This update was mainly to make an announcement. A revised version of "Shadow Government" is now available on Amazon in both paperback and digital form. The new title is "Shadows Over Eden" A Phantom of the Opera Inspired Tale–by L.M. Bird. If you decide to make the purchase, I hope that you enjoy it.

For those who are concerned, I will try to keep the original version up on this site. I will only remove it if I run into plagiarism or other unanticipated problems.

Now that you've read this far, I did put in a small treat below. One of my readers requested a scene of "Shadow Government"/ "Shadows Over Eden" from Erik's POV. If you'll remember, I never featured his POV. I wrote a vignette and decided to share it with you all. This takes place when Erik first met Christine as The Spirit. I know it's short, but I did want to leave you with something new after my little advertisement ;) Thank you for your support! If you could stop by Amazon and leave a review, I would appreciate that, too :)

75 points down.

The sweet swell of violins.

120 points. 180 points.

A slow, smooth crescendo.

220 points.

He listened to classical music as he watched the stock market plunge. Bach's "Air."

230 points.

Good enough for the day. Any more would appear suspicious. The Securities and Exchange Commission already had their inept hands all over it. Of course, the government was trying to reassure the public that all was well, that it was simply another economic downturn caused by a burst housing bubble or a lack of technological innovation. We need more productivity. We need lower taxes for small businesses. We need to socialize the banks; they're too big to fail. All would be fine soon, if we just did all that.

Keep telling yourselves that. Keep telling yourselves it will all be fine.

With a few clicks, he removed his software program, his virus. He turned off the music. On television, they were panicking and clutching their pearls. Oh, no! Oh, horror! Think of the 401Ks! Think of the layoffs! Think of the children!

As though they gave a damn about any of it save for their stock portfolios. Perhaps they would start jumping out windows soon from their fiftieth story executive suites. One could only hope.

"Well, we don't know what happened there," said the talking head in a suit. He released a nervous chuckle. "But, you know, they'll launch an investigation. Maybe someone clicked the wrong button."

"Right," said the other talking head. "Maybe someone's cat walked over the keyboard."

"Ha! Right. You can blame poor Fluffy for the market today, folks."

He liked to watch the little ants running around in a panic. Because he held the giant magnifying glass.

Cameron sent him a message, an innocuous: God bless you.

He rolled his eyes. How many times had he warned Mr. Lourdes to put nothing in writing?

He could have entertained himself all afternoon and evening with the news, but he had other plans. Something else had attracted his attention. A change of pace.

Art. That's what it really was. There was always time for art, always time for music. Even in the middle of the apocalypse.

Two days ago, he'd had an odd conversation with Cameron. Cameron Lourdes was an idiot, but he was a useful idiot. A destructive idiot. What he lacked in cunning and intelligence, Cameron made up in eloquence and charisma. They worked well together.

"Erik." Cameron had said his name warmly as they'd met in his office. "Wasn't the assembly magnificent? All those new faces. All those people ready to embrace the Lord. I'm so glad I found you. You're magnificent, you know? I think God led me to you. I think that God brought us together."

"I'm flattered, Mr. Lourdes."

And he was, in a sense. It would have been a lie to say he was completely detached from this job. He enjoyed watching them all squirm. And why not? He had nothing else to take pleasure in. He could go out with quite the–bang!

So when Cameron patted him on the head and showered him with praise, he took it. Even if he considered Cameron far beneath him in every aspect save for physical appearance.

"I know this is what God wants," Cameron continued. "He talked to me last night. In my dreams. God told me that this was exactly what he desired. His perfect society. Oh, I heard his voice so clearly, Erik." Cameron rubbed his wrinkled hands together.

If this is what God wants, then God is the worst sort of despotic sadist. He always thought these things but never said them aloud. This was not what God wanted. This was merely mankind eating themselves alive in a sort of 'survival of the fittest' game. It was the product of evolution. They were biological specks in an infinite universe. Pointless. Insignificant.

And he was simply a more intelligent molecular combination than the rest of them. He dwelt on the pointlessness of it all more than he preferred. Thoughts of his insignificance crept into his brain in the darker hours, that vile question of: What does it all really mean?

Nothing. The answer was clear. It all meant absolutely nothing.

"Yes, this is what God wants," Cameron continued. "His country."

