Author's Note: A new day, a new story arc. This one is a concept I have been mulling on for a while. What if Ciel were transported to present day London? How would one explain this presence in the modern world without time travel or other contrived notions? How would Sebastian arrive there? How would it pan out? In this opening chapter I have attempted to answer those questions without falling prey to clichés and tired prose that includes words like 'mysterious portal', 'out of time and space' and 'TARDIS'. Please read and review. If well received, I will likely write another twelve chapters as with my other Kuroshitsuji works. Enjoy.

Ciel and Sebastian, His Butler, New World

Proposals and Lies

Hackney, London, 2016

The boy had been sat on the park bench for almost three hours now. The temperature had dropped from tolerable to freezing during that time and the flimsy coat he was wearing did nothing. But he knew in a few minutes, the wait will have been worth the cold. The restaurant across the road threw out their leftovers between three and five in the afternoon, but sometimes binned it earlier or later depending on how busy they were. The boy knew that very well after the last few weeks. He had happened across this modern phenomenon by chance one night and now tried to eat here at least three times a week. It was the only filling meal he could get if money for fast food was scarce. The restaurant was doing a fairly brisk business tonight, but nothing too demanding. He had expected the food earlier, but could settle for later if they threw out their famous spaghetti. The boy loved their marinara sauce and meatballs enough to wait all night if necessary. Just after half-past five, the rear door opened and the kitchen staff began their familiar ritual.

As soon as the door slammed shut again, the boy stiffly got to his feet and scurried over whilst it was still warm. He had barely eaten three mouthfuls when he was tapped on the shoulder. He froze in place. The police had sent him back to the care home before. He would do anything to avoid returning to what awaited him there.

"I dropped my keys in there." The boy mumbled already regretting such a bad excuse given his fingers and likely his face were covered in red sauce.

"I would imagine you have no need for keys of any sort." A voice said cheerily from behind him. The boy frowned. It was not the police, nor was it a social worker: the accent was too refined for either of those professions. He turned slowly and was confronted with a modesty dressed gentleman with silver hair and a neat beard. The man, somewhere around fifty, smiled at him in a way that was oddly disquieting. The expression seemed blank and the boy felt a strong urge to flee.

"I'm sorry. I was just leaving." The boy said slowly moving away from the strange man.

"So was I. I take it you enjoy the spaghetti here as much as I do. Would you like some?" The gentleman asked presenting one of the restaurant's takeaway boxes to him. The boy mustered a smile he hoped was polite not nervous and shook his head.

"No thank you. I've got to get home now. Bye." The boy turned his back and began to walk only for his unwanted companion's footsteps to shadow his.

"Where is your home this evening? A bus station? An underpass? Some back alley doorway?" The man inquired without any sort of judgement in his voice. The boy frowned.

"It's none of your business. Leave me alone." He began to take a path to the nearest police station as the stranger continued to follow him.

"I was wondering whether you might be interested in a job opportunity."

"I'm not like that. I may be homeless, but I don't sell my arse for a warm bed or a takeaway box of spaghetti. Go find someone else." The boy said curtly. He was stopped by a large and surprisingly strong hand settling on his shoulder.

"Perhaps I should start again." The man said before roughly spinning the boy back around. He produced a wallet and then a driver's license. "My name is Charles Muir. I am a professor at London Metropolitan University and I am looking for an assistant to help me with my research. Due to the research I am conducting however, my assistant must be a child between the ages of twelve and fourteen. It concerns the composition of the adolescent brain and the changes it undergoes during puberty. Here is my university staff card and the key to my offices. May I ask your age?" The boy scrutinised this evidence carefully. Everything looked authentic enough, but it was not hard to imagine a serial killer also being a talented forger. He frowned.

"Tell me yours first."

"I am fifty-one."

"I'm thirteen. I'll be fourteen next month." The boy said as Muir placed his cards and keys back inside his coat. It was even colder now as they stood there.

"And how long have you lived on the streets of Hackney?"

"This time nine weeks, last year, seven months. I still think you're going to murder me."

"What makes you say that? Do I appear disingenuous?"

"I have no idea what that means but if I were a serial killer, homeless kids who eat out of bins in empty streets would be my idea of an easy day. Just because you're a professor, doesn't mean you can't be a murderer as well." The boy countered whilst hugging himself to hold on to what little body heat he had left. A moment later, Muir had placed his wool overcoat around the boy's shoulders to bring lasting relief to the bitter sting of the night air. The man crouched down in front of the youth and offered him the takeaway box.

