Allen warmed up with the others, this time just as distracted as they were. He understood now what they were all in for. There were many ways in which Rouvellier could be unhappy with them, and even though Allen had nothing worth exploiting, the incident with Tyki had driven home the extent to which the others did. Tyki was genuinely afraid for Road, not because of Allen himself but because of what Allen might be connected to. Allen was an Order dancer, so as far as anyone who knew about the Order was concerned, there had to be something dangerous involved.

Admittedly, Allen did have a few dubious connections. There was Cross, for example, who might as well have been a hologram for all anyone could tell. There'd been no word from or of him since China. There was also Allen's poker habit, which involved a certain amount of fraud to get around age limits, although how actionable that was was an open question given the difficulties involving jurisdiction and the internet.

Still, as far as the Order was concerned, Allen's most hazardous connection was Road herself. Chaoji had made his displeasure with it clear. Rouvellier was unlikely to be any happier about it. The only question now was how long the man was going to prolong the agony of their collective anticipation. Were they going to be punished now, or in a week?

They weren't even finished warming up when the door slammed open and Rouvellier charged in.

"Komui, I will need your office!" he barked. "Lavi, you will dance solo in Paris. Allen Walker, with me."

Lavi's face went white and Allen's heart sank. It wasn't that Lavi was bad, it was that Tyki was better. This would probably be Lavi's last year at the Order, and God only knew what was waiting for him when it was over.

Allen followed Rouvellier, breathing slowly and carefully, bracing himself. This, if he wasn't mistaken, was going to be a siege.

He wasn't mistaken. Rouvellier started out with a question Allen couldn't blame him for asking. "Where's Cross?"

"I don't know," Allen said, which was the absolute truth. He didn't know. It would have worried him more, except he'd come to the conclusion on the flight home that the location of Cross wasn't his problem anymore.

"I don't believe you."

Now came the nasty part, the part where Rouvellier would try to goad him into an angry slip-up. True, Allen had no information to let slip, but he'd learned the hard way that any defensive response was generally taken as an admission of guilt, so it was best not to respond at all.

Not that keeping quiet was likely to deescalate things. This, too, was usually considered an admission of guilt.

"I didn't hear you, Walker."

Allen said nothing.

Rouvellier slammed his fist down on the desk. "I asked you a question, boy!"

He hadn't, actually, but Allen said nothing.

"You think you can be smart with me, you little bastard?"

A common insult, possibly even true. Not something that got under Allen's skin anymore.

"How dare you look at me like that!"

And then it began, another performance of shouting, insults, and violence committed on the furniture, only last time had been a rehearsal. This was opening night.

Even worse was the line of questioning Rouvellier took up. The man seemed to think that Allen's relationship with Mana had been sexual, and while he began with possibilities that might almost border on innocent, several minutes later he was accusing Allen of being the aggressor, taking advantage of a lonely, vulnerable man, seducing Mana and then using it to extort anything from food and shelter to expensive electronics and even drugs.

What kept Allen silent was his heart. He knew that if he engaged, his adrenaline would go up, and since that was the response Rouvellier wanted, a shock would be inevitable. They weren't pleasant, and he was in no mood for another one so soon, but the thought did give him something to focus on, Timcampy lying ready in his chest, batteries now slightly drained. He didn't want to stress Tim any further, which was all he would accomplish by trying to prove a negative.

That was the worst kind of fight, the sort of fight that never ended well. It was a lesson Allen had learned the hard way, or arguably hadn't learned at all, since he'd just tried it with Tyki and failed. That failure, though, only served to strengthen his resolve. He hadn't been able to convince Tyki that he meant Road no harm. He would never convince Rouvellier of anything, either, no matter what he said or did.

His silence only served to enrage Rouvellier further. The next blow to the filing cabinet dented it, proof to Allen's mind that the man's temper was beginning to bleed through. He kept his breathing steady, kept his mind on Tim, kept his eyes on Rouvellier's face as Rouvellier asked him how it felt to suck Mana's dick.

