Greetings, All, and welcome to my second story! This one may not be quite as fluffy as "World´s Shortest Courtship" was, because I wanted to explore the concept of an Erik and Christine who are, quite frankly, at war with each other.

Anyhow, without further ado:

I do not own POTO, or any of its characters.

Christine Daaé sat quietly with her job application in hand, waiting for the restaurant manager to appear. She was nervous now – this was the third and final interview she had scheduled for today.

The third today….How many employers have turned me down this week? Nine, so far. And last week? About twelve, if I count the ones who simply wouldn´t talk to me.

Christine dropped her application in her lap and wiped her sweaty palms on her skirt. No one could ever guess how important this interview was to her. The position she sought was humble enough – she wished to be a waitress, nothing more. Yet she needed the work, desperately.

There was something else, too. A terrible suspicion had worried her during the past two weeks, and was quickly hardening into conviction.

I have an enemy.

One last chance. One final opportunity to prove that she had not been blacklisted. Christine had refused to give up hope.

The door to the office opened abruptly, and a balding man of about sixty appeared. He beamed in approval when he saw Christine, and she stood and offered him her hand in as professional a manner as she could muster, despite her nerves.

"Well! Andrea told me that someone wanted to talk to me…about our waitperson job, I believe? She says you have experience? Miss….?" The man finished, obviously searching for a name.

"I´m so happy to meet you, Mr. Stewart," Christine responded. "Yes, I do have experience. Several years´, in fact. I have good references, too…"

Christine fell silent as Mr. Stewart took her application from her and glanced at her name. She observed a sudden paleness in his complexion.

"Miss…Day," he said, nearly croaking, and licked his lips nervously.

Christine ignored the mispronunciation of her surname and waited.

"Miss Day, I would love to hire you under other circumstances, but the position has been filled, I´m afraid," Mr. Stewart said quickly. He would no longer look at her.

Christine refused to abandon hope. This person, at least, was not ushering her out the door yet.

"Mr. Stewart, surely you could use another waitress now that summer´s over. Just call Mr. Diaz, my last employer, and he´ll tell you – I´m excellent at the job, I never call in sick or miss a day. Please…."

Mr. Stewart had walked back to the door and was slowly opening it, inviting Christine to leave.

He must have a conscience. He can´t even look at me, Christine mused bitterly as she exited the office.

She turned back suddenly, though, and Mr. Stewart could not help it – Christine caught his eye.

"Why?" she asked him, imploringly. She was asking for a name. My enemy´s name.

"I don´t dare," he mumbled nervously, dropping his eyes and fidgeting with his hands.

Yet Christine knew, even as she watched him. They were all the same – pale and nervous, ready to flee, hoping she would just disappear, just please go away. Mr. Stewart was no different. He knew that Christine Daaé had been blacklisted by a powerful man.

Erik DeJongh.

Christine waited at the bus stop, lost in her thoughts. Anger battled bewilderment.

Why? What could I possibly have done to deserve this? And why would such an important man bother to blacklist someone as unimportant as I am?

She thought back to the fateful evening of her encounter with Carla Forleo. The famous mezzosoprano had descended upon the Roma, the cozy Italian restaurant where Christine worked, bedecked in stylish fuchsia satin and trendy Manolos. It had been a Tuesday evening, and she was overdressed, of course; the Roma was a restaurant near the university campus, and it was by no means upscale. People came for the bohemian atmosphere, not for the cuisine, and Forleo´s gown simply did not fit her surroundings. She seemed irritated by this and generally ill-tempered that evening. When she was offered the finest table in the house by Roberto, who did his best bowing and scraping, she snapped at him.

Where did the lady wish to sit, then? Ms. Forleo chose the darkest corner in the entire establishment, with a table for two which generally served as a last resort when the restaurant was overcrowded on Friday and Saturday nights. This table was the worst of all their battered tables, and Christine had watched as Wendy, the diva´s unfortunate waitress, stuffed a bit of newspaper under one of its legs to balance it.

Jolene approached Christine and glanced in Ms. Forleo´s direction.

"I´m not singing with her around," she muttered, hand on hip.

Christine understood. The Roma was famous for its singing waiters – usually impoverished voice majors like her who worked for the generous tips bestowed upon them by a sentimental, middle-class clientele. It was ironic, but the few rich people who had ever blundered into the Roma had always tipped poorly, if at all. Christine could tell by glancing at Ms. Forleo that no tip would be forthcoming. Indeed, poor Wendy would be lucky to survive her, she thought with a twinge of sympathy. She risked a quick glance in her direction: the diva was noisily complaining to poor Wendy, who was busily nodding and changing the flatware for her.

To sing in the presence of such a temperamental diva was a daunting prospect, indeed, but it was time for a song, and the other clients were glancing toward the piano expectantly.

"You do it!" hissed Wendy as she passed Christine on her way to the kitchen, frustration evident in her every step.

Jolene nodded and gave Christine a slight push. Of all the waiters at the Roma, Christine was the most popular, and it was she who received the most requests – and the most tips. "The voice of an angel," gushed the most drunken clients in describing her talents, and she would blush. She always blushed.

