(Lights come up on a room that greatly resembles a theater of some sort. There is a large stage facing us, which we will come to in a moment. Rows of seats stretch away into infinity, mostly cast in shadow. A balcony hangs overhead, inlaid with what seems to be a mix of Greek frescoes and Egyptian hieroglyphics; several private boxes sit high up on the walls, hung with velvet silk and gold brocade. In the very back of the theater, a pair of doors is set into the walls; both are open, and through them drift every sound imaginable. Cars, conversation, airplanes and gunfights, lions roaring, birds screeching, angels singing. Life itself can be glimpsed through those open doors.

The theater is separate, silent, apart from all of that chaos that is Life. The stage is a magnificent thing. It bears a remarkable – and not accidental – resemblance to the Nederlander Theater in New York City, with a wide open space and a series of small, elevated platforms along the left and back walls. The first impression is that a Broadway hurricane has hit; discarded theater props lay all around, scattered carelessly, with a sort of loving abandon. Leaning against a wall is an antique rifle draped with a tricolor sash taken right from Les Miserables, as though someone sneaked onstage and removed it from the carnage at the barricade. A life-size dragon marionette is slumped in a corner, mouth open, wings up; a bunch of little blue demons and little white angels dangle on strings from the rafters. An impressive collection of rapiers and lances are shoved in a corner, some hanging on nails, some stacked in a haphazard pile. Shields and banners depicting the crest of a thousand royal families are strewn everywhere among the dusty treasure. Folders and notebooks crammed with papers are everywhere; musical scores, books with their bindings coming undone, are stacked in swaying towers over most of the stage. Papers form snowdrifts, while coins and shiny bits of metal form mountains; the entire wonderful mess is brought into bright, vivid illumination as a spotlight swings down from the ceiling and sways like a pendulum until it settles. There is a flash of movement as an owl soars out from between the rafters, startled.

The spotlight's beam eventually stills, brightly haloing a microphone on a small, thin pole that has appeared at the front of the stage, between the footlights, as if by magic. There is a rumble of sound as people begin to stream into the theater; the doors slam shut and suddenly all sounds echo and rebound in the wide empty space, as though it has been cut off from the rest of the world. The audience takes their seats. There is not a large number of them, only enough to fill up a few rows, but they all sit near the front and stare expectantly at the stage.

After a few moments, in which a banging and crashing can be heard, OPHELIA enters stage left, wading through her treasures. She will leave her appearance to the audience's imagination. She can be human, if you like; if not, she can be a werewolf or a dragon, a bird or a bull. She doesn't much care; it is her voice that is important. After a few minutes of struggle, OPHELIA reaches the microphone. Clearing her throat, she leans in to press her mouth against it.)

OPHELIA: Test… Test one-two-three… (Beginning to sing) Anything thing but that… this is weird… very weird… I'm so mad that I don't know what to do… fighting with microphones…

She stops herself with an embarrassed laugh, just as a few people in the audience are beginning to sing along with her. They laugh as well. She gives a nervous wave, which is met with cheers.

OPHELIA: Thank you… thanks for coming, all of you… (She clears her throat) Okay. First of all, I'd like to welcome you here, to this little corner of my mind, which has been specially made up for this purpose – (She glances around ruefully) though maybe not cleaned up just yet… sorry about that, folks. This is kind of important… you see, I called you all here today because you've read my fic. Or maybe you're going to read my fic in the future. Whether or not you've reviewed, you're here because my stories will, in some way, shape, or form, come into your lives. Not in any meaningful way, that is, I'm not messing with fate, you see…

She stops herself and shakes her head as if to clear it. Someone in the audience shouts out "Ge' on with it," reminiscent of Monty Python. OPHELIA shades her eyes against the brightness of the spotlight and smiles.

OPHELIA: Yeah. Well, I called you all here because you've read my stories. And you've probably started to notice a pattern in my plots…You see, there's something you have to understand. I've been writing fanfiction for a few years now. It started out as a sort of way to practice my writing skills, but once I got good enough that I felt like I didn't need that anymore, I stopped. But I liked writing fanfiction. It was fun. Addicting, even. So I started to use it as an outlet for all the angst and anger and sadness that I might have been feeling at any given time.