When this got no response, Rouvellier picked a picture frame from Komui's filing cabinet and threw it at Allen's head. Fortunately, this was not a new experience either, so Allen ducked and let it shatter on the wall behind him. When a coffee mug followed, Allen started feeling sorry for Komui, but since he had nothing to confess, this wasn't likely to end any other way no matter what.

Komui's collection of writing implements followed, and when that produced no result, Rouvellier's right hand whipped back and connected hard with Allen's cheek.

Allen gritted his teeth. Physically, it stung, but it was more intended to humiliate, and it had. Nothing bit harder than being reminded that he was still a child, still legally at the mercy of men like this, but breaking down and babbling was the worst mistake he could make. All Rouvellier would learn from that was that Allen had a breaking point, and in the future, he'd simply start there.

"Where's your mobile?" Rouvellier bellowed.

That question needed an answer. "In my locker."

"Get it. Now."

Allen got up, surprised to find his legs wobbly, but in his effort to stay still, he'd stayed tense, and now several muscle groups were stiff. It helped. It meant he moved slowly, no rush, and he kept with that, even though it took an effort of will to keep his fist away from that stupid toothbrush mustache. Anyone who grew their facial hair that way deserved to have their upper lip caved in.

Rouvellier followed much too closely, and as soon as the locker was opened, he grabbed Allen's backpack and dumped the contents onto the floor, snatching Allen's phone out of the pile. "Clean it up," Rouvellier said, then he pocketed the device and left to torture someone else.

Allen was glad for the mess, because it gave him a few minutes to calm down. He wasn't worried about the loss of the mobile. Rouvellier had telegraphed this punch, so Allen had taken steps. The phone he'd just lost was one of three, all second-hand, all with nearly identical micro SD cards. All of them also had certain services shut off by default and some apps were conspicuous by their absence, but Allen was counting on Rouvellier to fail to understand that this was a little strange. Anyone old enough to think that threatening to interfere with someone's phone was a good idea was probably too old to know when something about a confiscated device was abnormal.

Allen hoped the man had a fine, frustrating time trying to find anything useful, because he wouldn't. Meanwhile, his real phone was in a hidden, zippered pocket in his gym bag, not necessarily the last place anyone would look, but not worth looking at once the decoy phone was found.

The interrogation itself wasn't new to Allen. He'd been questioned many times before, usually by his teacher's creditors and often in countries that had child abuse laws so lax they barely existed. He'd been knocked around a few times, too, although his hair and his skin were enough to make most people reluctant to touch him at all, for fear he might be contagious. The same ignorance that was often the bane of his existence could sometimes work to his advantage. He'd also spent several years in English schools, which were known for entrenched bullying. He'd had to learn very young how to control his temper.

It had been hardest when he was living with Mana, because the boys at school said cruel things about Allen's father, that he was slow, simple, brain-damaged. All of these, Mana had pointed out, were true, so why should Allen be upset about things that were true?

What about things that were false? Allen had asked, because that wasn't all they said.

Those things, Mana had explained, were even less worth troubling himself about.

It made it easier to withstand Rouvellier, who had been obsessed with things that weren't true, but it left Allen worried about the others. They were terrified, but how would Allen have felt if Rouvellier's accusations had been true? It wasn't the sort of thing Allen thought these people he was starting to consider friends were capable of, but he'd grown up around people who made mistakes when they were young. Some were stupid or reckless, others catastrophic, and the statutes of limitations on the catastrophic varied from place to place, as did the consequences.

It didn't even have to be something wrong they'd done. Kanda's only sin was survival.

It seemed like there had to be something he could do, but what? Call the police? If any of the Order's dancers had committed crimes, they would immediately become the center of attention, distracting from or even justifying the crimes being committed by the adults. Kanda's situation was arguably the most straightforward, but that wasn't so much a crime as it was a travesty, not a problem for the police at all.

So what did that leave? He didn't know, and the time it took him to clean up the contents of his backpack gave him no answers.