It had taken over an hour. Chloé took it upon himself to pose as Michel's beautician, fussing over his hair and -Michel cringed at the thought- showing him how to apply makeup. Why the man was even knowledgeable in the art of makeup application was a question Michel was afraid to ask; he feared the answer might leave him a bit more disturbed than he already felt.

First and foremost, he'd been forced into the humiliating clothes. The fact that he picked them out himself didn't make him any more comfortable; in a way, it almost made him less so. But on went the plaid skirt, the stripped tee-shirt and knee socks and a pair of black Converse All-Stars, a size too big, courtesy of Yuki. A multitude of jelly bracelets and a necklace bearing a rather gothic-looking cross were added to the outfit at Chloé's insistence and Michel wondered how he could possibly keep up with his own fashion and know so much about teen trends at the same time.

His curls had been straightened; his hair sprayed a purpley-black color. That alone had the most time and had surprising results. Straightening his hair made if much longer; it hung almost to his shoulders and his bangs fell in his eyes more so than usual.

Chloé then proceeded to coat his fingernails with black polish, the smell of which left Michel light-headed. How girls could put themselves through this every day was beyond him. He refused any makeup beyond what Chloé deemed "necessary" and tried to keep from squirming as the Romanian man prodded at his face. This had to be the worst, the most humiliating, the most horrifying experience of his life.

But it worked as it was supposed to. When he was allowed to look in the mirror, he found a stranger staring back at him; a stranger with dark hair and smoky eyes -by appearance a girl- her mouth turned down in a pout, expression brooding.

Michel could hardly believe he was looking at himself.

As he gaped at himself in the mirror, he could see Chloé's reflection smirking at him. He frowned at the man, scowling over his shoulder, and turned to storm out of the bathroom, then paused, suddenly remembering that the second he stepped out the door, every one else would see him.

He much rather would have hide somewhere in the spacious bathroom than go out and face certain humiliation.

Chloé, unfortunately, wasn't giving him much of a choice.

-----

Yuki gaped as Chloé ushered Michel out of the bathroom, one hand on his shoulder in order to keep him from bolting. Michel was blushing like crazy, his head lowered, and staring at the carpeting of the hall. Chloé was smirking; Yuki knew he was enjoying the fact that Michel was so miserable and he'd had a hand in it.

The little blond truly did make a convincing girl. Chloé had been right. Michel was thin and just hippy enough to play the role of a very flat-chested girl. The clothes clung to him in the right places and his face was sweet enough that he was already mistaken for a girl on a regular basis. Yuki felt bad for him; it was a terrible fate to be mistaken for some one of the opposite gender. He was glad he wound up masculine enough that no one could make the same mistake.

Of course, Michel's typical state of dress didn't do much to dissuade outsiders from seeing him as a girl anyway.

Free was frowning. Scowling, actually. He was glaring daggers at Chloé, who Yuki thought was enjoying himself far too much. The older of the two blonds hadn't stopped grinning since the second he'd appeared in Yuki's line of vision.

Chloé seemed oblivious to the pointed glare fixed on him as he pushed Michel towards Yuki, who was already decked out in his disguise. It wasn't actually that bad…Black pants full of zippers -he'd removed the "bondage straps," as they had potential to be dangerous during a mission- and a black hoodie, his hair mussed even more than usual and spiked in the back a little. Not so different from his usual clothing.

Maybe this wasn't going to be so painful after all.

As soon as the thought crossed his mind, Yuki knew he'd been far too optimistic.

"You make a wonderful couple." Chloé smirked.

-----

The Autumn Café was positively packed. A small cyber café on a side street downtown, it was a popular hangout spot for London's teens. Yuki frequented the place on his afternoons off. He said it was trendy and inexpensive, so none of them had been surprised when it had shown up on the news as one of the teen hangouts being targeted by their current targets.

Michel had never been there before; he preferred much more stimulating activities when he was out. He did enjoy surfing the internet and "meeting" people in far away places, but he felt that it was simply something he could do at home, not something to be done when he went out.

Therefore, he was incredibly surprised by the sheer number of adolescents crammed into the place. There were packs of nerds on the computers; couples making out in the booths. Michel had never seen anything like it and he wondered why on earth any one would ever desire to spend time in such a place.