"Holding this will warm up your hands. You must be awfully cold in that windbreaker."

"I'm still not going with you." The boy announced as he took the box in his own hands. Numb fingers began to thaw. Muir was still smiling, and apparently oblivious to the cold, in getting back to his feet.

"That is fine. Please keep my coat and enjoy your dinner. If you change your mind and wish to take the position I described, the address for the university and the number of my private rooms is on a card inside the left-hand pocket. Good night." The boy watched in bewilderment as his companion turned his back and quietly walked down the street without another word. He was even more astonishment when Muir, upon reaching the end of the street, turned right and disappeared entirely from view. The boy stood and waited for another ten minutes before believing it was not a trick or cruel game. He glanced down at the box but did not open it. He left the street. He took three tube trains and walked until he was in a food court as far from Hackney and Muir as he could manage without eating. Nestling down at a corner table still in the folds of the man's coat, the boy tentatively opened the box.

It was an untouched helping of the famous spaghetti, brimming with marinara sauce and a clutch of meatballs. The food was barely lukewarm after his journey across the city, but that did not matter. It was real and he was extremely hungry. The spaghetti disappeared within a few minutes of ravenous shovelling. After the delights of a full stomach had subsided, the boy fished in the jacket pocket for Muir's card. He was familiar with the address. To get there, he would need money beyond the few pounds he had in his jean pocket. He searched the jacket and found a crisp twenty-pound note folded in its inner pocket. He shook his head at this, knowing it was only here to bait him into returning. Everything was designed to get him to accept the professor's offer. The boy slept in the food court until told to leave. He then slept in a Costa booth until he was also moved along. Eventually the shopping centre shut its doors too. The boy drew back to the Underground and took up residence near an exhaust vent that shielded him from public view and the majority of the station's lights. Using his own coat as a pillow and Muir's coat as a blanket, the boy slept through the night.

Charles Muir was in his office the next morning when a young visitor was announced. The biology professor smiled as his reluctant ragamuffin graced his doorway. There was a resemblance in the face, he thought, although some dilution of breeding had soured the aesthetic. The boy's dirty-blond hair and green eyes were also the product of contaminated bloodlines. He was certain there was sufficient amounts to make the transition smooth enough. It had not been apparent on the street the previous evening, but the youth had not showered in some time and the pungency of his body odour was less than kind on the nose. The boy placed the man's coat on his desk and stepped back.

"I didn't spend any of the money. It didn't seem right." The youth explained with a brief smile. Muir stood up and inclined his head in gratitude.

"Your honesty is commendable. Perhaps now you might furnish me with a name?"

"Filly."

"Short for Philip I assume?"

"Maybe. So what is this job and what does it pay?" The boy shrugged whilst looking around the office. Muir saw him linger on the photograph atop of the mantelpiece, but not long enough to suspect he knew anything about the boy it depicted. He also showed interest in some Latin books on the bookcase, but dismissed the French tomes altogether in bringing his gaze back on the man.

"I will merely subject to a litany of tests designed to assess all aspects of your mental, physical and emotional development over a period of three months. You may room here for the duration of the research and will be given thirty pounds a day towards food, clothes and other essential items." Muir said, already confident such a lucrative deal would be taken by the boy. Humans were notorious for their greed, something that was proven with Filly's response.

"You want to give me over two-and-a-half grand for doing nothing but tests?" The boy had calculated the net gross for ninety days with startling ease, considering his initial reluctance. The man nodded.

"That is correct. Can I take it you are interested in filling the vacancy, Filly?"

"Do I have to go into care after we're finished?"

"I have no intention of forcing you to do anything other than what has been agreed. So, are you interested?"

"I guess it beats a punch in the face. Okay, I'll do it. When do I start?"

"Immediately."

Two weeks passed into obscurity amidst a battery of written tests and physical games of skill and chance. Filly was confused by the nature of his written tests. All his mathematical exams used imperial units of measurement instead of the metric he was used to. Furlongs and yards instead of kilometres confused him and he scored poorly on the first three days of tests. The same could be said of his English exams. Asked to write his answers in the form of a treatise instead of an essay threw him as did the questions that centred on Victorian novels by Dickens and Dick King Smith, people and works he had no knowledge of. He scored successive zeroes on the first two days and less than ten percent the following three days. His coordination and balance when asked to juggle leather balls, hit a bullseye on a dartboard and throw three punches in less than a second-and-a-half bordered on humiliating. But Muir assured him there was no pass or fail element to these tests. The professor was insistent it was only a study and nothing more meaningful. The boy did not see it that way.