Christine approached the piano. John was seated there, waiting. He had been playing random pop selections, mostly Billy Joel, with an amused eye on the drama that had been playing out in the restaurant´s darkest corner.

"If I Loved You," murmured John: a request. Selections from "Carousel" had been very popular lately, for some reason, and two diners at a table nearby beamed as Christine launched into their song. As she sang, she could feel rather than see Ms. Forleo´s baleful stare on her. Well, let her criticize me! I can take it, thought Christine defiantly.

No criticism came when Christine finished, however. Everyone except Ms. Forleo duly applauded, and the diva simply stared pensively into her wine glass.

Jolene and Wendy lost their fear of singing and duly took their turns beside the piano as Christine bustled about and waited her tables. As she glanced towards Ms. Forleo´s table, she paused. The diva now had a dinner companion.

He was barely discernible within the darkness. As Christine looked, she noticed that the one candle on the table had been snuffed out, yet her curiosity compelled her, and she strained to see the man´s figure. He was slender, she could tell, yet manly and elegantly dressed. His dark suit, too formal for his surroundings, blended into the background, and the paleness of his flesh stood out in sharp relief. Not that his hands were bare – he wore black leather gloves, as though he were about to leave, and his long fingers caressed the stem of his wine glass restlessly. He was ill at ease, Christine could tell. It was the paleness of his face which most surprised her, and with a thrill of sudden discovery, she realized that he wore a bone-white mask. It covered half his face and gave it a sullen, scowling expression. The other half of his face was handsome, but in a haggard way which suggested that he had known great suffering.

Ms. Forleo was fawning on him shamelessly, her truculence forgotten. When her companion looked at her, however, he seemed to look through her. He appeared to be suffering through the evening with a preoccupied air, and he ate nothing and barely tasted his wine. At one point, Ms. Forleo touched his arm, and he reacted as if she had slapped him – Christine actually heard him hiss at her.

"Woolgathering, Christine?" asked Roberto, smiling. That was her cue to move herself, and she did so. After she had finished serving her tables, and a lull arrived, it was her turn to sing. She moved toward John, who was waggling a finger at her, beckoning her comically.

Suddenly, something…somebody…collided with Christine, causing her to lose her balance and land, sprawling, on the floor. She heard the sudden murmur of the shocked restaurant patrons, and above that, a scream.

"You did that on purpose!" Carla Forleo was screeching. Christine was stunned; it took a moment for her to realize that the diva was screaming at her. She managed to stand shakily, bruised and still struggling to understand what had just happened.

"Get off my dress, you idiot!" bellowed the mezzo, and Christine realized that she was now standing on the hem of an ample satin dress. Who would wear a gown like that to the Roma?

"I want you out! Out of my sight! You and your ghastly croaking! Where is the manager? Where is he?"

Out of the corner of her eye, Christine could see Roberto approaching nervously.

A beautiful voice cut through the confusion – so beautiful, yet so icy and contemptuous that something within Christine recoiled.

"What seems to be the trouble here, Miss Forleo, and why do you wish to expose yourself in this undignified manner?"

Ms. Forleo´s dinner companion was hovering near her, his disgust evident. Christine noticed now that he was exceedingly tall, but it was his eyes which now captured her attention. They seemed to glow with a cold, hellish light. Sudden terror gripped her. He was looking at her now, and his eyes were unrelenting. Never had she felt such hatred – not directed at herself, necessarily, no – simply within him, roiling about and ready to harm. Somehow she sensed that this man was evil in some way, and capable of great violence. Yet his gaze left her shaking but physically untouched, and he turned his irritated attention to Ms. Forleo.

"That was certainly an admirable tackle! Are you satisfied? Why, may I ask, does an artist such as yourself feel such antipathy towards an insect like that?" he spat, his elegant hand, still gloved, gesturing languidly toward Christine. His voice conveyed gelid contempt.

Christine felt her cheeks burning and her heart hammering. Wanton shame spurred her to action, and she fled to the refuge of the kitchen, where she managed to contain her tears. Every now and then a dry sob would escape her, but to outward appearances, she was simply hyperventilating.

"Asthma," she said breathlessly to those who looked at her and murmured their concern.

She had learned to mask her sorrows well enough by now. Life had taught her that much. Steeling herself once more, she prepared to leave the kitchen and continue working. She was stopped at the door by Roberto.

"Christine," he said, searching her face for tears. He was nervous, but Christine´s apparent calm seemed to lend him enough courage to continue with what he had to say.

"Do you know who that was?" he asked.

"Of course," Christine replied. "Everyone knows Carla Forleo…"

"I don´t mean her," interrupted Roberto quickly. "That … man who was with her. Do you have any idea who he is?"

Christine certainly had no idea, and simply looked at Roberto in expectant silence.

Roberto sighed.

"That was Erik DeJongh. Have you heard of him?"

Another blank look from Christine.