One look at a table full of chattering girls scarfing down soggy French fries and drinking some highly-caffeinated soft drink left him positively certain they weren't there for the food. Other teens were shoveling in food that looked to be in a similar state -- greasy, messy and undoubtedly terrible for those who were consuming it.

The stale smell of over-used grease hovered in the air, noticeable only after one filtered out the overpowering stench of aftershave, cologne and perfume. The pungent, artificial smell made Michel feel light-headed; it was nothing like the actual scents of the flowers with which the fragrances shared their names. Combined with the smell of the deep-fried food, the heady scent of the perfume was making him a little nauseous.

Michel felt incredibly out of place as he followed Yuki through the crowds to a back booth. The dark-haired boy prowled between tables with practiced ease, looking surprisingly at home among the computer nerds hunched over the consoles and the punks hidden in shadowed corners, sipping chai and looking bored.

Even with his limited awareness of social systems and the like, Michel could easily pick out which people grouped together. First there were prep school students, clumped in the booths and at tables; the boys with their arms draped over the backs of the seats, looking as if they owned the place, the girls simpering over the boys. Then there were the nerds, clumps of boys, mostly, who were huddled around the computers, probably playing World of Warcraft or Guild Wars or one of those other games Yuki was so fond of. Lastly, there were knots of goths and punks, circled around their tables, steaming mugs and clove cigarettes in their hands.

Yuki nodded at a few people as they passed by and Michel couldn't help noticing that a girl sitting near one of the boys Yuki nodded at had a deck of Tarot cards spread on the table before her. For a moment, the blond wanted to stop and speak to her; here at last was something of which he had a basic understanding. Free had done loads of readings for him and he could sort of decipher meaning from the cards.

He must have paused for a moment, watching her, and he started when he felt Yuki tugging at his sleeve. The girl raised dark, kohl-lined eyes to look at him and he blushed softly, offering her a weak smile. Yuki nodded at her and she raised a hand in greeting, her expression flickered momentarily into something that might have been some semblance of a smile.

"Hey there, Kuroshi." She murmured, "Long time, no see."

"I've been busy." Yuki's voice was low-key and monotone. He squeezed Michel's arm, signaling that he would keep his mouth shut if he knew what was good for him.

"With her?" The Tarot-reader raised a brow, her dark gaze shifting towards Michel. She looked him up and down critically and he flushed, feeling even more self-conscious in the stupid skirt.

"You could say that." Yuki replied smoothly, his grip on Michel's wrist never wavering. He wasn't going to willingly offer any information; that's not how things worked in this world and he did not want Michel to say anything until he understood this.

"You never struck me as the type to be involved with a girl." She sneered, scooping up and shuffling her cards. Her eyes were still glued to Michel; he could feel the hair rising on the back of his neck and he squirmed nervously under the gaze.

"Friend from school." The American teen shrugged, "We see each other, yeah, but we're not really dating."

"Is that so?" She started to lay another spread, "She have a handle?"

"She doesn't play."

At this point, Michel was royally confused. It took him a moment to remember that the "she" they were referring to was him and even then he still wasn't certain what they meant. What the hell were they talking about? A "handle"? What did that mean? Play what? And since when was Yuki able to lie with such ease? Michel was amazed at the way Yuki slid effortlessly from one fabrication to another.

He suspected he was in a bit over his head here.

"Not into that sort of thing, is she?"

Yuki scowled. "You're being nosy tonight, Raven." He accused softly, tugging Michel along as he started to walk away.

The blond could feel her eyes following them as Yuki dragged him to a corner table. He shuddered involuntarily, creeped out by the whole experience. He slid into the booth when Yuki gave him a pointed look, green eyes curious, and was about to open his mouth when Yuki cut him off.

"I don't really know her, if that's what you're going to ask. She plays Guild Wars and we've done missions together. We don't even know each other's real names. That's how it is here." He shrugged, flagging down a waitress and ordering them both green tea.

"So Kuroshi…" Michel began slowly.

"Is the name I go by on Guild Wars. And before you ask, it loosely translates to 'black death'. Hers is Raven Rising. It's kind of confusing," He shrugged, "But I'm a gamer. That's how we do things."

