CHeSHiRe-CaT
A Curious Breed
Allo, all XD My second one-shot, though this is extremely longer than what a regular one-shot intends (twelve pages on MS Word). I was inspired to write it when my friend and writer, Serpent Syra, had his thread rated one-star by a random, *mysterious* loser who did so for no apparent reason (excuse me, this happened twice), and he is not the only writer that has had this happened to their deserving works. Anyway, this is a serious/comical/twisted parody of "The Phantom of the Opera," and it is different in the aspect that the phantom kills people if they do not pay him AND spreads lies of bad reviews fer yer play/opera/whatever D: Just read.
In the early days of Serebeth, before a plague of vile beasts called Noobs infested the land and whittled it down to a village, it was a thriving town in the center of a wonderful, emerald country. Upon the hay-strewn cobblestone of the streets of Serebeth, merchants, traders, and city folk would gather ‘round to bargain in bazaars, flocking people from every corner of the valley. Architecture, according to Joseph, the founder of the town, was everything. Buildings, towers, and monuments were erected in the finest elegance, drawing all to the beauty of the clock tower, the town hall, and the townhouse squares with motels of luxury. Not only was it a glorious place to thrive, but rare Pokémon inhabited lush forests, caves, and lakes near the area, which brought visitors to capture the creatures.
A subdivision village of Serebeth, known as the Foréms, was not inhabited, but a series of huts lined up in columns were places where every race, ethnicity, and personality could meet with others of their kind in individual houses to discuss matters on which they loved. A few fights would break out every now and then, but it was good all around. However, we must turn our attention to one of the greatest masterpieces of this magnificent city that shimmered with the candle lanterns in the romantic, starry evening. A great theater and opera house, known as the Salem Performing Arts Foundation (or “Spaf” to the individuals that knew it well) was situated near the west sector of the city, in the same neighborhood as the great town hall.
It was one of the only theater houses that had allowed Pokémon to enter its warm, spacious coliseum with the guests that attended plays and operas, including a house in the capital city of the country. It was exceptionally well-off, for there was over three hundred rows of thirty velvet red chairs, a great balcony that extended over the bottom audience, and thousands upon thousands of eccentric technical ropes, pulleys, etcetera that strung a show together. In fact, some say that there was so many tricks to the theater, one could not have comprehended all of them, for some were kept secret from wandering eyes.
Only the rich and the wealthy were able to afford to come see the show that was acted out every third Friday evening of each month. The bowl-like interior and the detailed and fine exterior of the opera house were suited for those dwelling in royalty. Divine facades flowed charmingly outside of the entire building, hand-carved and chiseled from only the richest marble, while the inside was pouring with lavishing wooden boxes, seats, the stage, planks, and even murals molded of the most incomparable birch, all pulling together into one of the greatest theaters at the beginning and end of the red curtains.
However, it was not always this way. At one time, it had been a little less charming than it was now, but still very desirable for those who hungered to watch drama being acted and sung upon by the greatest troupes. It was one night that during a play, one of the lantern boxes at the forefront of the stage had fallen from initial stress onto the platform. The trail of fire that seeped from the broken glass had crept up the curtains, and before everyone knew it, Spaf was singing to the very bricks that were laid within the walls.
Because wood was the primary structure of the theater, much of it was fathomed to flames, crumpling to ashes. Hundreds of people were evacuated that dreadful night, and many burned to death in the massacre. In fact, it was said that almost the entire cast of the play that night had succumbed to perishing within the burling blaze of Hell that overcame and swallowed the house whole…
…except for one.
Nearly ten years after a wealthy aristocratic family bought the burnt theater, it was reconstructed to be more prepared for a regal, flaring finale as it had once before. Before the family had bought the house, however, catacombs were placed underneath the sewers where the old theater had once stood, and buried there were the bodies of the actors. The family had no idea that this was so, as the only thing in the deed was the opera house itself. And it was most refreshing to have it back, for Serebeth had suffered financial pain and loss from the monetary blow caused by the loss of interest in the place.
Once more it was raised like a phoenix, resurrected for the people once more. Upon the twelfth month of its successful reopening, thousands of cordial invites were sent to every Rich Uncle Penny-Bags throughout the nation, uniting the horridly snobby and famed individuals to the Salem house. For a new musical was brought to the theater by a most popular band of artists, actors, and singers, known as “La Fartélla.”
Tristine Celenburg, a motivational actress known nation-wide for her spectacular talents in previous shows, was set to act upon the familiar stage she had once performed on when her uncle, Joseph Celenburg (the founder of Serebeth), had introduced her to the world of drama. Before the first house burnt down, she had lived in Serebeth all her life, and was brought up by her uncle when her father died of rheumatic fever. She had never known her mother, and her father was everything she had ever had. He had even taught her to sing the wonderful music of the plays they went and watched together.
When Joseph adopted his niece, he continued this tradition of traveling to the theater every month for the girl to see the spectacular comedies, drama, and plays set there. One day when Tristine was sixteen, he had heard her singing to herself as she bathed in the bathroom one day, and as he walked by the closed door and heard the most heavenly voice upon the earth, he was then determined to give her an opportunity; a new meaning for her life. Always she had loved the theater, and always aspired to be an actress one day.
Joseph took her to the producers of an incoming troupe (the popular one you had heard about before, though not so well-known until later), and she was immediately cast as one of the lead roles. She quite fondly remembered a wonderful young boy named Jean Simon Lemay, who was her most faithful companion offstage, giggling as they made fun of the faces of opera singers as they belted, sneaking off to the catwalks above the stage during intermissions, and helping each other to memorize their lines, for both of them were leads in the play. Apparently, they were to kiss in the final act of the play.
Unfortunately, Jean had a miserable life. Tristine pitied him, for his parents had died as well as hers, though there was a very dark past to it. His mother and his father were both very powerful people in the drama business, and knew everything about theaters, plays, and the professionalism involved. He had been taught everything they had learned and more, for he always had a love for the theaters they performed in. Sadly, his mother had actually died during a play elsewhere, during an act where they were upon a balcony, and the poor lady fell as the entire structure collapsed in unstable mistake. In madness, his father, who was managing the stage at this time, could not live without her, and so took his life above the theater, hanging himself by a pulley rope as though they were the gallows. But this, it seemed, troubled Jean little, for he was obsessed and head over heels infatuated with Tristine.
On the night of the dress rehearsal before the show, Tristine and Jean revealed their true feelings for each other, and immediately fell in love. To show their bond and trust, they gave each other a Pokémon; Tristine gave Jean a Drowzee named Hugo, and the boy gave her a rather meager female Feebas named Cosette. And very funnily, Tristine did not care for the ugliness of the fish. She adored it with all her heart, and treasured the Pokémon from the moment she received it. Tristine was always so compassionate, and cared not for the appearance of such hideous things, for if there was marvelous sorts of traits on the inside, she would cherish it. It was this that Jean admired, and one of the many reasons why he loved her so. He had called her his “angel of music.”
But something happened after the dress rehearsal. It occurred within the play that took place directly afterwards. As the two lovers recited their monologues respectively, gazing into each others’ beautiful eyes, one of the lanterns upon the stage crashed to the ground, send a spray of snaking flames that ran up along the curtains of the playhouse. It was indeed this night that the fire that burnt down the theater had happened, and the night Tristine would ever see her beloved Jean again. He had instructed her to order Cosette to use Water Gun if any fire would reach her, and to take a hidden path to the roof of the house, where she could climb down the ladder stairs that ran along the side of the building. She had been one of the only ones to survive in the troupe, except for a few of the major actors. Jean was left behind with Hugo the Drowzee amidst the fire, and so, as she believed, perished in the fire.
