Fiction: Be Careful What You Wish For in Fic Exchanges ... (for cherie_morte) (PG)
Title: Be Careful What You Wish For in Fic Exchanges (Because Some Crazy Person Might Actually Write It)
Author/Artist: sparklybee
Canon: ALW stage show, Watchmen comic/movie, Marvel comics
Pairing(s): Erik/Christine
Rating: PG
Summary: Ozymandias, Rorschach, and a special guest invade Erik's lair.
Warnings (if any): This probably only makes sense to three or four people on the planet. Fortunately, the original requester is one of them, so I guess it's peachy. Umm...also, I can be a little snarky towards ALW and the proposed Phantom sequel in this.
Total word count: 2026
Original prompt request number: 50 (for cherie_morte)
Author's/artist's notes (if any): I am not a funny person, but I tried, dang it.
Erik has been meticulously planning his grand reappearance at the annual masquerade ball for months, but this is definitely not part of his plans. And by this, he means the strange blond man dressed in some sort of purple clingy material that leaves very, very little to the imagination. And Erik had worried that he would be showing off too much in his Red Death costume! Hmph.
“Who are you,” Erik hisses, trying to focus on the fellow’s face and not how snug the material of the man’s clothing is, “and why are you in my lair?”
(Should he stuff his codpiece a little more? Erik had thought that one balled up stocking would be sufficient, but maybe he should really go for two…)
“My name is Ozymandias, the smartest man in the world. I hail from the future, in a time and place that you cannot begin to imagine. I have been sent back on a very important mission. I have exactly two hours to save the world of musical theater,” the interloper declares imperiously.
“And now have one hour and fifty-five minutes. Like the sound of your own voice too much, Veidt.”
Erik startles at the second voice; he had been so blinded by all of the shiny gold and purple material that he hadn’t realized that someone else was here.
“And this,” Ozymandias adds, rolling his eyes, “is my psychotic sidekick of the day, Rorschach.”
Erik peers around the man’s shoulder and sees a short man wearing a mask and a fedora. Hmm. That seems a little familiar. Erik had thought that he had a corner on this particular fashion statement. And is the mask…moving? He will not be upstaged in his own opera house!
“Hrrr. Not sidekick.” The smaller man pulls out some sort of book and scribbles something down in it before shoving it into a pocket once more.
“Would someone please tell me what’s going on here before I whip out my Punjab lasso?” Erik glares at the talkative one and reaches into his cape. (Dammit, where did he put the thing? Merde, did he put that in his codpiece too?)
“Well, it’s a long story. I come from 1985, where the world is on the brink of nuclear war. Think of really, really, really big batches of dynamite. Anyway, to save the world, I cooked up this scheme about a giant squid and tachyons, but then Jon thought that was needlessly wasteful of human life, so he invented this time machine. So he went back in time to make sure that nuclear weapons weren’t invented, except that meant that even more people died in the end and World War II dragged on forever, so he went back further and made sure that there were no superheroes in the world, which apparently set everything right, or as close as he could get to it.”
Erik just stares, half-mesmerized by the shiny gold fabric catching the lights of hundreds of flickering candles as it moves and half-mesmerized by all of this nonsense the man wearing the gold fabric is jabbering about.
“And then, that made Dan not become a superhero himself, since Hollis wasn’t around to inspire him, so Rorschach kind of latched onto me for some reason that I can’t fathom. I think Dan became a famous ornithologist who writes fan fiction about King Arthur in his spare time. Anyway, since we weren’t at the brink of nuclear war anymore, I didn’t need the squid, and I didn’t decimate Manhattan. Which is most fortunate, because that meant that Broadway really took off, but that is why I’m here.”
“One hour forty-five minutes,” Rorschach grumbles loudly as he crosses his arms.
“Shut up, Shorty.” Ozymandias gives Erik a bright smile before continuing. “Anyway. A man named Andrew Lloyd Webber made a musical based on your life, and it was a blockbuster hit. I didn’t mind that, except my dates always drag me to see Phantom. I’d like to see something a little more…hmm, what word am I looking for?”
“Homosexual,” Rorschach supplies helpfully, scribbling something else in his notebook.
