A/N: This is an unholy experiment in sticking Leroux characters in ALW-land. As usual, I'm not entirely sure where it's going. (And yes, it was intended to be a one shot, but... won't be. Deja vu, anyone?)

Part One: Saaaaaaaved!

There comes a day when the cruelest of cruelties can no longer be endured, and so in the light of a waning autumn sun, the boy's stick-fingers crawled from between the bars of his cage— thankfully, still attached to his hands, however. He held his breath, positioned himself well. Reached around the neck of the man in front of him— the bad man, the cruel man, the man with a million iniquities and quite foul breath— and began his task of quiet strangulation. A daunting duty for a small boy, but quite necessary, to sate his rage.

It took longer than he thought, and the bag kept slipping down so he could not see. He tossed his head jerkily backwards to try to free his eyesight; in his hands the man danced like a marionette. The life seeped from the body as the sun seeped from the sky; the boy let the bone-bag drop to the ground, and gripped the bars with his hands.

The girl from earlier had been observing this, silently— this, the boy thought, was odd. But now she stepped forward, and took the ring of rusty keys from the man's— the bad man's, the dead man's— belt.

For a moment she paused, in the act of inserting the toothy thing into the lock. Their eyes met. Then her fingers moved swiftly; she unlocked the cage and swung the door open in one fluid movement. The boy emerged, staring only at his savior. Not paying attention, he naturally tripped over the man's— the dead man's, the bad dead man's— body, but only a little. The girl caught his arm.

"Come," she commanded, simply, and towed him in her wake for several steps.

"Wait," said the boy, twisting in her grasp, but she was bigger and older than he, and more determined. She was not the type of girl to do things by halves. Saved he needed to be, and saved he would be, and she would be doing the saving.

"Where are you taking me?" said the boy. "Wait!"

"The cellars," she told him, not quite realizing just how ominous that sounded. "And no. We must hurry, or they'll catch you."

He pried at her fingers with his other hand. She ignored him. He bit her. She yelped, and spun around to face him. But the boy with the bag over his head wasn't looking at her; he was looking to his left, where in the gloom she could perceive two more looming iron cages. Two more sets of pale hands, wrapped around the bars, and two pale faces to go with them. These boys had nothing to cover them. They weren't quite on the order of the Devil's Child, she supposed— a bit lumpen and misshapen, certainly, and the one on the right had a brow that protruded crag-like, throwing his face into shadow. And only one eyebrow, but there were things that could be done about that, she supposed. These were modern times, after all.

She looked at the boy she'd liberated. Impassively, he stared back at her.

"Oh, alright," she relented, and hunted through the keys. "This is the last time I risk my neck for you. Or your friends."

It wasn't, of course, not by a long shot, but she couldn't be expected to know that. All hints of clairvoyance and ability to see the future had been soundly beaten from her at an early age by her mother, a good Catholic woman.

The keys were found, the locks undone, and the two captives stepped from their cages, freed at last. "Thank God," said one fervently, rubbing his wrists as though they had been manacled.

"Poor thing," said the girl, pityingly, "how long have you been in that wretched cell?"

"Nearly an hour," said the boy. "It's been awful." He glanced to the first boy, who stood stoic and still. "How did you get out, Erik?"

"Murder," breathed the boy, this boy named— apparently— Erik.

"Well, actually, excuse me, I helped," said the girl, stung at this snub. Erik ignored her. The other boys did likewise, only looked to their apparent leader, the Devil's Child.

"What are we going to do? Run?"

"Run," said the one with the single eyebrow, breathlessly as though he'd already been doing so. "Run! Run! Run!" The other shushed him, and he gave a slight squeak, at which he looked bemused and glanced around himself, not seeming to realize where the sound had come from.

"Yes," said the boy, the boy named— apparently— Erik. "Yes, we shall run."

He took to his heels without a moment's pause, and the sound of his bare feet pattering on the cobblestones echoed down the alleyway. The other nodded briefly at the girl— their savior— and said, "Well, au revoir, then."

"Run," said his monobrowed companion, cheerfully, as though discussing sunny weather, "run and run and run. Don't look back, for they're coming, and they'll catch you!"