Afterwards, Tristine mourned for her love, but in memory of his undying devotion, she took Cosette, packed her bags, and told her loving uncle good-bye, for she was joining the traveling acting troupe as they scattered across the nation to regain their cast, and to grow relationships with a new set of persons. For a long time, she never saw the horizon of serenity that was Serebeth, until it was decided that they would perform in the new opera house that was built but a year before. She looked forward to returning to the theater, and seeing her uncle. However, she regretted coming back to those dark memories of her one true love dying in a horrible state, being selfless and giving her a route to escape.
Upon the troupe’s arrival to perform La Fartélla, a lot about Tristine had changed. She had grown into a well-mannered, polite, and lovely young woman, though she was not the only one transformed. Cosette the Feebas, out of the pure love Tristine granted the Pokémon, had evolved into a startlingly fabulous and stunning Milotic. In fact, ever since Cosette had evolved, she had been featured in many of their further performances, starting a trend of plays and musicals that used Pokémon during acts as performers, and even for special effects, such as sprays of fountainous water, or even illusion tricks that made the concert seem very real.
One night, during rehearsal for La Fartélla, Tristine was practicing aquatic techniques with Cosette onstage, her silky, tawny hair cascading over the white dress that matched with her slim figure and her dazzling blue eyes. The Milotic was attempting to twist a Water Pulse from her mouth, and cause it to circle her own elegant, snake-like shape in a ribbon of a levitating, rushing stream. There was a great, baffling burst of laughter in one of the boots above the stage that made Cosette swirl the water back between her lips, and caused Tristine’s curiosity for eavesdropping to stir. The young woman quietly motioned for the gargantuan worm-like Pokémon to slink backstage while she climbed to the booth tower. Cosette obeyed, and squirmed her way into the rest of the cast, her scales and fin on her tail wagging strikingly as she did so.
Tristine then ran up the stairs of the tower as quietly as she could, taking glances around her to make sure none would spot her. Carefully, she found the wooden doorway to the booth, and sidled on the edge of the wall it was against, not letting a breath come out of her body. Inside, she recognized the voices as the owners of the theater, laughing hysterically at something that must have been obviously funny. She listened on:
“…and so—excuse me—” one of the voices coughed, bleating with curdled laughter. “So, they said Syrah was driven out of here by the Phantom!”
Talk of this “phantom” increased her inquisitiveness…
“But that doesn’t make sense!” a squeaky voice declared. “The Phantom isn’t real at all. Or at least, he’s some sort of raving lunatic that nobody should take seriously.”
“Well,” the deeper voice said, “Ever since Syrah came from Anna Harbor to buy out the burnt theater and rebuilt it, he had been stalked by someone who claimed himself to be ‘The Phantom of the Monostar.’ I think it’s a bunch of codswallop in my opinion.”
“But it’s true that he sold us Spaf, Jim. There’s got to be a reason for it—I mean—the man was shaking from head to toe when he came to us with the deed!”
“It is true he was very pale… But I suppose it’s no harm in telling you that Syrah himself is a madman, for he took this ‘phantom’”—here he mocked the name—“ever so seriously. Said that if he didn’t pay his ransom for the month, the phantom would come and ruin his backdrop, and spread those wretched one-star reviews!”
“Oh, YES. Those star ratings, mm…very influential to this business,” replied the high-pitched voice, in a very stern air. “But…what do you mean by ‘ransom?’ And…how did the phantom actually come in contact with Syrah—I mean—phantoms are supposed to be…well…phantom-ish, aren’t they? I’m sure they don’t make everyday appearances.”
“Syrah told me that the Phantom of the Monostar sent him a bit of parchment in an envelope stamped in the wax mold of a star with a skull dead center of it. The phantom told him that if he wanted to run his theater, he had to pay him some major mullah in order to keep some unfortunate events from happening to the theater. Bah, in the last performance of ‘Rhapsody,’ Syrah told me that he hadn’t paid the phantom, and in result, his backdrop was vandalized, and every brochure for the play was printed with poor one-star reviews that made everyone believe it was utter crap. In my opinion, I think it would have been crap. This phantom can’t be so tough.”
“Do you suppose…the phantom will be after us next?”
“Shut up, Durkee. Of course he won’t. Syrah is just lying to us to make us think he went down in a dramatic force instead of his true failure, ‘Rhapsody.’”
By this information, Tristine’s ears ached with wandering mystery of the phantom. Was there a phantom in the Spaf? Certainly, the former owner, Syrah, could have been lying about it; a hoax, perhaps. But Durkee Slug and Jim Snort were rather dull and dim-witted, and she had known Syrah as the most fantastic owner and director Serebeth had ever had. Why would someone lie about such a thing? Suddenly, she heard shifting in the room, and she was immediately thrust out of her thoughts and into plans of getting away. She turned against the wall and looked around. The only thing she saw for a moment was the stairway and the entrance to the booth. She could hear the men getting up off of their fat as*ses, and her situation grew tense. Where was she to go? Surely, they would find her overhearing their conversation, and perhaps do something drastic with her.
She peered around quickly, but still, there was nothing she could see but the two directions intended for this part of the theater…wait—wait a moment—she did spot something. There was a mirror hanging on the wall behind her…but, this looking-glass was very peculiar. There seemed to be a seam of purple material jutting out from behind it. Desperate, she quickly took the mirror off of the nail it hung on and placed it on the wall she had been laying against, watching as a violet curtain unfolded before her eyes. She could hear the two men talking again, so she instantly tore her fingers past the curtain, and there, as though by a miracle, was a square tunnel. She clambered inside as speedily as she could, even scraping her knee slightly against the rough edge of the hole. The curtain swung past her, and just in the nick of time, she was hidden as she heard the men progress down the stairs, talking about meatballs, or something like that.
The moment she heard the tower door close, Tristine let out a sigh of relief. However, she felt a great stinging, and when she laid eyes upon the cut on her leg, groaned with dismay. It was then that she noticed the tunnel, and that it had gone further back then she had thought. Where did it lead to? She stopped tending to her slight injury, curiosity devouring her once again, and stood up in the passageway. Her dress falling to her ankles, she began to walk carefully along the passage, into the belly of the beast.
Slowly and steadily as she rambled through the tunnel, it began to decline gradually, and soon, it transitioned from a walkway, to stairs. Still going further down, Tristine thought as if she must have gone past the floor of the stage already, and heading underneath the orchestra pit. The walls were clammy with vapor, and bricks were the only thing she saw for a very long time. Then, she began to travel down spiraled staircases that flowed down into surely what she recognized as the sewers beneath Serebeth.
Filthy, nasty water sprayed from nearby pipes into a river that ran along the depths of the place, domes of cement spreading out above her as she walked along a great, long catwalk made of metal. She clung to the railing with disgust as she continued to walk, seeing rotten fruits, fabric, miscellaneous objects, and even browned floaters bobbing in the river of grime. She was compelled to turn back, and just reunite with her beloved Cosette. That is, until she heard the melodic symphony of an organ blaring loudly further into the sewers. At this, Tristine’s prying eavesdropper had jerked control from her, and she wandered strongly into the abyss of waste, and the fog of music that mystified her mind.