“Upbeat.” Ozymandias narrows his eyes at his sidekick. “But then Andrew Lloyd Webber made a movie based on the musical, and two of the three leads couldn’t sing at all, which makes no sense! It’s a musical! And then he decided that wasn’t enough, and he was going to make a sequel, and it involves you having carnal relations with a mannequin. And, in the end, it ruins Broadway more than my squid ever could. So that is why I am here. I need to make sure that you end up with Christine, so Andrew Lloyd Webber hopefully won’t be inspired to make a musical about your life, and the musical theater world won’t be subjected to this atrocity. I mean, honestly. Paying $150 a ticket to watch a grown man woo an automaton? Ugh. And maybe then I’ll have a chance to watch something more cheery.”
“Homosexual,” Rorschach pipes up in his gravelly voice, earning another glare from Ozymandias.
“Oh, like you’re one to talk. You are totally gay for Dan and his owl costume.”
Before the two men can argue more, which Erik is finding a little entertaining and more than a little baffling, there is suddenly a third stranger standing in his lair.
“Whoa! Either I took a wrong turn in the timestream, or someone scheduled a crossover with DC without telling me. Joe! Joe Q, is that you? I tell you man, union rules say - hey, aren’t you that Phantom of the Opera guy?” The man, who is clad head-to-toe in red clingy material similar to Ozymandias’ purple, steps forward, wipes his hand on his thigh, and offers it to Erik. He doesn’t seem the least bit put-off by the fact that Erik doesn’t shake it. “Nate took me to see your musical on Broadway before our divorce. Dude, you need to get laid. Know what I mean? Hello, I have cancerous tumors growing all over my body, and yet I manage to get some on a semi-regular basis. And if I was allowed to, I could get lucky with so many fangirls. Seriously, ditch the singing chick and hook up with a fangirl. Or a fanboy - hey, whatever floats your boat, I’m not here to judge, especially since I love it when Nate does that thing with this TO arm and…ummm. Never mind that last part.”
He clears his throat before taking a deep breath. “Uh, fangirls. Yeah. Emphasis on the ‘girls.’ I know you have them! Shatter that fourth wall! I do it all of the time.” The intruder pauses for a moment, scratching his masked chin. “Except that I keep getting told that I shouldn’t break the fourth wall so often, even though the fans love it. See, the editor yells at the writer if I do, and the writer takes it out on me, and the next thing I know, I’m stuck in some post-apocalyptic world and getting ripped in half by my ex-friend’s - or ex-boyfriend’s, if you read the fan fiction - evil clone. Not fun.”
“Who are you?” Erik manages to ask.
“Oh, me? I’m a literary device to keep this story moving along, but you can call me Deadpool - merc with a mouth, and all that. See, the author is kind of obsessed with Marvel comics, and she had to have one of us show up, and I’m the most fun for her to write, so here I am. Oh, hey, I almost forgot! The original prompter doesn’t want anything about sandwiches written in here, so if the author starts talking about meat between two slices of moldering bread, run away as fast as you can. Seriously. The original prompter will probably kill the author if she goes there, and I don’t want her to die because she writes a crapload of smut involving me for a kink meme on livejournal. So just tell her to step away from the bottle, for my sake - and for yours, because I don’t think you want this to happen any more than the prompter does. And if she tries, just taunt her about having a crush on a pretty boy named Ryan Reynolds, ‘kay? Or bring up Namor and his fairy-winged ankles. That usually stops her in her tracks. Just ask Beaver.” And with those final words of cryptic warning, the interloper disappears as quickly as he’d arrived.
Ozymandias, Rorschach, and Erik stare blankly at the spot where he’d stood for several moments, none of them saying a word. Finally, Erik shakes his head in utter confusion, an emotion he’s been feeling quite a bit today. “What was that?”
Rorschach makes a noncommittal grunt in the back of his throat, and Ozymandias shrugs one shoulder. “I’m not sure, but that is a travesty.” He points at Erik’s organ room with a disdainful frown. “All black? All of these antiques? Do you actually bring girls down here?”
“Only Christine.”
“Yeah, and she ends up running away and marrying the boring rich guy. We need to spruce this place up a bit, make it a real bachelor’s pad. Women look at this stuff, you know. They might say they don’t, but they do. Let’s see… We need something more, oh, modern.”
“Says man who decorates office in Egyptian artifacts,” Rorschach interjects, the shapes on his mask swirling placidly.