"M." This was so dull. He had moved forward with his inquiry. "Who was that girl who sang at the assembly?"

"Hm? Oh! Oh, that was Christine. Sort of a strange situation. Her father requested it. He's been here forever, a very godly man, but his health hasn't been good lately. His daughter has caused him problems. She was a rebellious little thing as a child, but she's calmed. We've corrected her. Still, she's not very cheerful. So I did him a favor. Maybe she'll catch a few eyes with that voice, and someone will marry her. Hopefully someone who keeps a firm hand on her." Cameron cleared his throat. "I wanted to ask you about the special election in the—"

"I want to speak to her."

"What?" Cameron blinked twice.

"As the Spirit, of course. I want to speak to her."

"Why?" Cameron asked, drawing out the word.

"Why is it your business?"

Cameron gave a short laugh. "Because there are very few people who know you even exist. You've never wanted to speak to anyone before. It's a little strange."

"Because I do nothing but attend to your political and economic affairs all day. It can be tedious. I need a new project. I hear potential in her voice, and I want to develop it. It's an artistic endeavor, and it may eventually benefit you. That's why. You will allow it, if you want my continued services."

"Well, if you're going to put it that way–fine. I'll tell her she pleased the Spirit. But you're going to have to be careful. Like I said, she can be difficult."

"I am always careful, Cameron. You are the one who jeopardizes yourself. How many times have you put your requests in writing?"

"Well, I don't now, do I? Just be careful. I'll tell her to meet you tomorrow evening. Where?"

"There's a very secure room in your building. I use it for comings and goings. No one will interrupt us there."

"Fine." Cameron added one last, "Be careful."

As though a scrawny eighteen year old girl would be any sort of threat…

He wasn't going to be late for the meeting. He had made adjustments to the room so that it would sound like his voice was echoing all around her–so that she would believe him to be a creature of heaven. He waited behind the wall, in one of the many passageways he'd constructed around Cameron's compound. If she didn't show up, he was going to be very, very displeased. There was nothing he despised more than someone wasting his precious time.

Ah, there she was. She kept looking over her shoulder. Fear on her face. Wide blue eyes. Lips slightly parted. Her dress covered everything but her hands and face. Christine stood in the middle of the room, trembling. She looked from side to side, wringing her hands together. She glanced up. She shook her head and muttered something beneath her breath.

Suddenly, he felt very uncomfortable. In the last several years, he'd only spoken to men. Cameron and a few of Cameron's must trusted sidekicks. And then a few other seedy gentlemen whom he'd personally employed. Why had he arranged for this? It now seemed ridiculous. Impulsive. Strange. He felt out of place, the sicknesses of his mind more pronounced. He'd been so busy with Cameron's project, so focused, that he'd forgotten what a freak he really was. He did not belong.

He nearly left her there and forgot this…this situation that he'd initiated.

Instead, he said her name just to get a reaction. It was an impulse, an itch that needed to be scratched. "Christine."

Her mouth fell open as his voice reverberated around her. "Oh, no." She mouthed the words. She spun around then fell to her knees and looked upward. Her hands were clasped together. "Sp-sp-sp…"

"Yes, Christine. It is the Spirit." He smoothly fell into the role. Perhaps this would not be so difficult.

"That voice. Oh. You're real? You're really real?!"

"It appears that I am." He liked her skepticism, though. And he liked that she spoke to him.

"You're real." A pause. She burst into tears.

He flinched at the awful sound of her crying. "What is wrong with you?"

"I didn't know if you were real," she choked out. "I doubted! I doubted all of it! All these years. I don't want to go to hell!" Her face was a soppy mess, and she shook her head from side to side. "I don't want to go to hell!"

"Calm down. Why do you think you are going to hell?"

"I've been a disobedient girl. I didn't believe!"

"Ah. And now you believe?" he asked.

"No man could have a voice like you. I do. I believe. I'm sorry! Please. Please forgive me. Please don't send me to hell. I'll be obedient and cheerful and…" Her voice broke, and she wept into her hands. "I don't want to be damned to the eternal fires!"

He leaned forward slightly, uncomfortably aware of his power over these ignorant, clueless people. "I won't send you to hell," he said, keeping his voice calm. "If you visit me. And sing for me. You won't go to hell. Ever."