After turning past a few corners of stone wall, she soon came to one, large dome underneath the ground, granite shafts speckled all over the rounded ceiling, pouring sludge in waterfalls—down, down, down—into the swirling pools of muck. In the center of the dome, there was a great, metal platform that was as round as a coin, and chopped with rods, as though the pedestal was a strainer for liquid to run through. Upon the very heart of this platform, there sat, as Tristine had heard, an unfathomably large piano organ, with pipes stretching to the ceiling above. An oaken bench was seated in front of the organ, and sitting on the bench was a man, as she gazed. He had sleek, black hair that draped down to the bottom of his neck, and from his shoulders down, he was dressed in a great, black cloak. His fingers were tapping wildly all over the keys of the organ, blowing horns of sweet music into the air.
It seemed there was a Pokémon beside him, standing patiently and willfully as its master continued to play the organ. Its head was very similar to that of a human’s, except that its ears were erect on the top of its head, and its nose was large and pointed. The creature’s skin was tinted a potent gold-yellow color, while it stood on its three-toed hind feet, a ruffle of white fur meshed nicely around its own neck. It seemed to be holding…a pendent of some sort by a string… It was a Hypno.
Strange paper mechanisms lined around the platform, serving as walls for the organ player and his Pokémon. They were bustling and heaving about, scraping paper through winding rolls of ink that mark words and pictures upon the manuscripts, such as a machine in a printing press would do. From where she was standing, Tristine could make out some of the writing on the flying papers, including, “It was horrible! It made my mother puke,” “I would have rather kissed your great-great-aunt than watch Le Fartélla,” and “Your nose makes me smile. LE FARTÉLLA MAKES MOI ANGRY.” She even thought she spotted an insignia of some kind on the rolling parchment…a lone star…
A strange feeling of familiarity rang in Tristine’s head. She felt a stabbing fear as the organ sounded on. Something inside her made her perspire. The Hypno was first to notice her. It turned its raised head toward her with tiny, black pupils. Its white eyes widened to a gargantuan size, and a look of ferocity burrowed out of its face. It immediately took to coming straight toward her while the man continued to pound upon the organ. The Hypno drew closer—closer still—making her heart race with fear and wonder. It was only six feet away from her, when at the moment it stopped dead in its tracks, the organ belted a howling wave of a malevolent, yet…enchanting measure of pipe conjecture.
In a swipe of powerful movement, the man at the bench swirled his cloak about, and in a flurry of black fabric and staggered walking, he came before Tristine. She stared onward with shock at the features of his face; his skin was fair and warm-looking, with a handsome look in his eye as he looked down upon her with great interest…but plastered to the right side of his face was a mask of some sort, that hid only that particular half of his face. It seemed to consist of a bony substance, but Tristine, through her clever studies as a girl, recognized it as part of a Marowak skull. The man, as she started to become bewildered and frightened, seem to gaze upon her in the very same way. But…something about him was so horrifyingly proverbial…
“Tr…Tr-Tristine?” the man stammered, his voice thick with a tone suited for a king, but in a manner that was strange and faltered.
“How…do you know my name?” she stammered, speaking the first words she had said since she had seen Cosette. She kept looking into his face. His eyes, his mouth, his hair…she tried to search it for things she remembered. She tried to snatch up memories that wheeled in her pool of thought, but she couldn’t place it right. Something was very bizarre. Something was missing. Who was this man? And the answer came to her when she looked away from the man’s taken aback expression, to the Pokémon standing directly behind him. The Hypno. It…must have evolved from a Drowzee. This stranger knew her name…Drowzee…everything was piecing together…everything was joining in unison to scream one response.
“H-u…H-u…Hugo?” she blurted to the Hypno.
It nodded.
A feeling of overwhelming apprehension sprung within Tristine’s heart, as though a trap had caught something worth while. She was stunned. She looked back to the man.
“Jean.”
The couple instantaneously clung to each other in the most loving, heart-wrenching embrace they would ever feel in their entire lives. She kissed the lips of her lover, tears beginning to stream down her face as they held each other in the center of the pouring sewers. Warmth pressed in every molecule of their running blood, contractions of wonderful reuniting and loyalty pumped through their hearts, and Tristine began to sob on Jean’s shoulder with coughing laughs of excitement, droplets of happiness trickling everywhere. But…the visor of bone…caught her attention once more, and she looked at it, puffy and red-eyed. Jean returned her stare with his own.
“Why…are you wearing this…mask, my love?” she asked, her voice trembling.
“It is not important, my dear Tristine,” Jean replied, grabbing her and holding her in his arms once more. He too began to cry, and wept over her neck, kissing it and whispering softly, “My…angel of music…sing with me…sing my song with me…”
Suddenly, Tristine jerked out of his reach. Not in hate, but…disbelief. It was all beginning to make sense. She looked at his appearance; the cloak, the mask, this entire hidden place underneath the Spaf.
“You,” Tristine muttered. “You…y-you’re the Phantom of the Monostar.”
Jean did not reply to this remark, but because of his silence, it was confirmed to be so. Tristine wasn’t sure about him anymore…the rumors of what he had done to Syrah…the humility and pain he caused the poor man. That was not the Jean she had known. She began to walk backwards, away from him…away from his seat of sweet music’s throne. He did not move a single muscle as she tried to get away. She wanted to leave. But…something in her mind was ensnared. She felt it twitch in her brain, and it did not permit her to go. Tristine swung her head around, and saw the Hypno. It was wavering the pendulum…slowly…hypnotically… It was lulling her into a trance, and she could not let go…
She had the burning desire to run back to the phantom. Her nerves pulled her into his reach once again. She felt as though she was drowning in a pool of euphoria, drifting away into a sullen love of supremacy. Jean began to sing…he started on a note, and Tristine’s voice cracked, but cleared…cleared to sing…
The phantom pulled her closer, Hypno enveloping Tristine deeper into the trance…
There was a split second Tristine remembered who she was, and what was happening. Without thinking, she flung her hand onto the bone of the mask clinging to the phantom’s face. She ripped it off, sending a great, horrific yell of dark lunacy into the air. Before she saw anything, her eyes shot off, and she plummeted into darkness…
“Wha…? Where am I?”
Tristine awoke immediately. She bolted upright, when she realized she was lying on the stage of the theater. Lights were dimmed everywhere, and only a shimmering spotlight focused directly on her was the only source of illumination. The ends of her dress were splotched with soot and grime, and her shoes reeked of something horrible. She leaned over, and there, curled in a ball of soft, dozing splendor was Cosette, with her head pinned within her long, slender body, beautiful eyes closed, and two fins hanging from either side of her head, heaving up and down slowly as the Pokémon breathed.
Tristine woke Cosette up that night, as the entire theater was abandoned. She then left, struggling through the darkness back onto the streets of Serebeth, making her way to Uncle Joseph’s house with the Milotic on hand, leaving the spotlight to sit there, cornered on the stage…
It was performing night. Everyone was anxious, particularly Tristine. She and Cosette had mastered their scenes for La Fartélla, sure, and everything seemed hunky-dory. But it wasn’t. Jim and Durkee had gotten an envelope…a letter of parchment as they had talked about that night she had overheard them…and met with the phantom. It had said that the phantom was displeased with the upcoming cast of La Fartélla, and demanded that random people be scooped off of the streets to replace all the cast. If they did not do so by the time of the opera, the phantom would “take precautions to see that the audience is distracted by something a bit more deadly.” Along with a comment that made them all shudder…
…the one-star reviews. Lé shiver.