Despite the lack of pressure and expectation, the money and the security of his surroundings, Filly was disgusted with himself. He had never liked losing at something even if he knew nothing about it. So after five days of shaming, the boy studied his sponsor's books and spent hours practicing skills when not doing tests. Two days later he had scored fifty percent on an English paper and improved his maths score by ten percent. He juggled three balls for almost ten seconds and actually hit near the centre of the dartboard. It still felt like failure even when Muir praised his improvements. He studied and worked harder. Seventy percent and eighty percent. Twenty-five seconds of juggling and one bullseye out of thirty. Not enough. Seventy-seven percent and eighty-six percent. One minute of constant juggling with four balls, eight bullseyes out of thirty tries. Three punches thrown in less than a second-and-a-half six consecutive times. Filly held nothing but contempt for his efforts. Eighty-nine percent and a perfect score. One minute thirty of continuous juggling with five balls. Twelve bullseyes out of thirty attempts. Four punches in the allotted time. Muir moved on despite Filly's insisting he could perform better.

They covered Latin and French to assess what Muir claimed was the young mind's capability to learn new languages. Filly was hell-bent on triumph from the beginning this time. He spent all his free time studying for the next four weeks, completely forgetting his birthday in the process. They had never been enjoyable anyway as far as he was concerned. His test scores continually topped ninety percent. He still chased perfection feverishly until Muir stopped him cold.

"I am afraid we must stop the research." The professor said when discovering the boy awake and scribbling at five-thirty in the morning. Filly had not slept. He did not want to sleep. He wanted to win. The piles of books that flanked him on three sides had been devoured in looking for whatever minor mistake in pronunciation or technique had marred his scores. "Your obsession is causing emotional stress far beyond what my research intends." The man added without emotion.

"But I'm so close to winning."

"You are not winning: your neuroses are. All you will succeed at if you continue is to kill yourself. Go to bed. Now." Filly responded to this command by kicking back his chair and upending the table in a violent rage. He glared at Muir who remained impassive.

"So I can lose and go back to eating out of the fucking bins?"

"I do not know what you believe the purpose of this employment is, but it is not black and white in nature. You cannot 'fail' these tests. You can score well or not in them, but you cannot 'lose'." The man told him calmly. Filly screamed at the top of his lungs. Muir did not visibly react.

"I wish you'd just killed me last month." The boy spat whilst kicking the books splayed on the floor.

"I have read your files. I am aware of your past. I will not medicate you like they did."

"You should. I'm clearly crazy."

"Why do you call yourself Filly? It is a derogatory term for a boy your age, is it not? The only thing clear is that you are not a young female horse." The boy understood the word derogatory. He had practically memorised half the dictionary to compete in his 'treatises', just a fancy word for essay and very stupid. He glared at Muir and enjoyed hating him.

"What do you care?"

"These tests cannot continue if your emotional distress is worsened every time your name is uttered."

"It doesn't matter what you call me! Nothing matters but winning!" The boy snapped hoisting his fallen chair aloft and smashing it hard on the floor. Muir smiled at this display.

"I knew someone of a similar disposition. He enjoyed winning at all costs as well. However, he did not throw such destructive tantrums. He liked to be taken seriously."

Filly let go of the chair and sat on the floor. He put his head in his hands and took a deep breath. The professor was right, of course. His past did not excuse his temper. Here he was, a guest in someone's home, and all he wanted to do was destroy. He had been fed and clothed and praised, but apparently not tamed. He took another deep breath. "I'm sorry, Professor Muir. I've…had a bad life so far. I'm not used to people being nice." The boy heard the man crouch down behind him. A large hand settled on his shoulder. It felt unusually warm.

"That is not a crutch you can lean on forever, young man."

"But I don't know how to change myself." Filly said miserably. The hand on his shoulder grew hotter until it was just shy of scalding. The boy tried to shrug it off only to find no give in the flesh.

"Fortunately I do."

Moments later, Muir's other hand was inside the youth's chest. Filly could not breathe as the man's fingers closed around his beating heart and squeezed it. He flailed his limbs in a vain attempt to escape as a blinding white pulse travelled down Muir's arm and into his chest, setting it and the rest of his body on fire with pain. Filly opened his mouth to cry out only for no sound to escape. Then he was falling into darkness. The world disappeared around him and still he fell deeper into blackness.