She abruptly stopped crying. Her mouth fell open. "R-really? That's all I have to do?" she asked. "That's all you want? Really? And I'll be saved?"

"Yes. Your voice brings me great delight."

"Oh, I'm so flattered! Yes! I'll sing whenever you want, Spirit. I'll be good. I won't think about the Outside anymore. I'll do what Cameron says. I'll be obedient! I'll be good!"

He didn't really want her to be good. From that first day, he wanted her to be different from the rest of the mindless sheep. She would be better. He would protect her from Cameron's ridiculous society.

Her face always lit up when he told her she was special.

They were ants at his feet. She would be like the butterflies—fluttering and gliding above them.

She sang with joy in her voice, eyes on the ceiling as she raised her head. While he only spoke to her in that room, he always kept an eye on her. He made sure that no one ever caused her pain or forced her into a darkened closet…or an arranged marriage.

And that was how he spent half of his time destroying the United States. And the other half of his time tending to her.

He never really stopped to consider what she would think about all this.

She was his singing butterfly. She was his beauty.

But she was also a human being.

And he hated human beings.

She was of this country.

And he hated this country.

How stupid was he not to see that eventually it would all come apart? How stupid…

In the following months, Christine told him how grateful she was that he'd entered her life. "I thought I'd be married off to someone who was mean," she said. "I thought I'd be forced to have lots of children and that it would hurt so much." She shuddered. "I felt so alone for all these years. And now my dad is gone. But I won't be alone if you're here, Spirit." She wiped her eyes. "I don't want to be alone."

He remembered that feeling. He'd forced it from his mind, along with all other vulnerabilities. Alone. He'd been alone after escaping this hellish nation about two decades ago.

"You won't be alone," he reassured her. "You won't be married off. There is a kind woman who will take you in while you continue your lessons with me."

"Thank you! I'm glad you're real. I needed something to believe in. There's nothing left. I've heard the outside world is becoming worse. It was a happy place when I was little, but it's not anymore. In here, though, it's so empty. So what's left? What's left but you, Spirit?"

"We are left. That's all you have to worry about."

"Thank you for keeping me out of hell," she said.

He knew that she wasn't just speaking of the afterlife. She was referring to the here and now. "I would never send you to hell. You'll have a shining throne in heaven."

"I promise I'll be good," she continued. "I'll do what Cameron wants."

"No."

She blinked. He hadn't meant to say it so abruptly. "What?"

"Listen to me," he commanded. "Not to Cameron."

"Won't you say the same things?" she asked, hands clenched near her heart.

"Usually, yes. But if our words ever conflict, you will listen to me. Yes?"

She rapidly nodded. "Yes, Spirit. Of course I will."

"I have to go, my dear."

"To do good things?"

"Yes." He had to go create a riot. "To do good things."

"Goodnight, Spirit!" She smiled. It was the first time he'd seen her beautiful smile. As Cameron had said, she was a somber girl.

He felt a keen discomfort in his chest. He liked that she was happy. There was only one way to explain away that dissonance. She would be different. She was not one of them. She was special. Her hair was probably so soft…

"Goodnight, my beauty."

Before he could depart, Cameron called him into the office. "Erik!" he growled, thrusting his hand into the air. "The F.B.I. is sniffing around the front gates like a bunch of dogs. Could you take care of it? Bunch of godless heathens."

As the dulcet notes of an angel's song echoed in his mind, he headed off to work. He easily took care of it.

Late that evening, he lay on his lonely cot in the dark, dank room. On his hand, he held one of the little butterfly bots. He played with it, letting it run across his fingers and over his palm. So lifelike. So fake.

So…pointless.

The next day–

Fifty points.

Seventy-five points. Then back up, just to fool them.

"Thank you for coming to me, Spirit!"

One hundred points. Down, down, down.

"You are welcome, my beauty. Now sing a song for me. Forget the world. It's just you and your Spirit. Forget the rest of them."

"Yes, Spirit."

Down, down, down.

Phillip Chagny appeared on television. Eldest son of an assassinated Senator.

"We've got to get people back to work," Chagny said. "We've got to give them hope. Like Franklin Roosevelt did. We'll get people back on their feet again. And away from some of the extremist figures who have started popping up in this country. I know we can do it."

His lip twitched up behind the mask. Good luck, Mr. Chagny. Good luck.

Oh, how you'll need it.

No one could stop him now.