“But…we can’t just pick people off the streets,” cried Jim. “It is illegal to pick up hobos during this season!”
“Indeed,” concurred Durkee. “I concur. Though picking up just hobos would be a bit biased. It’s unfair for the other pathetic losers that we must choose!”
Listening to them ramble on about hobos’ rights made Tristine want to murder them gleefully. However, she was more afraid of what Jean…or the phantom would do to them. After all, Jim and Durkee were too dim-witted to even think of recasting the show at the last minute, and between their disbelief of the phantom and the privileges of bums, they would never be able to tell their heads from their own rears. There was nothing she could do, but wait…
Wait for the phantom to appear…
The curtains went up at six o’clock exactly. Countless people sat in the crown of seats that was the entire Spaf, a few murmurs of comments on the play and other such things passing amongst many people. The countess and the jester were already on the stage performing their musical number together at the symphony of the music. The owners sat in the same booth Tristine had seen them in the other night, watching not the play, but everything else. Apparently, the mere rumor of the phantom frightened them, and they grew as tense as muscles of a rhinoceros. Meanwhile, the mysterious figure himself was creeping slowly from a tunnel on a ceiling catwalk above the crowd.
Tristine knew she and Cosette would not be able to make their appearance in the play. What mattered was what she was to do. She could tell by the way this “new” Jean had tricked her and fooled her with hypnosis that he was no longer her lover, but a heart of darkness that spewed anger from every nook in his mind. What was behind the mask that had made him go ballistic? What was he trying to hide from her? However, she pushed back these questions, for fear that she was beginning to grow a soft spot for this killer/insulting reviewer.
When time for her cue came, she snuck off with Cosette up into the rafters of the set. She remembered when she and Jean would climb there together, to talk of their days, how well they were doing in rehearsal, and to tell jokes. But those memories were shattered. He was mutated by this new evil, as she comprehended while she hopped onto the Milotic’s back, letting it slither its way around the wood works of the set. She knew exactly where the phantom was heading. She needed to stop him before he reached his destination.
Cosette pulled her along the planks until they reached an entryway that led to the chandelier maintenance area. Tristine recalled when one of their repair men had climbed to the chandelier, and had actually fainted atop, fallen from above, and landed squarely onto a seat below, killing himself instantly. This was where they were heading, and the account of the repair man’s death just struck fear into for the worst. But it had been a glorious place as well…
It was where Tristine and Jean had sat, and professed their love for each other, and where they exchanged the Pokémon that would become each other’s best companion. They were going through the passage now, and she could already smell the dust that was burning on the bulbs of the chandelier. She knew the final showdown was coming. But why had he twisted into this figure of malignant ooze? Was it perhaps…the events of when she thought he had died? How had he survived the fire, while nearly the entire cast had been singed limp to the floor? She had to confront him.
The Milotic dragged its body up onto a ring-like floor that was extending from the wall. The great, magnificent window on the ceiling directly above her allowed the moon to cast its azure brilliance around the ring, and the catwalk that hung from ropes in the middle. She then leapt off of Cosette, and sidled along the ring, for the only thing that separated her from that catwalk was the gaping ravine that was situated over the crowd below. With her eyes trailing and her legs moving, she swiftly took care of her problem and achieved her goal in getting to the hanging platform. She dared not to look down.
Directly across from her, at the end of the path, there was the largest, grandest chandelier in all the land, far and wide. Candles burned in the dozens of sockets on each hoop that connected in a gorgeous exhibit of light. But a dark silhouette was moving toward the chandelier, and from the dim outline cast by the candles, he was holding a knife. There was no time to waste. Her moment had come.
Tristine sprang from her position, flying across the ropes like an eagle darting for its prey. The phantom was already coming to the chandelier. He was reaching his hand for the supporting cable. She pumped her legs as she had never done before, and as she came bolting to where the phantom was, he looked up with fright and panic. The woman slammed her body full-force into the man, knocking him down on the platform next to the chandelier.
He attempted to regain his balance and support, but Tristine threw herself onto him, pushing his head over the edge of the platform. As the chandelier swayed and flew, glass crystals knocking against each other during the struggle, the crowd glanced up and gasped. The phantom was trying to raise the knife to the wire, but Tristine was pushing against his arms, trying to veer it off into another direction. She glared into his half-masked face, testing her strength and pulling with all her might against the resistance of his muscles.
“WHY DID YOU DO IT?” Tristine screamed. “Why…WHY DID YOU BETRAY ME?”
“You were not falling for me!” Jean grunted. “YOU betrayed ME! You saw what a hideous beast I have become! YOU WERE NOT TO SEE IT!”
At this, out of pure spite and anger, Tristine grabbed the mask with one hand, and heaved it off of the platform into the crowd. She then gaped at Jean, for on the hidden part of his face was the morphed, melted disfigurement of pain and suffering. She almost wanted to choke at the sight of the half of his face, for she now realized that the fire had scarred him. This was what he was trying to hide from her.
“You…have seen a monster no one else shall see,” he groaned, sneering at her with both of his eyes, and that horrid face.
In a quick instant, he attempted to take this chance of surprise to slam the dagger in his hand to the cable of the chandelier, but Tristine caught his arm just in time, and with a fast reflex, retorted the blade on the phantom and stabbed him brutally in the chest. Blood squirted at the impact of the wound, and his anguished scream echoed throughout the entire theater. Red puddles began to billow into his dark clothing, and meanwhile, Jean began coughing up the scarlet liquid as well. The blow was traumatic. Tristine bent her head over his chest, and sobbed painfully, gripping the blade as tightly as she could.
“Wha…why did you…do it?” Jean barked, smothered in the hot, burning pain.
“I loved you!” Tristine cried. “I didn’t care that you were burnt! It was just like the day you gave me the Feebas! Feebas may be the ugliest Pokémon on the face of the Earth, but just because it’s that way doesn’t mean I didn’t love Cosette. She was a gift from…the one I loved the most.”
“M-me,” the phantom choked.
“NO! Not you,” Tristine croaked, yelling at him. “It was from JEAN! Not this monster who was going to kill a crowd out of the blue!”
At these words, the phantom fell silent, moving his lips in confusion. Then, a contraction rigorously rattled his insides, and he shivered. He let go of his last breath, and disappeared forever. The traitor was dead. Tristine stared upon his lifeless body in hesitation, but in a fit of maddening insanity, burst into a sobbing cry that rained tears onto his bloodstained cloak. His cold, disfigured face stared back at her. What had she done? Atrophy was beginning to set into her bones, and the play had been halted the moment the struggle began. All had their eyes on Tristine. She knew they were watching her…watching her as though she were on the stage, performing their giddy little plays while they mused at her with their disgusting faces.
In an act of mystifying psychosis, she pulled the blade out of her former lover’s left breast, and jumped onto the chandelier. The candles burned the soles of her feet, but she did not care. Then, it was soon all over as the fair lady grabbed the corpse of her love, placed him in her lap, lifted the blade to the supporting cord, and sliced away the rope. The chandelier plunged downward in what seemed like a terrifying slow-motion, reflected in the glazed eyes of the hopeless aristocrats, papers with one-star insignias falling…falling…falling…La Fartélla was indeed a most unpleasant show…
And the moral of the story is, my children: DO NOT go around voting random threads one star, because in the end, you will get yer just dessert when I come to your house and slit all your throats :3 Or, a crazy woman with a chandelier, dead corpse, and a knife will get yew D:
~*The Phantom of the Monostar
In the early days of Serebeth, before a plague of vile beasts called Noobs infested the land and whittled it down to a village, it was a thriving town in the center of a wonderful, emerald country. Upon the hay-strewn cobblestone of the streets of Serebeth, merchants, traders, and city folk would gather ‘round to bargain in bazaars, flocking people from every corner of the valley. Architecture, according to Joseph, the founder of the town, was everything. Buildings, towers, and monuments were erected in the finest elegance, drawing all to the beauty of the clock tower, the town hall, and the townhouse squares with motels of luxury. Not only was it a glorious place to thrive, but rare Pokémon inhabited lush forests, caves, and lakes near the area, which brought visitors to capture the creatures.
