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.

Fire -- fire through his veins, through his chest, down his arm -- fire dropped him to his knees, then further. Further, down to the unyielding stone floor, the cold and damp bedrock that had never been coated with a civilized floor. He gasped air but couldn't breathe. His heart had never been strong. The opium. He could blame the opium, but he never would have given it up. He always knew... He always knew... The cellars, his agonied thoughts whispered, would be his sepulcher; the Opera House would be his mausoleum.

---

There was no transition. One minute, he lay face-down in the 11th cellar of the Paris Opera house, was sure his heart was ready to burst. The next, he was flat on his back with the warm sunshine on his face -- and how long had it been since he felt that -- with no pain whatsoever in his chest. His first thought was Heaven?... But laughter, short, derisive, bubbled from his lips a moment after the thought populated. There could be no heaven for creatures like himself. The next, then, was sheer and utter panic. He was outside. In the day. And --

A pale hand slapped at his face. No mask. No mask! Again, no transition. He was on his feet, hand slapped firmly over the ruined half of his face, looking frantically for some sort of shelter, only --

Only.

He stopped. Everything stopped. What used to feel like slick, poreless ice under his hand was now warm and ... normal. Nothing disfigured... nothing scarred... Hesitantly, Erik ran his hand over what used to be a wreck of a face and found only what every other person would have found: a face.

Slowly, he dropped his hand from where he'd been pressing it. What in the world had just happened? His eyes were adjusting to the light. He was in a field. No. It was a park. He was in a park. There was a squat, ugly bench beside a smooth walkway. And behind the gates of the park, a strange City. He squinted. Every instinct told him to take cover; every shred of logic told him that he needed to find out what had happened and where he was. For the moment, he sat down. And then, reverently, touched his once-ruined cheek again.

Where am I?

How any of them could be contently living in this place was well beyond the understanding of Malcolm Reynolds. Pausing at the street corner, waiting for the clearance to cross the street safely -- he watched as a postal box flickered out of existence only to reappear right beside him. At least this phenomenon had ceased in surprising him nearly a week into his 'visit'. In fact, it barely caused a brow to raise, if at all. This rearrangement just served as a reminder that he needed to find his crew, find his ship (or any at this point would do) and get out.

But Simon had been the only one he'd found thus far. The least he knew was that Zoe, River and Inara were out there someplace. Hopefully so was Kaylee -- maybe even Jayne. Mal's hike was on it's third day. He couldn't quite explain how he found a safe place to rest his eyes each night, but he did. Though he wasn't sleeping enough. His shoulders were sagging as he waited there on the street corner.

Traffic paused and Mal strode across the way. If there were tracks for there to be an "wrong side of" and a "right side of" -- he'd found them. And he was heading right by way of wrong. For a City that supposedly "provided" this new stretch of town seemed to be provided for a bit better. The sidewalks were cleaner, the street lamps more ornate, brighter too. But the Core-worthy class of this area was lost on Mal as well; between simply not caring and the dull aching of his feet within his boots.

River stood in the wings, waiting.

A red dress flowed almost to her ankles, and her dark hair was pulled back, a red flower sitting behind one ear. Her eyes looked even larger than normal-- one of the corps de ballet girls had lined them with kohl and dark shadow. Her lips were red.

She was not River right now. This was the last night she was going to get to be Kitri.

( The ballet was in the second scene. It was time for her to enter. )

Another night. Like any other night. The City had shifted, disturbing many things, but such things had not reached in the depths of the Opera House. Erik felt none of it, below. Only when he came up to collect the things his dear Daroga - his friend, his conscience, and his agent to the outside world - did he note the changes. His Persian officer had not suffered greatly from the changes, but he passed along the information as best as he could, along with the packet of morphine, the small amount of food that Erik only touched when necessity demanded, and a new supply of ink and lined paper. For his troubles, Erik paid Nadir well enough - a monthly sum of two thousand of these strange paper dollars.

It was typical that after their exchange, Erik returned to his world and Nadir returned to the world of men. But the Persian's description of the changes had sparked Erik's curiosity. Though he cared very little for the race of men, there may yet be something of interest for him in these new changes. Perhaps a new bookstore to raid in the dead of night. Perhaps a new music store to browse when all the night had swarmed about the world and there was nothing left of humanity to disturb him.

Shrouded in a long opera cape and a wide-brimmed fedora to shield his masked face, Erik crept out into the moonlit streets. Around him, he heard the industry of the criminal underworkings of the city - drunken whispers, nefarious laughter, a young scream -- It was the scream that drew him. As hated as humanity was to him, he could not bear the abuse of any helpless creature. He followed the falsetto cry down a side street, into another long stretch of asphalt, and across that street as well, moving swifter than a creature of his build should rightly travel. He was close, now, very close, and soon expected to come upon the scene--

A flash of light - the opening of a door - the sound of merriment -- and he flattened himself momentarily against the brick wall of the closest building. His eyes, mismatched and sunken into the recesses of his face, scanned the entryway of whatever establishment the door belonged to... and stopped.

It was her.