Off Script

By Laura Schiller

Based on: Star Trek: Voyager/Phantom of the Opera

Copyright: Paramount/Andrew Lloyd Webber

Christine Daae woke up in a bed upholstered in red velvet, wearing the same white lace nightgown she had worn last night. The room smelled of damp stone, paper, and the smoke from dozens of flickering candles. She could hear organ music playing.

She was in the Phantom's lair, underneath the opera house.

She pulled aside the black lace curtains and climbed out of bed. For a recluse, the so-called Opera Ghost certainly spared no expense in decorating. He had a whole library's worth of sheet music, a puppet theatre that was an exact miniature of the real stage above them, and … a mannequin in a full wedding dress and veil. With her face.

Which was disturbing, from a man who had been her music teacher and surrogate father since she was six years old.

First a grueling premiere, then the unexpected appearance of Raoul, then a surreal and frankly exhausting duet with the Phantom while following him to his underground home, and now this. No wonder she had lost consciousness last night.

It was past time to demand some answers – even if she had to sing instead of speaking. (She would never get used to that.)

"I remember there was mist,

swirling mist upon a vast glassy lake.

There were candles all around

and on the lake there was a boat

and on the boat there was a man."

Erik looked up from the organ he was playing. She walked over to him without hesitation.

"Who is the shape in the shadows?

Whose is the face in the mask?"

She pulled off the white ceramic mask that covered the right side of his face.

She only caught a glimpse of the thick purplish-red scars underneath before he clapped his hand over them and shoved her away. She stumbled back, holding on to the organ for balance.

"Damn you!" he roared. "You little prying Pandora!

You little demon, is this what you wanted to see?

Curse you, you little lying Delilah!

You little viper, now you cannot ever be free!"

He stormed around the room, scattering papers, and swung around to glare at her with such rage on the visible half of his face that her last remaining patience ran out.

"Histrionics are irrelevant," she snapped, no longer bothering to sing.

She tossed the mask back at him like a Frisbee (even though that particular toy would not have been invented yet. A juggler's plate, she thought, might be a more accurate analogy.) He caught it, put it back on and stared at her, dumbfounded.

"If you are so concerned about personal boundaries, you should not be watching me through my dressing room mirror. And if you want to marry me, I suggest you ask before designing a gown."

He shook his head as if to clear it and began to sing again, less loudly this time, but no less annoyingly in her opinion.

"Stranger than you dreamt it,

can you even bear to look? Or bear to see

this repulsive carcass who burns in hell, but secretly

yearns for heaven? Secretly … secretly … "

"Don't be absurd. The scarring is minimal."

The Phantom threw up his black-gloved hands, let out a frustrated sound between a sigh and a growl, collapsed onto the chair in front of the organ … and laughed so hard, the ruffles on his shirt could not stop shaking.

"Computer," he said, "End program."

The velvety, candlelit lair faded away into the steel grid of Voyager's holodeck.

"Honestly, Seven," said the Doctor, still grinning. "Is sticking to your script really too much to ask?"

"Yes, when the script is illogical."

"It's not supposed to be logical, Seven, it's supposed to open your heart! The Phantom is fascinating. He's the ultimate outsider. He represents the darkness that lurks inside every human soul. Do we suppress it, or do we accept it? I love this musical. I was so hoping to share it with you."

She was about to say something sharp, but he was giving her that look again, his hazel eyes open as wide as they could go. It went to her heart more quickly than a dozen lectures.

"I find it illogical," she said, "Because I do not believe Christine would recoil from the Phantom because of his physical appearance. He is her friend of many years. She owes her career to him. When they sing together, they complement each other perfectly. Beauty is irrelevant, compared to that."

"You … you think so?" The Doctor gave her an odd look, followed by a glance at the polished steel walls. His reflection stared back at him, faintly distorted.

"If anything, his mental instability should be the obstacle."

He shot her a crooked smile and quoted a few bars from a later scene in the program:

"This haunted face holds no horror for me now …

It's in your soul that the true distortion lies."

"As always, Seven, you've hit the nail on the head. I suppose it's pointless asking you to continue the story."

"Affirmative."

He shook his head and sighed ruefully. "You're far too blunt to be an actress. It's one of your more endearing qualities."

Not knowing whether to take that as a compliment or an insult, she said nothing and made to leave the room.

"But come on," he called after her, just as the holodeck doors were opening. "You must admit the music is sublime."

'Sublime' was not a word in Seven's vocabulary. But when she thought of the Doctor's high note at the end of "Music of the Night", she did feel something, not unlike the glow from one of those many candles, in her chest.

"Computer," she said. "Resume program. Transfer Seven of Nine to spectator mode."

The Doctor smiled and squeezed both her hands in gratitude. Then he dropped back into character in a swirl of black leather, breaking down melodiously in front of a wide-eyed Emmy Rossum.

Seven settled in to enjoy the show.