A subdivision village of Serebeth, known as the Foréms, was not inhabited, but a series of huts lined up in columns were places where every race, ethnicity, and personality could meet with others of their kind in individual houses to discuss matters on which they loved. A few fights would break out every now and then, but it was good all around. However, we must turn our attention to one of the greatest masterpieces of this magnificent city that shimmered with the candle lanterns in the romantic, starry evening. A great theater and opera house, known as the Salem Performing Arts Foundation (or “Spaf” to the individuals that knew it well) was situated near the west sector of the city, in the same neighborhood as the great town hall.
It was one of the only theater houses that had allowed Pokémon to enter its warm, spacious coliseum with the guests that attended plays and operas, including a house in the capital city of the country. It was exceptionally well-off, for there was over three hundred rows of thirty velvet red chairs, a great balcony that extended over the bottom audience, and thousands upon thousands of eccentric technical ropes, pulleys, etcetera that strung a show together. In fact, some say that there was so many tricks to the theater, one could not have comprehended all of them, for some were kept secret from wandering eyes.
Only the rich and the wealthy were able to afford to come see the show that was acted out every third Friday evening of each month. The bowl-like interior and the detailed and fine exterior of the opera house were suited for those dwelling in royalty. Divine facades flowed charmingly outside of the entire building, hand-carved and chiseled from only the richest marble, while the inside was pouring with lavishing wooden boxes, seats, the stage, planks, and even murals molded of the most incomparable birch, all pulling together into one of the greatest theaters at the beginning and end of the red curtains.
However, it was not always this way. At one time, it had been a little less charming than it was now, but still very desirable for those who hungered to watch drama being acted and sung upon by the greatest troupes. It was one night that during a play, one of the lantern boxes at the forefront of the stage had fallen from initial stress onto the platform. The trail of fire that seeped from the broken glass had crept up the curtains, and before everyone knew it, Spaf was singing to the very bricks that were laid within the walls.
Because wood was the primary structure of the theater, much of it was fathomed to flames, crumpling to ashes. Hundreds of people were evacuated that dreadful night, and many burned to death in the massacre. In fact, it was said that almost the entire cast of the play that night had succumbed to perishing within the burling blaze of Hell that overcame and swallowed the house whole…
…except for one.
Nearly ten years after a wealthy aristocratic family bought the burnt theater, it was reconstructed to be more prepared for a regal, flaring finale as it had once before. Before the family had bought the house, however, catacombs were placed underneath the sewers where the old theater had once stood, and buried there were the bodies of the actors. The family had no idea that this was so, as the only thing in the deed was the opera house itself. And it was most refreshing to have it back, for Serebeth had suffered financial pain and loss from the monetary blow caused by the loss of interest in the place.
Once more it was raised like a phoenix, resurrected for the people once more. Upon the twelfth month of its successful reopening, thousands of cordial invites were sent to every Rich Uncle Penny-Bags throughout the nation, uniting the horridly snobby and famed individuals to the Salem house. For a new musical was brought to the theater by a most popular band of artists, actors, and singers, known as “La Fartélla.”
Tristine Celenburg, a motivational actress known nation-wide for her spectacular talents in previous shows, was set to act upon the familiar stage she had once performed on when her uncle, Joseph Celenburg (the founder of Serebeth), had introduced her to the world of drama. Before the first house burnt down, she had lived in Serebeth all her life, and was brought up by her uncle when her father died of rheumatic fever. She had never known her mother, and her father was everything she had ever had. He had even taught her to sing the wonderful music of the plays they went and watched together.
When Joseph adopted his niece, he continued this tradition of traveling to the theater every month for the girl to see the spectacular comedies, drama, and plays set there. One day when Tristine was sixteen, he had heard her singing to herself as she bathed in the bathroom one day, and as he walked by the closed door and heard the most heavenly voice upon the earth, he was then determined to give her an opportunity; a new meaning for her life. Always she had loved the theater, and always aspired to be an actress one day.
Joseph took her to the producers of an incoming troupe (the popular one you had heard about before, though not so well-known until later), and she was immediately cast as one of the lead roles. She quite fondly remembered a wonderful young boy named Jean Simon Lemay, who was her most faithful companion offstage, giggling as they made fun of the faces of opera singers as they belted, sneaking off to the catwalks above the stage during intermissions, and helping each other to memorize their lines, for both of them were leads in the play. Apparently, they were to kiss in the final act of the play.
Unfortunately, Jean had a miserable life. Tristine pitied him, for his parents had died as well as hers, though there was a very dark past to it. His mother and his father were both very powerful people in the drama business, and knew everything about theaters, plays, and the professionalism involved. He had been taught everything they had learned and more, for he always had a love for the theaters they performed in. Sadly, his mother had actually died during a play elsewhere, during an act where they were upon a balcony, and the poor lady fell as the entire structure collapsed in unstable mistake. In madness, his father, who was managing the stage at this time, could not live without her, and so took his life above the theater, hanging himself by a pulley rope as though they were the gallows. But this, it seemed, troubled Jean little, for he was obsessed and head over heels infatuated with Tristine.
On the night of the dress rehearsal before the show, Tristine and Jean revealed their true feelings for each other, and immediately fell in love. To show their bond and trust, they gave each other a Pokémon; Tristine gave Jean a Drowzee named Hugo, and the boy gave her a rather meager female Feebas named Cosette. And very funnily, Tristine did not care for the ugliness of the fish. She adored it with all her heart, and treasured the Pokémon from the moment she received it. Tristine was always so compassionate, and cared not for the appearance of such hideous things, for if there was marvelous sorts of traits on the inside, she would cherish it. It was this that Jean admired, and one of the many reasons why he loved her so. He had called her his “angel of music.”
But something happened after the dress rehearsal. It occurred within the play that took place directly afterwards. As the two lovers recited their monologues respectively, gazing into each others’ beautiful eyes, one of the lanterns upon the stage crashed to the ground, send a spray of snaking flames that ran up along the curtains of the playhouse. It was indeed this night that the fire that burnt down the theater had happened, and the night Tristine would ever see her beloved Jean again. He had instructed her to order Cosette to use Water Gun if any fire would reach her, and to take a hidden path to the roof of the house, where she could climb down the ladder stairs that ran along the side of the building. She had been one of the only ones to survive in the troupe, except for a few of the major actors. Jean was left behind with Hugo the Drowzee amidst the fire, and so, as she believed, perished in the fire.
Afterwards, Tristine mourned for her love, but in memory of his undying devotion, she took Cosette, packed her bags, and told her loving uncle good-bye, for she was joining the traveling acting troupe as they scattered across the nation to regain their cast, and to grow relationships with a new set of persons. For a long time, she never saw the horizon of serenity that was Serebeth, until it was decided that they would perform in the new opera house that was built but a year before. She looked forward to returning to the theater, and seeing her uncle. However, she regretted coming back to those dark memories of her one true love dying in a horrible state, being selfless and giving her a route to escape.