Outside of this nightmare, the boy's body was contorting itself into a shorter, slimmer frame. His facial bones shattered and then rearranged themselves in an instant whilst his dirty-blond hair grew darker and longer. Throughout this whole startling transformation, Muir's hand remained embedded in his chest and the body thrashed and thrummed against its metamorphosis with inhuman strength. The man responsible continued to smile irrespective of the horror his actions had brought on the youth. He found it beautiful to witness such destruction and renewal. It was a cycle he was more than familiar with. Bulging green eyes burned white-hot with impossible light shining forth like torch beams and still Muir maintained his hold on the boy's heart. Less than a moment later, his hand was removed from the chest cavity, leaving no trace of a wound behind. Muir hauled the limp body to its feet with one hand and leaned close.

"Wake up, Young Master."

Closed eyelids jerked open to reveal large blue eyes beneath. There was an audible convulsion of breath before the boy coughed and instinctively shoved off the hand holding him. A brief wobble of the legs was righted before he could fall by hanging onto the nearby bookcase. Ragged breaths followed. Muir waited patiently. Eventually the boy wheeled around to face him. Filly was gone. This boy was younger, shorter, and slimmer. His face was more aesthetic and symmetrical than the other youth with skin like alabaster and eyes that regarded the man before him with contempt. The new boy briefly surveyed the ill-fitting clothes hanging precariously from his slight frame before glaring at Muir.

"What the hell is going on here?" A refined and cultured voice demanded. Muir narrowed his eyes at this apparent miracle with mistrust. He wanted to test the waters.

"Who are you, boy?" He asked feigning ignorance. The boy's eyes bulged in disbelief.

"Who do you think you are addressing me like a common slum rat? I am Earl Phantomhive and I demand to know what I am doing here dressed in these rags or I shall have your damn head for insolence!"

"Here are some garments more befitting to your status." Muir said producing a tailored powder blue suit and white shirt from an antique trunk. The boy regarded them warily.

"That is not an answer to the question I asked, imbecile. Who are you?"

"Perhaps you might be able to guess from how our last meeting ending, Master." The man said serenely. His companion frowned at him. Then alarm spread across his face.

"My soul…I gave it to…you."

"So then, who am I, Young Master? Say my name."

"Sebastian Michaelis."

Charles Muir's face melted into nothing but light whilst his own frame and features underwent a transformation of their own. He grew taller and leaner. His hair grew long and black. A moment later, a younger, clean-shaven man with white skin and blood-red eyes stood in Muir's place. Sebastian Michaelis had resurfaced. The pair stood and regarded one another in deathly silence. The boy smirked.

"What on earth have you done?"

"I have not devoured your soul."

"Why not? After three years of servitude why did you not take your reward?"

"I have my reward, Young Master. I have you." Sebastian said almost fondly. Ciel did not like it, nor this ridiculous scenario. A deal was a deal. He sneered.

"I am not your master anymore. Our contract is done. Why am I not lying in a grave?"

"Your body is, Sir."

"No, this is my body." Ciel said patting down his face and torso, "I would know if it were…" The boy stopped upon feeling his back. His hand manoeuvred frantically around the area. "My scar…where is it?"

"As I said, this is not your original body, Master. This is the substitute I procured to allow your return to this physical plain."

The boy crossed the room, stepping over the destruction Filly had wrought, to the mirror near the door. His reflection showed him to be exactly the same as he remembered. There was no contract seal in his eye, but it was definitely his face staring back at him. "Did you find my twin to enact this sorcery? This is my face, no-one else's." Ciel said scrutinising it for any unfamiliar elements. There were none. Sebastian drew up behind him and divested him of his T-shirt. The boy sighed before extending his arms out. The demon began to slip a white shirt over his torso whilst speaking.

"He was a blood relative and quite distant. I needed a vessel with familial ties to tether your soul properly. Because your soul is the essence of everything you are, once housed back inside a human body, it can terraform its host into the body it once possessed. Your soul has effectively colonised this body and reproduced your human form as a result." Sebastian explained slipping off oversized jeans in favour of powder blue shorts.

"What happened to this body's previous occupant?" Ciel asked as his unwanted butler continued the dressing ritual by ushering him into a chair and guiding his feet into knee-length socks.

"His soul has been eaten by yours. In some sense it still exists, but only as an extension of yours. If you were to vacate the body now, that soul would not survive the separation and he would die anyway." The demon said as the socks were fastened off at the knee. The boy frowned at this bizarre act of charity as buffed shoes were applied to his feet.