Cries of agreement and encouragement come from the audience, as well as a smattering of scattered applause. OPHELIA acknowledges the audience with a wave.

I'd been in three or four fandoms before I found Rent. And I'd written all kinds of fics, just about every genre and classification imaginable – and I figured something out. You see, I have a very high standard for myself. I don't write a character doing anything unless I can see that character actually doing it. I stay away from alternate universes and screwed-up timelines unless I'm sure I know how the characters really would react in any situation. And it's hard to get to know a character through a movie or a TV show, because you can only work with what they give you. For instance, I know how incredibly awesome Roger is – (this is met by screeching high-pitched fangirl screams from the audience. OPHELIA smiles and waits until it quiets down before continuing) but I don't know how he met Mark, where he's from, anything! And I don't like to make that stuff up because it might change who his whole character would be. And I figured out it's hard to know about someone's sense of humor unless you know them really well. I mean, think of it this way – every single person on this earth will react to the same joke in different ways. But if you take away their loved ones, there's pretty much only one reaction. So I started – and kept on – writing angst, because I honestly didn't know how to write anything light or humorous. And several great writers have told me to write what I know! So, yeah…

OPHELIA: Look, this meeting was called because, thus far, every single fic I've posted – and most of the ones I haven't – deal with Mimi dying.

There is a violent, but mixed, reaction from the audience. There are some wild cheers, mingling with loud booing. It seems that the audience has definitely noticed, and while some enjoy it, some do not. OPHELIA shrinks nervously back from the outburst, but regains her courage and continues

OPHELIA: Ahem. Yeah. Well, that's why I called you here. (She puts a hand to her throat as though loosening an imaginary collar, her bashfulness painfully evident.) It started out as an accident, I swear – and, well, I called you all here today to – apologize.

Again the reaction from the audience is mixed. There are some disapproving shouts and some whistles of approval; OPHELIA does not back down, however. Instead, her expression grows determined.

OPHELIA: No, I take that back. I'm not apologizing. I think I write good stories, and I like to write angst. But – I just want you to know I'm aware of it, okay? I'm Rent-obsessed, I'm a diehard shipper, and I don't want to write about gay romance because I don't know what it's like. So I naturally turned to Mimi/Roger, and I naturally let my predisposition for angst get the better of me. I know it's repetitive, but I like to write these kinds of stories. If you like it, or if you don't like it, or if you can think of something better, tell me, please – there's always that chance that something you say will wake that rabid little beast inside my brain and something wonderful will be the result. (The audience rumbles its approval) Thanks. So, I just wanted to let you know that – I'm not normally this repetitive, but Rent just happens to lend itself to angst really well – (There is wild cheering and scattered applause) – as I'm sure you've discovered for yourselves. So, hopefully my writing will get less fatal over time, and until then, I crave your indulgence – excuse my wacky eccentricities, and I'll overlook yours. We're all insane. Some of us are just better at hiding it.

Again the audience claps and cheers, this time explosively, with whistles of appreciation and bouts of laughter. OPHELIA smiles in response and lifts her hand in a signal; the angels and demons hanging from the ceiling suddenly come to life and flutter away, causing the audience to gasp in wonder. They vanish, and an immense projector-screen slowly descends along the back wall of the theater, as an old-fashioned crank camera, much like Mark's, rolls out from the wings on a wheeled stand. OPHELIA catches the camera and points it towards the screen.

OPHELIA: Thank you for listening, and I hope you'll come again. (A pause) But before we venture into the story, a brief introduction: it has taken me months to write. It is my masterpiece, my obsession, my poetic piece de resistance. But a warning, all arrogance and self-favor aside – you will cry. It is long, and torturous, and it rips out your soul. You will come away feeling cold and sick to your stomach and ready to cry – I did, writing it. A warning – be careful. It hurts. Angst of the first degree, but I don't want to call it angst, because that implies a degree of cheesiness I tried to keep out. But it is painful, and it is sad. (Again a pause, a brief shake of the head. The brilliant smile reappears.) So, without further ado…

The lights go out.