Upon the troupe’s arrival to perform La Fartélla, a lot about Tristine had changed. She had grown into a well-mannered, polite, and lovely young woman, though she was not the only one transformed. Cosette the Feebas, out of the pure love Tristine granted the Pokémon, had evolved into a startlingly fabulous and stunning Milotic. In fact, ever since Cosette had evolved, she had been featured in many of their further performances, starting a trend of plays and musicals that used Pokémon during acts as performers, and even for special effects, such as sprays of fountainous water, or even illusion tricks that made the concert seem very real.
One night, during rehearsal for La Fartélla, Tristine was practicing aquatic techniques with Cosette onstage, her silky, tawny hair cascading over the white dress that matched with her slim figure and her dazzling blue eyes. The Milotic was attempting to twist a Water Pulse from her mouth, and cause it to circle her own elegant, snake-like shape in a ribbon of a levitating, rushing stream. There was a great, baffling burst of laughter in one of the boots above the stage that made Cosette swirl the water back between her lips, and caused Tristine’s curiosity for eavesdropping to stir. The young woman quietly motioned for the gargantuan worm-like Pokémon to slink backstage while she climbed to the booth tower. Cosette obeyed, and squirmed her way into the rest of the cast, her scales and fin on her tail wagging strikingly as she did so.
Tristine then ran up the stairs of the tower as quietly as she could, taking glances around her to make sure none would spot her. Carefully, she found the wooden doorway to the booth, and sidled on the edge of the wall it was against, not letting a breath come out of her body. Inside, she recognized the voices as the owners of the theater, laughing hysterically at something that must have been obviously funny. She listened on:
“…and so—excuse me—” one of the voices coughed, bleating with curdled laughter. “So, they said Syrah was driven out of here by the Phantom!”
Talk of this “phantom” increased her inquisitiveness…
“But that doesn’t make sense!” a squeaky voice declared. “The Phantom isn’t real at all. Or at least, he’s some sort of raving lunatic that nobody should take seriously.”
“Well,” the deeper voice said, “Ever since Syrah came from Anna Harbor to buy out the burnt theater and rebuilt it, he had been stalked by someone who claimed himself to be ‘The Phantom of the Monostar.’ I think it’s a bunch of codswallop in my opinion.”
“But it’s true that he sold us Spaf, Jim. There’s got to be a reason for it—I mean—the man was shaking from head to toe when he came to us with the deed!”
“It is true he was very pale… But I suppose it’s no harm in telling you that Syrah himself is a madman, for he took this ‘phantom’”—here he mocked the name—“ever so seriously. Said that if he didn’t pay his ransom for the month, the phantom would come and ruin his backdrop, and spread those wretched one-star reviews!”
“Oh, YES. Those star ratings, mm…very influential to this business,” replied the high-pitched voice, in a very stern air. “But…what do you mean by ‘ransom?’ And…how did the phantom actually come in contact with Syrah—I mean—phantoms are supposed to be…well…phantom-ish, aren’t they? I’m sure they don’t make everyday appearances.”
“Syrah told me that the Phantom of the Monostar sent him a bit of parchment in an envelope stamped in the wax mold of a star with a skull dead center of it. The phantom told him that if he wanted to run his theater, he had to pay him some major mullah in order to keep some unfortunate events from happening to the theater. Bah, in the last performance of ‘Rhapsody,’ Syrah told me that he hadn’t paid the phantom, and in result, his backdrop was vandalized, and every brochure for the play was printed with poor one-star reviews that made everyone believe it was utter crap. In my opinion, I think it would have been crap. This phantom can’t be so tough.”
“Do you suppose…the phantom will be after us next?”
“Shut up, Durkee. Of course he won’t. Syrah is just lying to us to make us think he went down in a dramatic force instead of his true failure, ‘Rhapsody.’”
By this information, Tristine’s ears ached with wandering mystery of the phantom. Was there a phantom in the Spaf? Certainly, the former owner, Syrah, could have been lying about it; a hoax, perhaps. But Durkee Slug and Jim Snort were rather dull and dim-witted, and she had known Syrah as the most fantastic owner and director Serebeth had ever had. Why would someone lie about such a thing? Suddenly, she heard shifting in the room, and she was immediately thrust out of her thoughts and into plans of getting away. She turned against the wall and looked around. The only thing she saw for a moment was the stairway and the entrance to the booth. She could hear the men getting up off of their fat as*ses, and her situation grew tense. Where was she to go? Surely, they would find her overhearing their conversation, and perhaps do something drastic with her.
She peered around quickly, but still, there was nothing she could see but the two directions intended for this part of the theater…wait—wait a moment—she did spot something. There was a mirror hanging on the wall behind her…but, this looking-glass was very peculiar. There seemed to be a seam of purple material jutting out from behind it. Desperate, she quickly took the mirror off of the nail it hung on and placed it on the wall she had been laying against, watching as a violet curtain unfolded before her eyes. She could hear the two men talking again, so she instantly tore her fingers past the curtain, and there, as though by a miracle, was a square tunnel. She clambered inside as speedily as she could, even scraping her knee slightly against the rough edge of the hole. The curtain swung past her, and just in the nick of time, she was hidden as she heard the men progress down the stairs, talking about meatballs, or something like that.
The moment she heard the tower door close, Tristine let out a sigh of relief. However, she felt a great stinging, and when she laid eyes upon the cut on her leg, groaned with dismay. It was then that she noticed the tunnel, and that it had gone further back then she had thought. Where did it lead to? She stopped tending to her slight injury, curiosity devouring her once again, and stood up in the passageway. Her dress falling to her ankles, she began to walk carefully along the passage, into the belly of the beast.
Slowly and steadily as she rambled through the tunnel, it began to decline gradually, and soon, it transitioned from a walkway, to stairs. Still going further down, Tristine thought as if she must have gone past the floor of the stage already, and heading underneath the orchestra pit. The walls were clammy with vapor, and bricks were the only thing she saw for a very long time. Then, she began to travel down spiraled staircases that flowed down into surely what she recognized as the sewers beneath Serebeth.
Filthy, nasty water sprayed from nearby pipes into a river that ran along the depths of the place, domes of cement spreading out above her as she walked along a great, long catwalk made of metal. She clung to the railing with disgust as she continued to walk, seeing rotten fruits, fabric, miscellaneous objects, and even browned floaters bobbing in the river of grime. She was compelled to turn back, and just reunite with her beloved Cosette. That is, until she heard the melodic symphony of an organ blaring loudly further into the sewers. At this, Tristine’s prying eavesdropper had jerked control from her, and she wandered strongly into the abyss of waste, and the fog of music that mystified her mind.
After turning past a few corners of stone wall, she soon came to one, large dome underneath the ground, granite shafts speckled all over the rounded ceiling, pouring sludge in waterfalls—down, down, down—into the swirling pools of muck. In the center of the dome, there was a great, metal platform that was as round as a coin, and chopped with rods, as though the pedestal was a strainer for liquid to run through. Upon the very heart of this platform, there sat, as Tristine had heard, an unfathomably large piano organ, with pipes stretching to the ceiling above. An oaken bench was seated in front of the organ, and sitting on the bench was a man, as she gazed. He had sleek, black hair that draped down to the bottom of his neck, and from his shoulders down, he was dressed in a great, black cloak. His fingers were tapping wildly all over the keys of the organ, blowing horns of sweet music into the air.
