A/N: Well, there's a first time for everything. After years of reading dozens of gorgeous fanfic stories on here, and even MORE years of writing my own stories and NEVER letting anyone read them, I'm venturing out in two ways. This is my first attempt at a fanfic and I have no idea where the story is going to take us. But when an idea relentlessly bounces around in your head, you have to let it out eventually, right? Erik and OC Angelique (Ang) are the main players so far, but I have no doubt that the beloved characters from Leroux and other adaptions will appear before too long. It's only rated M because I'm not entirely sure of the rules here, and I'm paranoid. R&R if you like (though try not to rip me apart too badly), or stay quiet if you prefer. Blessings and happy reading! -Nika

Chapter 1

Angelique Chanson thought her name was way too romantic sounding for who and what she actually was. That was why no one now knew her real first name; she simply introduced herself these days as Ang. Among many others, her name had been a source of relentless teasing and bullying when she was younger, and the shortened name seemed to garner much less attention. She chose drab colors and clothing that was usually a size too large on her narrow frame, and though she had subtle, supple curves beneath all those layers, none were the wiser. Strawberry blonde hair that held a natural wave most women would covet remained forever tied up in a hurried, messy bun at the back of her head. Working on the technical team at an old theater, a building that would have been condemned save for its historical status, her skin was often streaked with dust, paint, or other grime from crawling around the makeshift storage in the rafters or scurrying over the rickety metal catwalk suspended over the stage. All the better. Her co-workers simply saw her as a comrade in the arts, not a woman. And that was totally all right with her. She may have been an outcast in her younger years, but she was part of a team now.

The fates had been against her almost from the beginning. The only thing she had of her family was a faded and foxed-edged photograph of smiling parents with her as an infant in a white christening gown, cuddled lovingly between them. She'd gotten her fair hair from her father and inherited her mother's almost too-large stormy gray eyes and thick black lashes. It was a car accident on an icy switchback that had changed her life, killing both parents – her entire family. As for her, eight month old Angelique lost her leg below the knee and she fought for her life for a good two months before she could be moved from the ICU. While she couldn't remember it, the nurses had been kind and loving. Her caseworker had done his best to place her with a family who could tend to her medical needs, but each time, each household, the family decided she wasn't worth the headache of hospital visits. When he retired, her file was transferred to an overworked, underpaid matronly woman who was none too pleased that the young amputee just couldn't settle with a single family.

Growing up in the foster system, she bounced from house to house in a long string of abusive and neglectful families before finally landing at a girls' home in the Midwest when she was eleven. She'd learned very early that the more invisible she could make herself, the better. Her limp and prosthetic stood out like a beacon to the bullies of the houses, and between that and her diminutive size, she was an easy target. She'd had to toughen up fast, both physically and emotionally.

Memories tended to crash over her whenever she allowed herself to become too still or too quiet, as she was now, staring blankly at her reflection in her closet-sized bathroom. Rather than dwell further, she shook her head to clear her thoughts and hurried through her morning rituals. Her face was quickly scrubbed clean with a soft washcloth, which she hung up to dry on its hook on the wall beside her bathroom sink. A strong, black hair tie was snapped up and held outstretched while expert fingers quickly wound and bound up the thick mass of reddish gold hair. A few pats of liquid concealer beneath her eyes was all she wore by way of make-up.

Five minutes later, Ang was dressed in her work "uniform": black stretch jeans, black sneakers, and a long-sleeved black tee shirt which read crew on the front and you can't see me on the back in dark gray letters, barely visible against the black cotton background. Everyone on the technical team at the theater had one, a joke among techies everywhere. Her messenger's bag was loaded with everything she'd need for the day: a large water bottle, a few packs of trail mix, half a dozen energy bars, and her show script for "Phantom", the season opener. Before leaving her apartment, she patted her back pocket, feeling for the familiar crinkle of thick photo paper that was her family picture, always kept on her person, a reminder that she had been loved at one point, even if for just a little while.