Michel gave him a strange look, having never encountered this side of Yuki before. It was a very different Yuki than the one whom he worked with everyday. He wondered vaguely if Yuki was ashamed to be a part of this; if that was why he preferred to go out alone when he had time off. At home, the American presented himself as an intelligent, quiet individual who favored solitude to companionship, a sort of smaller version of Aya, chock-full of teenage angst.

But here, many people seemed to know him. He seemed at home and at ease, as if this was someplace he belonged, rather than at the shop. This idea left Michel feeling a little hurt; was he the only one who didn't know this part of Yuki existed? He had thought they were friends.

"That girl…She had Tarot cards." He said softly, peering at Yuki, who merely sipped his tea.

"Don't worry; she only thinks she can read them. Or maybe she can, but she's nowhere near as good as Free, anyway." Yuki snorted indelicately, setting his cup down, "She only bothers with me because I'm part Japanese and she likes anime. Other than that, I'd be just another nameless nerd to her. She's not too bad though. Better than most of the other losers here…" At this, the dark-haired boy trailed off, his spectacled gaze following the movement of a person yet unknown to Michel.

His gaze flickered after Yuki's, searching for who it was that his friend had so suddenly gotten caught up in, and came to rest on a pale boy with nearly waist-length hair. The boy was wearing a fitted, deep blue shirt with sleeves that hung to his fingertips and a pair of flared brown trousers. He flicked his hair casually over his shoulder as he slid fluidly into a chair, a book and a cup of tea already arranged on the table before him.

The blond glanced back at Yuki, who seemed to be stuck in some sort of trance as he stared at the solitary figure. He smiled knowingly to himself, amused at Yuki's blatant gawking. This, he knew, was Haku, the Japanese boy on whom Yuki had a terrible crush. Michel had spoken to him once, asking his name and mentioning his friend, and he knew Yuki was far too shy to ever speak to him on his own.

"Go talk to him." He said softly, smiling at Yuki, "I can wait here. This is your chance; look, he's all by himself."

"I can't go over there!" Yuki hissed, his gaze never leaving the contented face of the mysterious Haku, "I'm not going to make a fool of myself!"

"You need to try…" Michel frowned at him, "What if he's the one? If you never speak with him, you'll never know. You might miss your one chance at true love."

Yuki scowled. "Stop talking shit. I don't believe in all that garbage. And anyway, if he is the person I'm supposed to be with -not that I believe in that- won't it happen even if I don't go make an ass out of myself in front of all these people?" He folded his arms across his chest, blushing furiously, and glared at the tabletop as if it had offended him in some way.

"Stop being a coward and go. He asked me about you, if you'll recall. At the very least, I imagine he'd be happy to have you as a friend." Michel stirred some honey into his tea, carefully watching his friend's expression. He had always known Yuki to be shy and particularly withdrawn; this was why he felt the compelling need to give the other boy little nudges every now and then.

"Fine!" Yuki scowled, "I'll go! You stay put here." Muttering to himself and -much to his chagrin- blushing again, the American slid out of the booth began weaving his way through the crowd to Haku's table, hands crammed in his pockets, shoulders hunched.

Michel sat back in the very corner of the booth, curled up against the wall, teacup close at hand. Once he was comfortable and sure he was able to watch all those around him, he dug his cell phone out of his messenger bag.

No missed calls; no voice mails. Not surprising. The phone was mostly for contacting other members of the team when they were out on deliveries or such and Michel never got social calls. It didn't bother him, really. He had his teammates -his family- and they were what mattered, not all of the other young people who didn't want to be his friends anyway.

He had promised Aya he or Yuki would text message him every now and then, especially if they saw anything suspicious. The rest of the team was doing surveillance in strategic places outside the building, but there were ways for people to get in without looking particularly shifty to outsiders. The messages were to be short, to the point, and Michel's small fingers easily tapped "everything is fine" into the phone's tiny screen.

He hit "send" and tossed the phone back into his bag. There was a book in there as well, a compilation of Edgar Allen Poe's poetry, which Chloé had assured him the angsting, gloomy teenage girl he was portraying would be sure to read.

Feigning interest in the book was a good way to keep an eye on every one, he reasoned. He opened it to a random page, leaning back against the wall again, and pretended to read it, all the while peering over the top of the book, no one the wiser to his practiced espionage.