"Oh, hush," said the other, and took him by his sleeve to tow him along as he chased Erik. The girl stood baffled for a moment, looking after them.

"Oh!" she said. "Wait! No! The cellars! I— I saved you!"

She was their savior, after all. Their savior! How dare they run off without following her advice? This mission of hers would not be complete till they were safely ensconced beneath the Opera House, after all. If she let them go now, she would feel all itchy and headachey like after that incident with Mr. Herman and the chicken, and then the voices would start up again. She really, really hated leaving things undone.

And so she picked up her skirts, and pelted after them.

The boys had known fear throughout their days in the circus, had known terror, had known horror and shame. Had known the laugh of a derisive crowd, and the sting of the whip wielded by the man— the bad man! The evil man! The dead man, now!— who kept them captive. None of it quite compared with the sight of the determined young woman chasing after them, skirts in white-knuckled hands, eyes narrowed, teeth clenched. She sailed past one, then the other, then caught up to Erik and grabbed him by the arm.

"To the cellars!" she howled, breathing hard, triumphant. "Quickly, before they catch you, before anyone sees!"

"Ow," said Erik, twisting in her grasp. But she remained firm. In the face of the intrigued onlookers, she hustled him into an alleyway, headed for the secret door to the cellars. She had done it! She had rescued this poor boy! She was a savior! She had saved him, and now he was saved, and by God he wouldn't get unsaved, either, not if she had anything to say about it.

Behind them, the other two boys looked at each other and shrugged. They followed. There seemed nothing else to do.

"By Jove," said Lord Dunesbury— you may forget the name, it is hardly important— glancing about his party as they watched the boys out of sight. "Did you see the strength of that gel? Hauling that poor fellow like a tug tossed by a frigate on a windy night, eh what?"

"A curious thing," said another.

"In broad daylight, too," said a third.

"Ah well," said Dunesbury's wife, and glanced up at the building outside which they stood. She sniffed a bit, genteelly. "Those opera folk, you know. Anything for a scene."

Winding their way beneath the cellars, the two boys followed haplessly after their captured leader. The female was terrifying, it was true, but at the same time, so was Erik— they weren't entirely sure what was going on here. Why did he not pinch her, or trip her, or bite her again, and escape? It would be the work of a moment. And then they could run.

"Run! Run! Run! Run!"

"Shhhh."

The female looked back at them, and shook her head. "You may run if you like. I don't care. We're almost to the lake, you see, and if you run quickly enough you may slip and fall in and be eaten by the fish. Wet banks, you see."

She pulled the boy another few steps, then stopped and turned to him. There was a lake, indeed. It was vast, and glassy. There was mist on it, swirling. She let the boy go, and he folded his arms.

"My name is Mademoiselle Giry," said the girl, and gave him a ridiculous curtsey. "I'm in the corps de ballet."

The boy shuddered, but it was a knowing sort of shudder, a shudder that spoke volumes though Giry could not hear. "Corpse?"

"Corps."

"That's what I— ah. I think, mademoiselle, your pronunciation may leave a bit lacking." He stalked around her, slowly, while she clasped her hands together and thrilled. Saved! He was saved! Saaaaaved!

Once around to the front again, the boy straightened his thin shoulders, took a deep breath, and said, imposingly, "And I—"

"I know who you are," said little Giry, importantly. "You're Erik."

Erik's body gave a little twitch. "I am," he said, though the grandeur was somewhat lost and he looked deflated.

"You're not really the Devil's Child, are you?" said Giry.

Erik did not dignify that with an answer. The other two boys approached them now, quietly, and he turned to his companions.

"Josue," he said in greeting.

"Erik," said Josue. This was the boy with two eyebrows. Giry was suddenly grateful for the other's breach of tradition when it came to facial hair— without counting eyebrows, she could hardly tell the difference between the two. Oh, all boys looked the same, it was just as her mamma had said. And the three before her were surely the most motley gang of misfits that could ever be imagined.

Surely the most motley gang of misfits that had ever been saved by a fifteen-year-old ballerina. She straightened her back, and tried her best to be graceful.

"And the other?" she prompted.

"His name is Todd, I think," said Josue slowly. "But we usually call him Torgo."

