A/N: Not sure how people are liking this story, since I haven't gotten any reviews. I wrote the next chapter anyway, since I'm eager to write this fanfic. Tell me what you think, please, and how I can improve if you find any flaws. :D

Disclaimer: The Producers and The Phantom of the Opera aren't mine.

A whole new world
A new fantastic point of view
No one to tell us no
Or where to go
Or say we're only dreaming

-A Whole New World from Aladdin

Chapter 2

Max and I whipped our heads back around to see Serge's bewildered face. The two of us exchanged our dumbstruck expressions. "A white mask?" Max asked. It did seem like an odd color. Didn't criminals usually wear black to hide their features?

"Yes, white. And it was only half a mask."

"That's sure as hell weird," Max sneered.

"You don't believe me, do you?" Serge said, a hint of distress creeping into his voice. He let his head fall into his hands.

"No, no!" Max hustled over to his side and placed a hand on his shoulder. I lagged along behind him. "It's just . . . strange. Your situation. I don't how you could have traveled all the way across the Atlantic ocean without knowing anything about it."

Serge shrugged. "It's a mystery to me, too. So much is missing from my memory of it. I think I was drugged or something, because I barely remember the ship. I just recall waking up once . . . or twice . . . maybe three times. And a piece of disgusting old bread. But it's all a blur, like a dream or something."

I nodded, trying to comprehend his situation. "Are you sure it wasn't a dream?"

"That's the problem." Serge stood up and walked over to our desk. He let his body sag against it and released long, exasperated sigh. "I can't tell. But that man in the white mask . . . my grandmother spoke of him before."

My eyes popped wide open. "What about him?"

"She always told me this story," the boy began, casting his gaze to the floor. "It was about this man who kidnapped a young woman. He was deformed and wore a mask to hide it. A white one nonetheless. He was in love with the woman and tried to make her love him as well. But she was engaged to another man."

Max dismissed the tale as a trifle. "Probably just a coincidence. Or a hallucination while you were drugged."

I wasn't so quick to place this piece of information aside, though. "What if it wasn't just a coincidence?" I asked.

Serge let his shoulders sag in defeat. "It's the most clear out of all the memories I have, though. And then I remember him saying something along the lines of how something will make my mom regret her decision."

"What decision?"

"I don't know."

Max returned to his desk, murmuring a few muffled words. "I don't think we can really do much for you, then."

"We can bring you to the police," I offered with a smile, but Serge was quick to turn it around.

"No! I'd rather stay with you two then go see them."

"But maybe they can help you . . ."

"NO!"

Max and I glanced over at each other, then turned back to Serge. We didn't ask him to explain his reasoning, but he continued on anyway. "I'm sorry. I'd just rather not."

"Well, that's fine," Max said. I could see the words "this kid is crazy" written all over his face before he looked up at the clock on the wall. "It's only eleven."

"Eleven," I groan. Yet another reminder of Ulla.

"Oh. Sorry," Max apologized, and then quickly changed the subject so that he wouldn't get me even more upset. "I'm starving. How about an early lunch?"

Just the mention of food made my stomach growl. I hadn't felt hungry for breakfast, but now the pangs was gnawing at my stomach like an angry bear. "Sounds great." I turned my attention back to Serge. "Would you like to come along?"

"What do you usually eat?"

"Chinese food, hamburgers, hot dogs. The likes."

Serge stared at us as if we had just said something in Japanese. "What are those?" he asked.

"Don't tell me you've never had any of them," Max said, aghast.

"I've heard of them," Serge explained. "I just don't really know what they are, and I bet they're disgusting. There has to be French food in a city this big, right?"

"Right, but we're not having it."

Max could have treated our guest with a little more compassion, but then again, that was just Max's way of greeting people. After awhile you just got used to it. It certainly kept our days at the office interesting.

"So what are we having?" I asked, curious myself.

"How about we go to the pub down the street?" Max replied. "That way our little friend here can try a hamburger or something."

I could see a look of disgust cross Serge's face.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

"I'd like a bacon-and-cheddar hamburger," Max said to the waiter, consulting the menu that was sitting in front of him.

"Grilled turkey sandwich for me," I added.

"A . . . hamburger," Serge said, rolling his eyes. He gave the menu back to the waiter with an air of distaste.

"Okay, then. That will be right out," the waiter assured us. He was tall, skinny, and had a smile shining on his face. It wouldn't have surprised me if he cracked a joke or two, but he simply walked away with our menus tucked under his arm.

"Are you sure I can't have wine?" Serge asked for the tenth time since we had entered the upscale pub.

"Do you want us to get arrested?" Max snapped at him. "You can't have wine! You're only fifteen!"

"I could in France."

"That's France! This is America, and you can't drink until you're twenty-one. So unless you find a way to magically make yourself that age, shut the hell up and drink your friggin' coke!"

Serge clamped his mouth shut after those few remarks from Max. My business partner looked over at me, sitting on the other side of the booth, and rolled his eyes. I could tell that he just wanted this kid to drop dead. None of us allowed our lips to make another sound until our meals came for fear of Max's rage.

"A bacon-and-cheddar for you, a grilled-chicken for you, and a hamburger for you," the waiter announced as he lay our food in front of us. Max and I eyed the food hungrily, but Serge still wasn't convinced. "You sure this is edible?" he asked the waiter. Max kicked his let under the table.

"Yes, it's edible," the waiter replied, letting out a confused chuckle. "Enjoy." He left our booth, giving Serge a stupefied stare.

"Now eat it, kid," Max told him bitterly before taking a bite of his. He chewed it slowly and then allowed a smile to burst onto his face. "It's good."

"Mine is too," I said with a mouth full of my sandwich. "Just try it, Serge."

Serge shrugged and took a bite. He didn't say anything after swallowing it, but it looked like he was reluctantly enjoying its taste. Max and I didn't get to enjoy his expression for too long, though. A stranger soon approached our booth.

The man had blonde hair and bright blue eyes. He was neither smiling nor frowning; not enjoying life, but not hating it either. He was decked in a gray three-piece suit and wore a pair of spectacles.

"Hello," Max said. "And who would you be?"

"Roswell. You probably don't know me."

"You're right. I don't. Now would you mind explaining why you're talking to us?"

"I saw your play last night."

"Springtime for Hitler?" Max asked. "Can't believe it's still running."

"It was fabulous!" Roswell's face lit up. "All the tap-dancing Nazis, all the singing, and especially that Roger DeBris."

Max let a groan escape from him, but quickly covered it up. "Yep, he's great. Just great."

"I hope he'll be in your future productions. And who's this with you?" He pointed his finger in Serge's face, eyeing him carefully.

"My nephew," Max and I said simultaneously. We then noticed our little blunder.

"He's my nephew," Max corrected.

"I see," Roswell said, nodding his head slowly like it was on a crane. I could tell he was unconvinced by our statement, but he didn't elaborate. "Well, then. It was nice meeting you two."

"You as well," Max replied as our newest fan walked away. Once the sound of his footsteps faded into the air, Max whispered, "That was a little peculiar."

"Yeah," I agreed, looking behind me. The man wasn't there, though. "It was."