It was interesting, watching the way the other teens interacted. For all he felt himself to still be a child, Michel knew he was much more mature than all the youths surrounding him. They hadn't lost their families when they were small. They didn't work for a living. They hadn't seen the horrible things which he had seen.

Maybe it was because of this that Michel felt like he knew something they didn't. A world of difference set him apart from other children; he had known that for a long time. He wasn't sure how to interact with them or how to be one of them. Not that he particularly wanted to be like them, mind you, but he did often wonder what it would be like to be a normal teenager. What would it be like to only have school and friends to worry about? What would life be like without the added weight of taking lives? Their semblance of normalcy was just that - an illusion. The guilt was still there; they all knew it, no matter how normal they managed to make themselves feel. It never really went away.

He was sort of glad he'd been forced into drag for this particular mission. There were people around the café that looked vaguely familiar. Some of the girls might have come to the shop before; he wasn't sure. He was certain, however, that a few of the preppy boys attended his school and it was making him edgy. Fortunately, no one seemed to recognize him, so the costume seemed to be working. Thank God for small miracles.

He sipped his tea absently. They brewed it decently, although it was nothing like the herbal teas Chloé and Free drank. Chloé liked the fruity kinds -cranberry, apple cinnamon, almond and berry- and they left the kitchen smelling wonderfully fragrant. Free's were stronger; black, green and ginseng. Sometimes chai. They were spicy and exotic and neither of them had been sure he would like any of them the first time he had curiously asked Free for a taste. The black tea had been a bit much -Michel was the type to load his tea with sugar or honey- but he liked the other flavors well enough. And the tea at home was so much more expensive than the tea at the café.

As the sweet, scalding liquid burned its way down his throat, he peered around the café once more, scanning for both familiar and suspicious faces. A new group of preps was just being seated and he nearly choked when he realized that Thomas was among them.

He fumbled with the cup, nearly spilling green tea down his shirt, and managed to steady his hand at the last minute. He set the cup down, mossy gaze still glued to the bulky form of his tormenter. Thomas scared him. The logical part of his brain told him that he himself was far more dangerous than the hulking boy, but there had been too much abuse at times which he could do nothing to prevent this abuse. He certainly couldn't attack Thomas at school; even if he claimed self-defense it would be too bizarre. There was no way any one would believe that some one with his tiny build could really best some one like Thomas.

Old fears were enough to keep him from trying in public. Old fears were enough to leave him worried that Thomas might recognize him. If Thomas realized it was him hidden away in that corner booth…If Thomas found out…He didn't want to think about it; God he did not want to think about it. He still wasn't positive that Thomas would refrain from raping him, given the chance. The very thought made Michel shudder; he didn't want any of Thomas Kenyon's body parts anywhere near any of his body parts. Thomas swore on his life that he was as straight as a man could be, but he would undoubtedly do whatever it took to prove that Michel was indeed just as big a fag as they all claimed he was.

Knowing the person who had the most power to harm him was in the room made Michel twitchy. He kept glancing nervously between his book and Thomas, trying not to look like he was staring as he watched his classmate. He swore that Thomas glanced his way a couple times and he felt his heart leap into his throat each time that cruel, calculating gaze flickered towards him.

He was beginning to lose his composure. The longer he watched Thomas…The more he heard that grating laugh…He was beginning to slip in and out of reality; memories plagued him in brief flashes with heart-stopping vividness. There was nothing he could do to stop it. No way to keep the recollections from coming as they slid through his head; molten lava burning his brain and causing a prickling feeling behind his eyes.

He wiped furiously at the tears that were suddenly clouding his vision. He was on a mission, dammit! He couldn't let anything cause him to lose focus and forget his purpose for being in this noisy, dark place. He couldn't get distracted and he couldn't fail. Every one was counting on him and he still had to make up for his failure during the last mission.

He dropped his gaze back down to the pages of the Poe, book, taking a few deep breaths and trying to clear his mind. He pressed a hand over his eyes for a moment, forcing the bad thoughts from his head. Focus. Must focus. The mission iswhat's important right now.

"Hey, you're new here, aren't you?"

It took him a moment to realize some one was talking to him. It took another moment -as his head jerked up and his eyes widened in something akin to terror- to realize that the some one was Thomas.