“Says the man who thinks that purple pinstripes are fashionable.” Ozymandias snaps his fingers, and his eyes are positively aglow. “That’s it! We need more pizzazz. More purple! Colors will brighten this place right up. Do you have access to any fabrics? I can make a few swatch samples to show you what I’m talking about. Purple and gold, maybe some red too.”
Rorschach pulls out his book again, flips to a page, and scrawls something down. “What are you doing?” Erik asks, once again completely bewildered, as he watches Ozymandias race around his lair to examine its contents.
“Hrm. Crossing out ‘possible’ and replacing with ‘definite.’ No need to investigate further.”
“What is he doing?” Erik fights the very childish urge to stamp his foot. This is his lair, and his opera, and this is supposed to be his night.
“Best not to ask,” Rorschach mumbles. “Got any beans or cereal?”
The sound of something clanging to the floor causes Erik to pivot on his heel, revealing a very guilty looking Ozymandias holding…oh god, not the monkey music box! Erik rushes over and grabs the toy from Ozymandias’ hands, glaring at the interloper as best as he can from behind his mask.
“That’s it,” Erik seethes, patting the monkey’s hair defensively. “You and your friend here are leaving now, or I will kill you both.”
“But - but, we’re not finished yet!” Ozymandias protests, even as Rorschach grabs his elbow and begins to steer him towards the door. “Oh, at least let me give you some advice! Don’t be all broody when you see Christine tonight. Tell her you want to talk, and cry if you have to - girls like that. And-”
Erik slams the door behind the pair, still clutching his monkey.
----------
“Do you think I did enough, Rorschach? I could have done so much more, if only he would have let me…”
“Seems like didn’t want your help, Veidt.” Rorschach steps through the portal, and Ozymandias reluctantly follows him.
“I just hope it was enough, for the love of musical theater and my sanity.”
---------
Later that day, Adrian wanders down to the Times Square welcome center and sorts through the musical theater brochures. The familiar white mask on a black background is nowhere to be seen (and neither is its “sequel,” thank goodness), but it appears that Cats is still running. Well, he can stand that, he supposes. There are worse things in this world than actors cavorting on the stage for a few hours dressed like animals…
Maybe.
He thinks of Ramin Karimloo wasting his talent and playing a disfigured freak show owner who builds an automaton and sexes it up at night.
Yes. There are definitely worse things out there than Cats.
Author/Artist: sparklybee
Canon: ALW stage show, Watchmen comic/movie, Marvel comics
Pairing(s): Erik/Christine
Rating: PG
Summary: Ozymandias, Rorschach, and a special guest invade Erik's lair.
Warnings (if any): This probably only makes sense to three or four people on the planet. Fortunately, the original requester is one of them, so I guess it's peachy. Umm...also, I can be a little snarky towards ALW and the proposed Phantom sequel in this.
Total word count: 2026
Original prompt request number: 50 (for cherie_morte)
Author's/artist's notes (if any): I am not a funny person, but I tried, dang it.
Erik has been meticulously planning his grand reappearance at the annual masquerade ball for months, but this is definitely not part of his plans. And by this, he means the strange blond man dressed in some sort of purple clingy material that leaves very, very little to the imagination. And Erik had worried that he would be showing off too much in his Red Death costume! Hmph.
“Who are you,” Erik hisses, trying to focus on the fellow’s face and not how snug the material of the man’s clothing is, “and why are you in my lair?”
(Should he stuff his codpiece a little more? Erik had thought that one balled up stocking would be sufficient, but maybe he should really go for two…)
“My name is Ozymandias, the smartest man in the world. I hail from the future, in a time and place that you cannot begin to imagine. I have been sent back on a very important mission. I have exactly two hours to save the world of musical theater,” the interloper declares imperiously.
“And now have one hour and fifty-five minutes. Like the sound of your own voice too much, Veidt.”
Erik startles at the second voice; he had been so blinded by all of the shiny gold and purple material that he hadn’t realized that someone else was here.
“And this,” Ozymandias adds, rolling his eyes, “is my psychotic sidekick of the day, Rorschach.”
Erik peers around the man’s shoulder and sees a short man wearing a mask and a fedora. Hmm. That seems a little familiar. Erik had thought that he had a corner on this particular fashion statement. And is the mask…moving? He will not be upstaged in his own opera house!
“Hrrr. Not sidekick.” The smaller man pulls out some sort of book and scribbles something down in it before shoving it into a pocket once more.
