The Universe's Mixer

Last time it had been cold and bright. He'd been outside. And his face... impossible, but he'd had a face. The hatred had still kept him in shadows, and the shadows... He shook his head to recall but couldn't fathom what came within that damp, cold intermission. But tonight, what heralded him to awareness was Tosca's closing strains. His back shot ramrod straight as the house lights came on. The deep, constant pain of his face was gone and he felt air across it. His hand flew over his ruined cheek and found only smoothness where there had been open sores. His hair... Now, rather than sparse strands and clumps that he covered with clever wigs, now it was replaced with what all other men his age took for granted. He passed a gloved hand over his hair and felt the telling tug of scalp underneath it.

He could have dismissed it for another morphine dream, but those felt... those felt watery, far different from now. All the same, he stood from his box seat and stepped against the shadows of the curtains. Tugging off his jacket, then rolling up his sleeves, he checked for dots of blood down his arms. Nothing. No, it wasn't imagination. He was in The City, yet again. It was not his Opera House in Paris, but rather the City Opera House. They did a good imitation. Several floors below ground, he imagined he would find his home as he had in the past. But he had to be certain, nonetheless. He had to see for his own eyes the strange city spread out in front of him.

The roof, then. He threw himself back into his jacket again, then set a practiced hand against the center pillar in Box 5. There was a trap door that would lead him behind the stage, and then it was simply a matter of... A matter of... Erik knew the switch was just here, but his fingers didn't find it. No, it was here. It was here. It wasn't. He had the nagging feeling he should check his arms again, but resisted the urge. There was another access point three boxes down, one he loved to use to torment the owners. It meant entering the throng of exiting patrons... He shuddered involuntarily, then hated himself for it. Squaring his shoulders, he took a steadying breath, then lifted his chin. He stored his fear, his hate, and turned instead to his disgust for humanity. It could get him through this. An aura of power and command settled around his shoulders. He stepped through the curtains and into the aisle.