It seemed there was a Pokémon beside him, standing patiently and willfully as its master continued to play the organ. Its head was very similar to that of a human’s, except that its ears were erect on the top of its head, and its nose was large and pointed. The creature’s skin was tinted a potent gold-yellow color, while it stood on its three-toed hind feet, a ruffle of white fur meshed nicely around its own neck. It seemed to be holding…a pendent of some sort by a string… It was a Hypno.
Strange paper mechanisms lined around the platform, serving as walls for the organ player and his Pokémon. They were bustling and heaving about, scraping paper through winding rolls of ink that mark words and pictures upon the manuscripts, such as a machine in a printing press would do. From where she was standing, Tristine could make out some of the writing on the flying papers, including, “It was horrible! It made my mother puke,” “I would have rather kissed your great-great-aunt than watch Le Fartélla,” and “Your nose makes me smile. LE FARTÉLLA MAKES MOI ANGRY.” She even thought she spotted an insignia of some kind on the rolling parchment…a lone star…
A strange feeling of familiarity rang in Tristine’s head. She felt a stabbing fear as the organ sounded on. Something inside her made her perspire. The Hypno was first to notice her. It turned its raised head toward her with tiny, black pupils. Its white eyes widened to a gargantuan size, and a look of ferocity burrowed out of its face. It immediately took to coming straight toward her while the man continued to pound upon the organ. The Hypno drew closer—closer still—making her heart race with fear and wonder. It was only six feet away from her, when at the moment it stopped dead in its tracks, the organ belted a howling wave of a malevolent, yet…enchanting measure of pipe conjecture.
In a swipe of powerful movement, the man at the bench swirled his cloak about, and in a flurry of black fabric and staggered walking, he came before Tristine. She stared onward with shock at the features of his face; his skin was fair and warm-looking, with a handsome look in his eye as he looked down upon her with great interest…but plastered to the right side of his face was a mask of some sort, that hid only that particular half of his face. It seemed to consist of a bony substance, but Tristine, through her clever studies as a girl, recognized it as part of a Marowak skull. The man, as she started to become bewildered and frightened, seem to gaze upon her in the very same way. But…something about him was so horrifyingly proverbial…
“Tr…Tr-Tristine?” the man stammered, his voice thick with a tone suited for a king, but in a manner that was strange and faltered.
“How…do you know my name?” she stammered, speaking the first words she had said since she had seen Cosette. She kept looking into his face. His eyes, his mouth, his hair…she tried to search it for things she remembered. She tried to snatch up memories that wheeled in her pool of thought, but she couldn’t place it right. Something was very bizarre. Something was missing. Who was this man? And the answer came to her when she looked away from the man’s taken aback expression, to the Pokémon standing directly behind him. The Hypno. It…must have evolved from a Drowzee. This stranger knew her name…Drowzee…everything was piecing together…everything was joining in unison to scream one response.
“H-u…H-u…Hugo?” she blurted to the Hypno.
It nodded.
A feeling of overwhelming apprehension sprung within Tristine’s heart, as though a trap had caught something worth while. She was stunned. She looked back to the man.
“Jean.”
The couple instantaneously clung to each other in the most loving, heart-wrenching embrace they would ever feel in their entire lives. She kissed the lips of her lover, tears beginning to stream down her face as they held each other in the center of the pouring sewers. Warmth pressed in every molecule of their running blood, contractions of wonderful reuniting and loyalty pumped through their hearts, and Tristine began to sob on Jean’s shoulder with coughing laughs of excitement, droplets of happiness trickling everywhere. But…the visor of bone…caught her attention once more, and she looked at it, puffy and red-eyed. Jean returned her stare with his own.
“Why…are you wearing this…mask, my love?” she asked, her voice trembling.
“It is not important, my dear Tristine,” Jean replied, grabbing her and holding her in his arms once more. He too began to cry, and wept over her neck, kissing it and whispering softly, “My…angel of music…sing with me…sing my song with me…”
Suddenly, Tristine jerked out of his reach. Not in hate, but…disbelief. It was all beginning to make sense. She looked at his appearance; the cloak, the mask, this entire hidden place underneath the Spaf.
“You,” Tristine muttered. “You…y-you’re the Phantom of the Monostar.”
Jean did not reply to this remark, but because of his silence, it was confirmed to be so. Tristine wasn’t sure about him anymore…the rumors of what he had done to Syrah…the humility and pain he caused the poor man. That was not the Jean she had known. She began to walk backwards, away from him…away from his seat of sweet music’s throne. He did not move a single muscle as she tried to get away. She wanted to leave. But…something in her mind was ensnared. She felt it twitch in her brain, and it did not permit her to go. Tristine swung her head around, and saw the Hypno. It was wavering the pendulum…slowly…hypnotically… It was lulling her into a trance, and she could not let go…
She had the burning desire to run back to the phantom. Her nerves pulled her into his reach once again. She felt as though she was drowning in a pool of euphoria, drifting away into a sullen love of supremacy. Jean began to sing…he started on a note, and Tristine’s voice cracked, but cleared…cleared to sing…
The past has come again
To haunt me so
You’re not the one I love;
The Jean I know
I dare to hold your hand
My heart askew
The Phantom of the Monostar is here
For a bad review…
To haunt me so
You’re not the one I love;
The Jean I know
I dare to hold your hand
My heart askew
The Phantom of the Monostar is here
For a bad review…
The phantom pulled her closer, Hypno enveloping Tristine deeper into the trance…
Reach deep into your mind
You’ll see me there
I’m standing at your door
Holding your hair
You’re as holy as
The Lamb of Mew
The Phantom of the Monostar is here
For a bad review…
You’ll see me there
I’m standing at your door
Holding your hair
You’re as holy as
The Lamb of Mew
The Phantom of the Monostar is here
For a bad review…
There was a split second Tristine remembered who she was, and what was happening. Without thinking, she flung her hand onto the bone of the mask clinging to the phantom’s face. She ripped it off, sending a great, horrific yell of dark lunacy into the air. Before she saw anything, her eyes shot off, and she plummeted into darkness…
“Wha…? Where am I?”
Tristine awoke immediately. She bolted upright, when she realized she was lying on the stage of the theater. Lights were dimmed everywhere, and only a shimmering spotlight focused directly on her was the only source of illumination. The ends of her dress were splotched with soot and grime, and her shoes reeked of something horrible. She leaned over, and there, curled in a ball of soft, dozing splendor was Cosette, with her head pinned within her long, slender body, beautiful eyes closed, and two fins hanging from either side of her head, heaving up and down slowly as the Pokémon breathed.
Tristine woke Cosette up that night, as the entire theater was abandoned. She then left, struggling through the darkness back onto the streets of Serebeth, making her way to Uncle Joseph’s house with the Milotic on hand, leaving the spotlight to sit there, cornered on the stage…
~*~
It was performing night. Everyone was anxious, particularly Tristine. She and Cosette had mastered their scenes for La Fartélla, sure, and everything seemed hunky-dory. But it wasn’t. Jim and Durkee had gotten an envelope…a letter of parchment as they had talked about that night she had overheard them…and met with the phantom. It had said that the phantom was displeased with the upcoming cast of La Fartélla, and demanded that random people be scooped off of the streets to replace all the cast. If they did not do so by the time of the opera, the phantom would “take precautions to see that the audience is distracted by something a bit more deadly.” Along with a comment that made them all shudder…
…the one-star reviews. Lé shiver.
