Chapter Text
“Please, Monsier…another note.”
Kylo Erik, former Opera Ghost and at present, Dark Lord of Music, peered over top of his organ, fingers poised above its keys. The staff knew better than to interrupt him when he was composing, damn them.
“Give it here,” he ordered, elegantly extending a hand.
ID10T, one in a long line of unlucky ballet droids all in possession of one-way tickets to the garbage compactor – it was simply a matter of time and perceived offense – meekly passed the datapad over to its master.
Erik rapidly skimmed the contents of the screen, and fixed the droid with his most magisterial scowl.
“What,” he hissed, “do you mean they’re out of tea?”
“As the note states, Monsieur,” Ideetentee stammered as Monsieur rose ominously from the organ bench. “The Starclef Cantina has run out of tea. Ms. Daae asked me to convey her sincerest regrets – ”
Behind the confines of his mask, Erik’s eyes narrowed to slits.
A moment later, the droid met its unceremonious end in a spectacular shower of fireballs, courtesy of the skull stick.
Correctly reading the writing on the wall, another ballet droid hastily plie’d away from where it had been dusting the candelabrums and ran for cover behind the mirror, trying to pretend it had not borne witness to the Dark Lord of Music’s first fit of pique of the morning (or afternoon, or evening; living underground always made it hard to tell).
Erik hefted his weapon of choice and stormed towards the lakeshore, beaded cloak billowing gloriously behind him. Yes, he mused as he stepped into the boat, a pattern had developed, these past few weeks. He was being toyed with. And that simply would not do. He was the one who did the toying. And at long last, he finally had reason to go straight to the source, so as to personally teach her of the error of her ways…
…and make her fall desperately in love with him in the process. (Efficiency in all things, after all.)
It was hardly a secret throughout the Empire Populaire that its resident Opera Ghost suffered from more than just a few garden variety personality disorders. His was a veritable alphabet soup of diagnostic criteria, as indicated by the Don Juan Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, 665 th Edition (DJSM-DCLX).
Zero anger management skills. No frustration tolerance whatsoever. Episodes of grandiosity. Catastrophic reactions to normal stressors. The list went on (and on).
Likewise, it was common knowledge that the Dark Lord of Music also suffered from an addiction.
(Technically it was two, but everyone knew better than to mention his obsession with her. Erik took care to make an example of gossipers, be they shifty stagehands who couldn’t leave well enough alone – RIP, Joseph Buquet – prima donnas and their over-fed paramours – Carleia and Obi-Wan Piangi; alas, they left us far too soon – in addition to countless others over the years.)
No, the Dark Lord of Music could not live by Music alone, not since that fateful day in Persia when the Daroga had lured Erik towards the true elixir of life.
Hashish? Opium? No, far worse.
Tea.
A bracing sip of Darjeeling meant the difference between a productive day spent prowling around the proscenium and making fun of the ballet droids, or endless rehearsals sacrificed on the altar of withdrawal-induced rages and wanton destruction of property.
Naturally, the Daroga disappeared not long after – he was off to visit an old acquaintance, who also kept his face similarly masked; Erik’s curiosity had been piqued at mention of this but said nothing, as it risked tipping off to the Daroga that Erik did, in fact, occasionally pay attention to him – leaving Erik to acquire the goods using his own questionable means and definition of morality.
For many a time, his cravings were assuaged without difficulty. All was well. Ish. But then the managers came, and ruined everything.
The Palais Garnier had a long and storied reputation as being the place to work if one held aspirations of a career in the theater. Alas, however, not even the Garnier was immune to the dreadful reality of budget cuts.
Messiers Handre Solo and his partner, the absurdly mustachioed Firbacca, had proven to be miserable failures at balancing a checkbook. The opera house’s coffers had taken a severe blow during their tenure. Erik, being in possession of keener financial acumen than his managers, had successfully staved off most of the bloodletting, but serving both as both full-time ghost and part-time broker was exhausting. As a result, he had not been paying terribly close attention the morning his auditors presented him with the list of Things That Needed to Go. Instead, he blithely signed on the dotted line in his trademark red ink, read the fine print once he was home, and garroted his entire financial team at the start of business the following day.
Complimentary hair styling products, gone. Pick-up and delivery hat cleaning, gone. Anachronistic Eiffel Tower, gone, along with the barrel monkey music box.
(Not much of a loss; it had been a Life Day gift from Little Sultana and Erik was certain the damned thing was cursed, as it tended to start playing of its own accord, generally when he was being spied upon by nosy sopranos or wrapping up a session of primal scream therapy – but it was the principle.)
But most horrifying of all…the Starclef Cantina. Gone.
Fronting the cost for phthalate-free wig wax? Steaming his own fedoras? Taking it upon himself to paint historical inaccuracies into the background scenery, rather than paying someone else to do the dirty work? Scouring every bloody antique shop along the Boise to find a suitable replacement for a mangy musical tchotchke?
Irritating, absolutely, but oh! Oh! To lose his beloved Starclef and all its precious contents therein…! He simply could not bear the thought!
So he didn't.
For the first time, the twenty thousand Imperial credits Erik extorted each month was put towards a worthy cause -- keeping the Starclef afloat, all under the guise of 'it's the right thing to do' and 'ancient Sith tradition' and 'the Emperor told me to do it so stop asking.'
But in truth, Kylo Erik had an ulterior motive...