"Indeed. And is Torgo aware that he has a rat on his head?"

The three stared at her. Erik's eyes were a flash of yellow-green beneath the bag. Josue's were black. It was impossible to tell the color of Todd/Torgo's eyes, what with the overshadowing of the ferocious eyebrow. She was in fact doing him a favor in supposing that he had eyes at all.

"He always has a rat on his head," said Josue. "It lives there."

"Ah." Giry shuddered, girlishly. "That's hardly hygienic."

"Nor are those shoes," pointed out Erik. Giry tried to hide each foot behind the other, with little success. Indeed, her shoes were a bit manky. That was the downside of her self-imposed vow never to take them off, given eight years ago when she had come to the Opera House. Credit where credit was due, though, they had kept their shape remarkably well, apart from the splits on either side.

She turned gracefully from the trio, toes flapping.

"Come," she trilled behind her, "I will find you a place to stay. You must remain here and never leave. One of you has blood on your hands, after all. The authorities will surely be looking for you."

"We can go in disguise," said Erik.

She turned to him. "You're wearing a bag over your head. Surely they'll realize who you are."

"I can get another bag," the boy told her, stiffly.

"All bags look the same." She folded her arms. To come this close and go— no! It must not happen. They must be saved.

"I will paint a face on it, and wear a hat."

"And then you will look like a clown. Clowns are suspicious." The girl shuddered. "And horrid. Don't be a silly boy, Erik. Come with me."

He hesitated, looked about to object, but she had caught hold of his sleeve again and was once more towing him behind her. He dragged his feet only a little. The two others looked at each other, shrugged, and followed.

She led them to a wide ledge on the far side of the lake, and took a moment to swing her arms wide as if showing the space off. "Perfect!" she announced, in an absolute frenzy of enthusiasm. "Just what is needed for three young bachelors." They ignored this. It seemed safest. Erik stood with arms folded and looked off towards the lake; Josue found a stick to poke at things with; Todd that was Torgo had found an entire nest of rats in a dark corner and was in ecstacy. He gathered them up and marched back out to the light, the bundle of fur in his arms making angry squeaking noises.

"We're home!" he said, joyfully.

Little Giry could not help but give him a fond smile.

"Indeed you are," she said, and went to pat him on the head, but the resident rat hissed at her and she withdrew rather quickly. "All of you are home. All of you are saved. All of you will stay here with me, and I will tend to you and care for you, and bring you food. And you can live like normal people live."

"Five cellars below an Opera House?" said Erik, deadpan. Beneath the bag, surely one eyebrow was raised caustically.

"It's better than a cold iron cage, no?" shot back Giry.

"That remains to be seen." His eyes slid once more back out to the lake, finding solace in the space of it, the emptiness, the lapping water. Giry hesitated.

"You will stay, won't you?" she said. "I'd like you to stay."

Erik said nothing. Josue would not meet her eyes. Torgo was nuzzling a rat against his face.

"If you don't stay," said Giry, imperiously, "I will find you. Wherever you go, I'll be there. No matter where you hide, I will yet seek. In the depths of the darkness, when you think all is lost, I will be there to bring light to you. No ingenues will break your heart; no mob will hunt you down with pitchforks and torches. Erik— boys— I will always come for you."

There was silence, and beneath it the vague sound of the lake, lapping, and someone sobbing gently into a warm furry body.

"Now you've frightened Torgo," said Erik, still not looking at her. "I think that's enough damage done for one day, don't you?"

"Always!" bawled little Giry in a blast of emotion. Caught up in the moment, she shook her fist at them. It wasn't quite what she wanted to do, but she'd always put so much emphasis on moving her feet the correct way that occasionally her hands did things without permission. She took to her heels, then, the aging leather creaking ominously around her swollen feet, and pattered off back towards the Opera House proper. Boys! She had boys! Boys of her own, just like she'd always wanted! And she had saved them! Saved them! Saved them!

In the Rue Scribe she found a kitten that needed desperately to be saved from a merchant's cart— and she saved it, too! Oh, there was some pain involved, but still! Saved!

All in all, it was a very good day, little Giry thought to herself complacently, and nursing her cart-crushed fingers and her scratched arms, she went humming to bed.