“Would someone please tell me what’s going on here before I whip out my Punjab lasso?” Erik glares at the talkative one and reaches into his cape. (Dammit, where did he put the thing? Merde, did he put that in his codpiece too?)
“Well, it’s a long story. I come from 1985, where the world is on the brink of nuclear war. Think of really, really, really big batches of dynamite. Anyway, to save the world, I cooked up this scheme about a giant squid and tachyons, but then Jon thought that was needlessly wasteful of human life, so he invented this time machine. So he went back in time to make sure that nuclear weapons weren’t invented, except that meant that even more people died in the end and World War II dragged on forever, so he went back further and made sure that there were no superheroes in the world, which apparently set everything right, or as close as he could get to it.”
Erik just stares, half-mesmerized by the shiny gold fabric catching the lights of hundreds of flickering candles as it moves and half-mesmerized by all of this nonsense the man wearing the gold fabric is jabbering about.
“And then, that made Dan not become a superhero himself, since Hollis wasn’t around to inspire him, so Rorschach kind of latched onto me for some reason that I can’t fathom. I think Dan became a famous ornithologist who writes fan fiction about King Arthur in his spare time. Anyway, since we weren’t at the brink of nuclear war anymore, I didn’t need the squid, and I didn’t decimate Manhattan. Which is most fortunate, because that meant that Broadway really took off, but that is why I’m here.”
“One hour forty-five minutes,” Rorschach grumbles loudly as he crosses his arms.
“Shut up, Shorty.” Ozymandias gives Erik a bright smile before continuing. “Anyway. A man named Andrew Lloyd Webber made a musical based on your life, and it was a blockbuster hit. I didn’t mind that, except my dates always drag me to see Phantom. I’d like to see something a little more…hmm, what word am I looking for?”
“Homosexual,” Rorschach supplies helpfully, scribbling something else in his notebook.
“Upbeat.” Ozymandias narrows his eyes at his sidekick. “But then Andrew Lloyd Webber made a movie based on the musical, and two of the three leads couldn’t sing at all, which makes no sense! It’s a musical! And then he decided that wasn’t enough, and he was going to make a sequel, and it involves you having carnal relations with a mannequin. And, in the end, it ruins Broadway more than my squid ever could. So that is why I am here. I need to make sure that you end up with Christine, so Andrew Lloyd Webber hopefully won’t be inspired to make a musical about your life, and the musical theater world won’t be subjected to this atrocity. I mean, honestly. Paying $150 a ticket to watch a grown man woo an automaton? Ugh. And maybe then I’ll have a chance to watch something more cheery.”
“Homosexual,” Rorschach pipes up in his gravelly voice, earning another glare from Ozymandias.
“Oh, like you’re one to talk. You are totally gay for Dan and his owl costume.”
Before the two men can argue more, which Erik is finding a little entertaining and more than a little baffling, there is suddenly a third stranger standing in his lair.
“Whoa! Either I took a wrong turn in the timestream, or someone scheduled a crossover with DC without telling me. Joe! Joe Q, is that you? I tell you man, union rules say - hey, aren’t you that Phantom of the Opera guy?” The man, who is clad head-to-toe in red clingy material similar to Ozymandias’ purple, steps forward, wipes his hand on his thigh, and offers it to Erik. He doesn’t seem the least bit put-off by the fact that Erik doesn’t shake it. “Nate took me to see your musical on Broadway before our divorce. Dude, you need to get laid. Know what I mean? Hello, I have cancerous tumors growing all over my body, and yet I manage to get some on a semi-regular basis. And if I was allowed to, I could get lucky with so many fangirls. Seriously, ditch the singing chick and hook up with a fangirl. Or a fanboy - hey, whatever floats your boat, I’m not here to judge, especially since I love it when Nate does that thing with this TO arm and…ummm. Never mind that last part.”
He clears his throat before taking a deep breath. “Uh, fangirls. Yeah. Emphasis on the ‘girls.’ I know you have them! Shatter that fourth wall! I do it all of the time.” The intruder pauses for a moment, scratching his masked chin. “Except that I keep getting told that I shouldn’t break the fourth wall so often, even though the fans love it. See, the editor yells at the writer if I do, and the writer takes it out on me, and the next thing I know, I’m stuck in some post-apocalyptic world and getting ripped in half by my ex-friend’s - or ex-boyfriend’s, if you read the fan fiction - evil clone. Not fun.”