"He is one of the most powerful men in this city, and that´s understating it. He´s an investor, technically, but he dabbles in other things. You obviously haven´t been keeping up with the news, Christine, and it´s hard to describe exactly what this man is. They say he´s a genius. They say he´s connected, really well-connected. He has the city council in his pocket, but not just that. He has underworld connections, too, and he´s been involved in more than one vendetta, but he never ends up dead – other guys always do.

"He´s creepy, Christine. He has a thing for the arts, especially music. He´s into architecture, too. You know the new Convention Center?"

Christine nodded, brightening slightly. She had often admired the new Convention Center as she passed it on her bicycle. Its architecture was extraordinary.

"Well, they say DeJongh finished it himself," continued Roberto. "The original architect, Jim Dolan, was dead set on a different design entirely, and he and DeJongh argued. Then Dolan just disappeared. They say he was murdered, but his body was never found, so no one was ever charged, but everyone knows…"

"Roberto, I can´t say this isn´t very interesting, but why are you telling me all this?" interrupted Christine impatiently. "I have to get back to work!"

She started out the door, but Roberto grasped her elbow, stopping her.

"Christine," he said gently, "I have been told that you can no longer work here. Please understand. You have offended Ms. Forleo, and she´s a …very close friend…of Erik DeJongh…"

Christine stood, her blank face belying the turmoil she felt within.

"Even Mr. DeJongh knows that that woman ran into me on purpose, though Lord knows why! I was minding my own business, Roberto! I didn´t do anything!"

Roberto shook his head sadly, silently.

"I need this job, Roberto, please…What can I do to fix things? I´ll do what it takes to make things right with Ms. Forleo…"

"No, Christine. No!" said Roberto firmly. "The message was clear. Do you think I want this? You´re one of my best workers ever, and our clients just love you! How am I going to explain things to them once you´re gone?

"But I can´t risk this restaurant, and, forgive me, but I don´t want to risk my own neck over this! In case you haven´t noticed, Honey, I´m scared shitless! Look, you can always get another job. I´ll give you a glowing reference…"

"Thanks a lot for everything, Roberto, and screw you," spat Christine. Roberto remained silent as she removed her apron, gathered her things together, and left the Roma for the last time.

That had been over two weeks ago. Now she certainly knew who Erik DeJongh was, and she hated him on principle.

Christine reviewed her situation as she sat on the bus. She had 45 dollars left to her name now and very little left to sell. Soon she would be evicted from her apartment, and there was a waiting list for dormitory space. Eventually she became tired of thinking, her mind running through the same problems repeatedly, as a mouse runs through a maze. She watched absently through the bus window as the painted-brick buildings of factories slid by, followed by the glass-paned windows of the office buildings of the business district. The bus stopped. Passengers descended, struggling with bags and briefcases, and a young man in a business suit got on. Christine continued to gaze blankly out the window, unaware of the new arrival, until she heard him arguing with the bus driver.

"…what I don´t understand is why you don´t have change for a fifty-dollar bill – it´s legal tender, isn´t it?"

"Sir, I can´t carry change for any bill over a twenty, and I carry less after dark. If you don´t mind my asking, did you just fall from a tree? I mean…I mean…" floundered the bus driver in tones of exasperated patience.

"How about a credit card, then?"

"A credit card? Sir, this is a municipal bus!"

Christine bolted out of her seat and flew to the front of the bus.

"I´ll cover his fare," she said, proffering her bus pass. "He´s a friend of mine."

She turned to the young man, who was regarding her with a puzzled expression.

"Raoul," she said softly. "It´s you, isn´t it, Raoul?"

Their reunion was awkward at first. She and Raoul de Chagny had been separated by more than time, more than the six years which had passed. Her childhood friend was wearing a tailored suit, silk tie, and expensive leather shoes. That much Christine could discern. She knew how untutored she was in the world of designer labels – a more worldly woman would have been able to recite all the names associated with every article of clothing Raoul wore – down, doubtless, to his socks and underwear. She imagined the impression she made on a man like Raoul, with her discount-rack skirt, her go-with-everything white blouse, her second-hand earrings, and her self-inflicted haircut.

"I was sorry to hear about your father, Christine," Raoul said, as the conversation finally began to flow more easily. "I wanted to call you, but I didn´t have your number or even your address…"

"That´s okay, Raoul," replied Christine. "I´m surprised the news even reached you, really…"

"How long has it been? A year now?"

"Yes, it´s been a year," Christine murmured, wishing for a change of subject. A happy release, her neighbors had called her father´s death. There had been nothing happy about it for Christine, though.

"So, what´s an important lawyer like you doing on a grungy city bus?" asked Christine. A passenger across the aisle from her shot her a resentful glare.

"I´m in a bind. My car´s in the shop today, and I need to get to Sunnydale to check on my great-aunt. Am I on the right bus?" he asked worriedly.

"Relax, this one will get you to Sunnydale in about 25 minutes. Do you still live in Bellavista? Because if you do, you´ll want to take the Number 3 to return…"

"I´ll call a cab," returned Raoul dryly. "And what are you doing riding on this grungy bus?"

"Looking for a job," Christine sighed. "I can´t say I´m having much luck, though."

Raoul looked at her in an odd, calculating sort of way.

"I believe I might be able to help you," he said.