While she had no actual memories of the crash that stole her parents from her, somewhere in the recesses of her mind, she must have remembered – she had a nearly crippling fear of cars. Therefore, wherever she went, she walked. And if it was too far to walk, she rode her bike. Of course, carrying that up and down four flights of stairs between her small studio apartment in the city and the street was more punishment than she liked. At least it was a fair fall day today rather than the pelting rain that soaked the city last week.

The music from her current show played in her ears from memory and she hummed softly beneath her breath as she went. It wasn't the Broadway smash that everyone and their dog knew by heart, but she liked it. It felt a little grittier. Plus, she loved the mini series it was based on. The Phantom was just so dry in his humor that she still laughed whenever she remembered snippets of dialogue. "I'm sorry. I'm not used to killing people; it threw me off a bit." By herself as she maneuvered the crowded city sidewalks, she swallowed a chuckle, not wanting people around her to think she was crazy by guffawing to herself out of no where. But still... funny stuff.

"Hey Mac," she called out as she walked in the back door to the theater.

"Here, lass," the Scotsman called in return.

She dropped her belongings on a chair in one of the make-up rooms and tugged free her water bottle and her script before wending her way onto the stage. She spotted the burly Celt perched on a tall ladder with a paint brush, adding texture to the foam wainscotting at the top of the flats. Ang stood at the base and craned her neck back to peer up at him. "Is Stitch here yet?"

"Nae, she's still sick. Won' come in 'til rehearsal t'night," he answered in the thick brogue she loved to listen to.

"Makes sense. Why sew here when you can stay home on your couch?"

He snorted, refilling his brush with paint. "Wish I could do me job from th' couch."

"Yeah, me too." She headed down the side stairs into the house. "Then I wouldn't have to stare at your ugly mug all day," Ang quipped over her shoulder with a grin.

Without missing a beat in his strokes with the brush, his free hand flipped her the bird, and she snorted. "You love me!" she yelled as she trekked up to the control booth.

"Aye, I do," he quipped. "Yer better t' look at 'n Gus."

Eight hours later, Ang stood off to one side, covering a yawn with her hand, waiting for the light board operator to shut down the power to the grid before picking her way across the rickety metal catwalk to the source of the problem. One of the main lights had shifted its position, likely due to a giving of bolts that let it slip away from its original placement. With one leg over the rail and the other hooked from the inside, she leaned just slightly over the top, nimble fingers quickly loosened the screws that held the massive light fixture at the wrong angle, arms held out from her body to avoid burns from the still blistering metal sides. On the stage two stories below, backstage techs dressed in their show blacks scurried to and fro, checking the mechanics of the curtains, the 30-cue weight and pulley system against one wall, the computer program that would automatically trigger this backdrop or that to fall or fly up into the theater's heavens.

"Trap 1. Go." The call below sounded the warning that the false floor would be sliding away from its closed position. With a rumbling woosh, the panel slid back.

"Trap 2. Go." Another woosh, and the second section of the floor vanished.

"Light cue 126." The voice over the god mic echoed from the various speaker boxes arranged high in the corners of the theater.

Ang's eyes snapped wide and she screamed into the darkness of the house toward the control booth. "Wait!"

"Go."

As the light's bulb illuminated with blinding light, she yanked both hands back, but not before yelping in pain at the split second burn to her palms and the pads of her fingers. There was an awful groaning of metal as loose bolts gave way; sparks rained down upon the stage as the light pulled free, the cord severing. Trying to spare the expensive piece of equipment, Ang lunged for the light, and both toppled from the broken railing and disappeared through the floor's activated trap doors, her terrified scream echoing over the chaotic cries of her team.

A/N: P.S. If you haven't watched the miniseries I mentioned earlier, OMG do yourself a favor and do it! Or at least look it up on IMDB and read some of the quotes. The plot is a little different from the Broadway or the book, and there is a Phillippe rather than a Raoul. Also, the only time anyone sings is when they're working on their craft, rather than spontaneously breaking into song like a traditional musical. It's so much fun and a unique departure from the usual ALW we're pretty much all familiar with.