“Who are you?” Erik manages to ask.
“Oh, me? I’m a literary device to keep this story moving along, but you can call me Deadpool - merc with a mouth, and all that. See, the author is kind of obsessed with Marvel comics, and she had to have one of us show up, and I’m the most fun for her to write, so here I am. Oh, hey, I almost forgot! The original prompter doesn’t want anything about sandwiches written in here, so if the author starts talking about meat between two slices of moldering bread, run away as fast as you can. Seriously. The original prompter will probably kill the author if she goes there, and I don’t want her to die because she writes a crapload of smut involving me for a kink meme on livejournal. So just tell her to step away from the bottle, for my sake - and for yours, because I don’t think you want this to happen any more than the prompter does. And if she tries, just taunt her about having a crush on a pretty boy named Ryan Reynolds, ‘kay? Or bring up Namor and his fairy-winged ankles. That usually stops her in her tracks. Just ask Beaver.” And with those final words of cryptic warning, the interloper disappears as quickly as he’d arrived.
Ozymandias, Rorschach, and Erik stare blankly at the spot where he’d stood for several moments, none of them saying a word. Finally, Erik shakes his head in utter confusion, an emotion he’s been feeling quite a bit today. “What was that?”
Rorschach makes a noncommittal grunt in the back of his throat, and Ozymandias shrugs one shoulder. “I’m not sure, but that is a travesty.” He points at Erik’s organ room with a disdainful frown. “All black? All of these antiques? Do you actually bring girls down here?”
“Only Christine.”
“Yeah, and she ends up running away and marrying the boring rich guy. We need to spruce this place up a bit, make it a real bachelor’s pad. Women look at this stuff, you know. They might say they don’t, but they do. Let’s see… We need something more, oh, modern.”
“Says man who decorates office in Egyptian artifacts,” Rorschach interjects, the shapes on his mask swirling placidly.
“Says the man who thinks that purple pinstripes are fashionable.” Ozymandias snaps his fingers, and his eyes are positively aglow. “That’s it! We need more pizzazz. More purple! Colors will brighten this place right up. Do you have access to any fabrics? I can make a few swatch samples to show you what I’m talking about. Purple and gold, maybe some red too.”
Rorschach pulls out his book again, flips to a page, and scrawls something down. “What are you doing?” Erik asks, once again completely bewildered, as he watches Ozymandias race around his lair to examine its contents.
“Hrm. Crossing out ‘possible’ and replacing with ‘definite.’ No need to investigate further.”
“What is he doing?” Erik fights the very childish urge to stamp his foot. This is his lair, and his opera, and this is supposed to be his night.
“Best not to ask,” Rorschach mumbles. “Got any beans or cereal?”
The sound of something clanging to the floor causes Erik to pivot on his heel, revealing a very guilty looking Ozymandias holding…oh god, not the monkey music box! Erik rushes over and grabs the toy from Ozymandias’ hands, glaring at the interloper as best as he can from behind his mask.
“That’s it,” Erik seethes, patting the monkey’s hair defensively. “You and your friend here are leaving now, or I will kill you both.”
“But - but, we’re not finished yet!” Ozymandias protests, even as Rorschach grabs his elbow and begins to steer him towards the door. “Oh, at least let me give you some advice! Don’t be all broody when you see Christine tonight. Tell her you want to talk, and cry if you have to - girls like that. And-”
Erik slams the door behind the pair, still clutching his monkey.
----------
“Do you think I did enough, Rorschach? I could have done so much more, if only he would have let me…”
“Seems like didn’t want your help, Veidt.” Rorschach steps through the portal, and Ozymandias reluctantly follows him.
“I just hope it was enough, for the love of musical theater and my sanity.”
---------
Later that day, Adrian wanders down to the Times Square welcome center and sorts through the musical theater brochures. The familiar white mask on a black background is nowhere to be seen (and neither is its “sequel,” thank goodness), but it appears that Cats is still running. Well, he can stand that, he supposes. There are worse things in this world than actors cavorting on the stage for a few hours dressed like animals…
Maybe.
He thinks of Ramin Karimloo wasting his talent and playing a disfigured freak show owner who builds an automaton and sexes it up at night.
Yes. There are definitely worse things out there than Cats.