"Why did you do this? You had what you wanted and so did I - why bring me back? I am not making another contract with you, not when my enemies are not only dead but likely dust by now." Ciel said. His striped green waistcoat was applied and green ribbon was expertly bowed at his collar. Sebastian smiled at him in a way the boy was not accustomed to at all. If he did not know better, he would say it was joy.

"Three years in your company was not long enough, Master. I have taken four masters since your demise, all of them similar to you in temperament and desire if not age or privilege and consumed all their souls. They were dry and tasteless. I felt cheated by their lack of quality. I kept yours inside me to ferment like fine wine. Your value has only grown greater with age. And I do not need a contract with you: your soul is already my property. I can remove it whenever I please." The demon said slipping the Phantomhive ring over the boy's slender finger. Ciel crossed his legs and put an arm on the chair rest to lean his head against. He did not understand.

"Then why would you serve me if you already have your prize? What possible benefit could you get out of stringing me along like this?"

"The pleasure of your company. I thought perhaps we might assist the new monarch with problems of the realm and begin anew." Sebastian said indicating for the youth to stand. Ciel rolled his eyes and complied, straightening his arms behind him. His powder blue frock coat was put on to complete his transition back to more familiar and flattering attire.

"Are they all dead now, Sebastian? Lizzie? Finny? Mey-Rin? Baldroy? Snake?" The boy inquired whilst examining their surroundings in more detail. The demon moved in front of him, now dressed in his butler's morning suit and nodded his head.

"Everyone you have ever known has been dead for several decades or more." Ciel thought of Lizzie rotting in the earth but pushed it from his mind to pose his next question.

"Did they have good lives after I left?"

"I made sure they did, Young Master. Lady Elizabeth married and had several children. The others also enjoyed long and happy years with loved ones and family." Sebastian answered whilst returning the furniture to its upright position and gathering the books into great piles. This news was warming for his companion. The boy smiled wistfully.

"I'm glad she found another to love. I did not want her to die alone. When did she pass?"

"1938. None of the others or your allies survived past 1950." The demon said now placing the piles atop of the table as Ciel ventured to look out the window at the shower of lights peppering the dark skyline. London had become a city of glass and lights in his absence. He did not like it.

"What year is it now?"

"2016, Sir." One hundred and twenty years separated his final breath and this moment. He let it settle before posing more questions. He did not wish to sound overwhelmed by the situation as it stood. A second life to lead was nothing to be derisive of, not when his final destination seemed to be Hell and eternal suffering. He could at least humour the demon's very human wish for companionship for a time. If Sebastian had gone soft in the decades following his demise, perhaps Ciel could purge it by renewing his contempt and loathing for the creature. And of course, there were worse fates than this. He thumbed the lapels of his coat.

"Are these my actual clothes or more replicas?"

"They are yours. I have all your clothes at my residence."

"And what were you masquerading as here?"

"I was a biology professor at this university. I was known as Charles Muir."

"And now?"

"I am your servant once more. Your fortune is safe as is your home. We may go there immediately if you wish for more comfortable surroundings."

Ciel saw the glass screen sitting in the corner of the room and the glowing red light beneath it. He already knew its function. A name entered his mind with lightning speed, already as if heard a thousand times before. He gestured to it. "A television, correct? A device used to broadcast motion video and sound, the future's answer to the Lumiere brothers' invention." He said to prompt a raise of eyebrows from his companion.

"It would appear your predecessor's local knowledge has already found its way into your mind. Normally an amalgamation like this would take longer to fully integrate the individual elements. What else can you tell me of this time?"

"Enough to understand fleeing to the mansion and pretending it is the nineteenth century is a pointless venture. The world has moved on and if you wish me to engage in your little charade, so must we. I shall need modern clothes for starters, not some dusty old keepsake from your disgusting shrine. You will need to address me by my name instead of 'Master' or 'Sir' since informality is the fashion of this time. You say you have a residence?" Ciel said drawing up to the demon who inclined his head.

"Yes, a modest apartment in one of the more commercial areas of this city. There is a room to accommodate you, but it is hardly fitting…"

"For a nobleman of my standing? Some drivel like that?" The boy interrupted with a savage mimicry of Sebastian's voice that the demon revelled in hearing. He had missed the dynamic of their relationship. There was no substitute for the insults of a Phantomhive. Sebastian smiled and nodded.

"Yes…Ciel."

"Your guinea pig tells me the gentry as I know it no longer exists. So your excuses are worthless. Take me there now. That is an order."

Sebastian smiled and bowed low. "Yes, My Lord."