapped he was, and all alone—

Sydney the publicist had to come and break him out. She couldn't have done it, even, except for the all-important fact that he had a seminar to give that afternoon and if he didn't show, it meant the loss of several thousand dollars. So she found couple of policemen and flirted with them enough to make them follow her, then enlisted their help in beating back the crowd of teenaged girls that clogged the entrance to Erik's apartment. A minimal amount of force was used. A few of the girls had bruises to explain when they got home, but they were happy. It was worth it.

As Erik escaped, head ducked low under his hood, one hand over his mask, one of the girls who had clambered onto the shoulders of her friends, launched herself into space, overreaching the arms of the policemen and falling in a lump at Erik's feet. He stared down at her, aghast. She stared up at him in rapture.

"I read the book I saw the movie I'm gonna go see the play I have three copies of the book my dad owns the old movie I have a picture signed by Gerry Butler I hate the girl who played Christine don't you?"

In some consternation he attempted to step over her, but her arm reached out and she caught him by the ankle, toppling him over onto the pavement.

There was a shout from the midst of the crowd.

"Get him now, girls!"

They were like animals!

Animals in human form!

Never had he seen anything so awful!

At the same time he was almost turned on, and this above all things made him sick to his stomach. With the assistance of the policemen he finally lurched to his feet and embarked on a stumbling run in the direction of the waiting taxi, the girls chasing after him, cries of joy on their lips.

"Oh he's so tall—"

"He's so handsome—"

"I'd never reject him—"

"Phantom! Come back!"

That was what got to him the most— that they didn't even know his name—

When at last he arrived at the auditorium where he was to speak, he was still disheveled and wide-eyed, despite all Sydney's efforts to put him back together in the taxi. He emerged from the car in a state of shock, his knees threatening to buckle under him. Sydney supported him and shoved a bundle of papers into his right hand.

"I wrote you a new speech," she said, chewing her gum ferociously. "The managers asked for it. You know, after the film and all. I wish you would have said something when it opened. Its been a week, I've got all sorts of people asking what you thought."

"A week?" Erik murmured. "Only a week?" He sighed deeply. "It seems an eternity."

"Yeah." She smacked him on the back. "Out you go, my man. Do me proud."

She shoved him onto the stage. There was an immense roaring sound, like the ocean on a bad day— it took him several minutes to realize that it was the crowd, the audience, and they were applauding him. It had never been like this. Trying to recover, he smoothed his hair back with one hand, the other still clutching the papers—

The podium, where was the podium—

Over there—

He made his way towards it.

The applause didn't stop.

He reached it, gulping, gasping for breath, trying to bring his heart rate down once more. That whole experience with the girls— it had not been good for a man his age—

Girls—

A whole bunch of girls—

A million girls—

Definitely not good for a man his age.

He fought to bring his breathing under control. The audience still hadn't stopped.

He placed the speech on the podium and bent towards the microphone.

"Good evening," he said, his voice sounding more like a breath. The applause only deepened, broadened like a river, flowed straight at him and tried to steal his mind and composure away. He thought he would drown.

"Please," he said, "please stop."

They didn't, and so he took the opportunity to look over the printed pages Sydney had slipped to him.

"Greatly pleased—" he murmured almost silently to himself, reading the words over, "over the portrayal— incredibly accurate— singing voice of such power— the romance between Miss Daae and myself was depicted in a most tasteful manner— good lord." He looked quickly up, glancing towards the wings, where Sydney stood, shrug-ready.

"I never even saw the thing!" he shouted at her. The hall suddenly rang with silence.

Sydney motioned at him. He turned back to the audience, at a loss. There was no way he was about to endorse something he had never even seen, and so he had nothing to say.

Somewhere back in the audience, some female started to clap and say his name.

"E-rik! E-rik! E-rik! E-rik!"

To his horror, the pool of bodies around the girl started to join in.

"E-rik! E-rik! E-rik! E-rik!"

At least they had his name right.

The girl three rows from the front looked utterly confused. Who, she was probably wondering, were they shouting for? Determined to vindicate her new-found love, she started her own chant—

"Phan-tom! Phan-tom! Phan-tom! Phan-tom!"

Erik groaned, and then groaned again when this chant was picked up more readily than the first. Apparently the majority of the audience had only seen the movie. They didn't know the real Erik at all.

The chanting grew in intensity until it assaulted Erik's ears and sanity.

"PHAN-TOM! PHAN-TOM! PHAN-TOM! PHAN-TOM!"

He gritted his teeth as anger surged through him. It was too much. Far, far too much. First the phangirls outside his apartment, now this—

He looked up. There was no chandelier ready to hand here, an oversight which he much regretted.

There was, however, a giant set of speakers, intended to assist the sound system. They were huge, and probably weighed several hundred pounds at least.

They were calling to him, also.

"Oh, Erik— Eeeeeeerik—"

When in need, reasoned the erstwhile Phantom of the Opera, work with what you have.

With a swirl of his cloak he had left the stage, so it stood, utterly empty and bereft of interest.