“But…we can’t just pick people off the streets,” cried Jim. “It is illegal to pick up hobos during this season!”
“Indeed,” concurred Durkee. “I concur. Though picking up just hobos would be a bit biased. It’s unfair for the other pathetic losers that we must choose!”
Listening to them ramble on about hobos’ rights made Tristine want to murder them gleefully. However, she was more afraid of what Jean…or the phantom would do to them. After all, Jim and Durkee were too dim-witted to even think of recasting the show at the last minute, and between their disbelief of the phantom and the privileges of bums, they would never be able to tell their heads from their own rears. There was nothing she could do, but wait…
Wait for the phantom to appear…
The curtains went up at six o’clock exactly. Countless people sat in the crown of seats that was the entire Spaf, a few murmurs of comments on the play and other such things passing amongst many people. The countess and the jester were already on the stage performing their musical number together at the symphony of the music. The owners sat in the same booth Tristine had seen them in the other night, watching not the play, but everything else. Apparently, the mere rumor of the phantom frightened them, and they grew as tense as muscles of a rhinoceros. Meanwhile, the mysterious figure himself was creeping slowly from a tunnel on a ceiling catwalk above the crowd.
Tristine knew she and Cosette would not be able to make their appearance in the play. What mattered was what she was to do. She could tell by the way this “new” Jean had tricked her and fooled her with hypnosis that he was no longer her lover, but a heart of darkness that spewed anger from every nook in his mind. What was behind the mask that had made him go ballistic? What was he trying to hide from her? However, she pushed back these questions, for fear that she was beginning to grow a soft spot for this killer/insulting reviewer.
When time for her cue came, she snuck off with Cosette up into the rafters of the set. She remembered when she and Jean would climb there together, to talk of their days, how well they were doing in rehearsal, and to tell jokes. But those memories were shattered. He was mutated by this new evil, as she comprehended while she hopped onto the Milotic’s back, letting it slither its way around the wood works of the set. She knew exactly where the phantom was heading. She needed to stop him before he reached his destination.
Cosette pulled her along the planks until they reached an entryway that led to the chandelier maintenance area. Tristine recalled when one of their repair men had climbed to the chandelier, and had actually fainted atop, fallen from above, and landed squarely onto a seat below, killing himself instantly. This was where they were heading, and the account of the repair man’s death just struck fear into for the worst. But it had been a glorious place as well…
It was where Tristine and Jean had sat, and professed their love for each other, and where they exchanged the Pokémon that would become each other’s best companion. They were going through the passage now, and she could already smell the dust that was burning on the bulbs of the chandelier. She knew the final showdown was coming. But why had he twisted into this figure of malignant ooze? Was it perhaps…the events of when she thought he had died? How had he survived the fire, while nearly the entire cast had been singed limp to the floor? She had to confront him.
The Milotic dragged its body up onto a ring-like floor that was extending from the wall. The great, magnificent window on the ceiling directly above her allowed the moon to cast its azure brilliance around the ring, and the catwalk that hung from ropes in the middle. She then leapt off of Cosette, and sidled along the ring, for the only thing that separated her from that catwalk was the gaping ravine that was situated over the crowd below. With her eyes trailing and her legs moving, she swiftly took care of her problem and achieved her goal in getting to the hanging platform. She dared not to look down.
Directly across from her, at the end of the path, there was the largest, grandest chandelier in all the land, far and wide. Candles burned in the dozens of sockets on each hoop that connected in a gorgeous exhibit of light. But a dark silhouette was moving toward the chandelier, and from the dim outline cast by the candles, he was holding a knife. There was no time to waste. Her moment had come.
Tristine sprang from her position, flying across the ropes like an eagle darting for its prey. The phantom was already coming to the chandelier. He was reaching his hand for the supporting cable. She pumped her legs as she had never done before, and as she came bolting to where the phantom was, he looked up with fright and panic. The woman slammed her body full-force into the man, knocking him down on the platform next to the chandelier.
He attempted to regain his balance and support, but Tristine threw herself onto him, pushing his head over the edge of the platform. As the chandelier swayed and flew, glass crystals knocking against each other during the struggle, the crowd glanced up and gasped. The phantom was trying to raise the knife to the wire, but Tristine was pushing against his arms, trying to veer it off into another direction. She glared into his half-masked face, testing her strength and pulling with all her might against the resistance of his muscles.
“WHY DID YOU DO IT?” Tristine screamed. “Why…WHY DID YOU BETRAY ME?”
“You were not falling for me!” Jean grunted. “YOU betrayed ME! You saw what a hideous beast I have become! YOU WERE NOT TO SEE IT!”
At this, out of pure spite and anger, Tristine grabbed the mask with one hand, and heaved it off of the platform into the crowd. She then gaped at Jean, for on the hidden part of his face was the morphed, melted disfigurement of pain and suffering. She almost wanted to choke at the sight of the half of his face, for she now realized that the fire had scarred him. This was what he was trying to hide from her.
“You…have seen a monster no one else shall see,” he groaned, sneering at her with both of his eyes, and that horrid face.
In a quick instant, he attempted to take this chance of surprise to slam the dagger in his hand to the cable of the chandelier, but Tristine caught his arm just in time, and with a fast reflex, retorted the blade on the phantom and stabbed him brutally in the chest. Blood squirted at the impact of the wound, and his anguished scream echoed throughout the entire theater. Red puddles began to billow into his dark clothing, and meanwhile, Jean began coughing up the scarlet liquid as well. The blow was traumatic. Tristine bent her head over his chest, and sobbed painfully, gripping the blade as tightly as she could.
“Wha…why did you…do it?” Jean barked, smothered in the hot, burning pain.
“I loved you!” Tristine cried. “I didn’t care that you were burnt! It was just like the day you gave me the Feebas! Feebas may be the ugliest Pokémon on the face of the Earth, but just because it’s that way doesn’t mean I didn’t love Cosette. She was a gift from…the one I loved the most.”
“M-me,” the phantom choked.
“NO! Not you,” Tristine croaked, yelling at him. “It was from JEAN! Not this monster who was going to kill a crowd out of the blue!”
At these words, the phantom fell silent, moving his lips in confusion. Then, a contraction rigorously rattled his insides, and he shivered. He let go of his last breath, and disappeared forever. The traitor was dead. Tristine stared upon his lifeless body in hesitation, but in a fit of maddening insanity, burst into a sobbing cry that rained tears onto his bloodstained cloak. His cold, disfigured face stared back at her. What had she done? Atrophy was beginning to set into her bones, and the play had been halted the moment the struggle began. All had their eyes on Tristine. She knew they were watching her…watching her as though she were on the stage, performing their giddy little plays while they mused at her with their disgusting faces.
In an act of mystifying psychosis, she pulled the blade out of her former lover’s left breast, and jumped onto the chandelier. The candles burned the soles of her feet, but she did not care. Then, it was soon all over as the fair lady grabbed the corpse of her love, placed him in her lap, lifted the blade to the supporting cord, and sliced away the rope. The chandelier plunged downward in what seemed like a terrifying slow-motion, reflected in the glazed eyes of the hopeless aristocrats, papers with one-star insignias falling…falling…falling…La Fartélla was indeed a most unpleasant show…
END.
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And the moral of the story is, my children: DO NOT go around voting random threads one star, because in the end, you will get yer just dessert when I come to your house and slit all your throats :3 Or, a crazy woman with a chandelier, dead corpse, and a knife will get yew D:
oints at user tittle: I'm in shock...
