"Just what's the big deal with sitting back and waiting for the right girl to come along? I mean, look at Jonathan Pierce," Jonah gestured at a slender, dark-haired youth of faintly oriental features standing beside David and his fling. Largely ignoring the amorous duo, he half-leaned against the classroom window and quietly studied the view outside. "He has no girlfriend, is in the choir, even; but he's still David's best friend and one of the most popular guys around."

"That Jonathan . . ." Cain gritted his teeth as if exasperated, "is a would be pop prince whose father is the chairman of a major record company. A guy with his background could cross-dress and still be popular! As for David being his best friend; well, in case you didn't know, the guy is signed under Jonathan's dad's label!"

". . . okay . . .” Jonah whimpered and hung his head like a beaten puppy. Just then, the brazen interaction between David and the girl came to a halting stop. Following their gazes, Jonah saw that Michal, David's steady girlfriend, had appeared outside the classroom door. Overlooking the girl in David's arms like she didn't exist, she glared down on her boyfriend in disdainful contempt.

"Enjoying yourself?"

Never once losing contact with the girl in his arms, David met the glare of his Chinese girlfriend with a sunshine-ish smile. "Oh, we are. Care to join us?"

Large dark eyes made imperious by the upward slits adorning their corners hardened, before Michal turned on her heel and left with an angry fling of her short, spiky hair.

"David,"

The softly chiding voice of Jonathan wiped the smile off David's face.

"I know, I know, I'm sorry for teasing your sister, okay?" David sighed in mock annoyance. "I was only trying to loosen her up somewhat: she's too damned tight for her own good."

The vain, plain thing in his arms laughed as if at a dirty joke. Ignoring her, Jonathan cast his dark eyes (adorned with upward slits like Michal's) onto David's, and it took but a moment for the blond to relent.

"Fine, I'll go apologize,"

With that David left with Jonathan to find Michal amidst the protests of the heavily groomed plaything so casually abandoned.

"H-Hey! Where do you think you're going? Jerk . . ."

Jonah, who had witnessed the whole event with much disdain, spoke pointedly:

"And the melodrama goes on."

"Jonah . . ."

"Bottom line: I'm not one of those macho wimps who would stoop to chasing some random female just to show off to other guys. If I'm with a girl, it would only be because I like her."

" . . . It can't be helped, I guess," Cain finally said after a long pause. "You have always been stubborn when you put your mind to it."

He then smoked in silence, saying no more.

"Good morning class!"

Jonah could not help but chuckle as Cain did the impressive task of spitting his cigarette out of an open window at least five feet away from where they were.

The teacher entered the room with two unfamiliar figures. One of them was a silver-haired youth with a coolly poised bearing that seemed beyond his years. The gaze in his elegantly shaped amber-yellow eyes was still to the point of being both intriguing and unnerving. The other was a dark-haired, olive-skinned young man with fiery violet eyes framed by fittingly dramatic dark brows. Despite the differences in their appearances, both were slender and smooth and androgynously beautiful: the last being the very quality that had immediately gained them the apt attention of the entire class.

"Nice to see that everyone is so quiet and well-behaved today," said the teacher as she gestured at the two boys standing beside her. "I would like to introduce you all to two cousins who will be joining our class."

"Azrael Fairchild. Nice to meet you," said the fine-featured, silver-haired youth in a soft, cultured voice.

"Camael Fairchild," rumbled the strong-boned, dark-haired boy in his blunt, grumbled voice.

"My God . . . they're so cute!" squealed one of the girls, as the rest of them giggled and whispered among themselves.

"Girly dudes," a boy stage whispered in disgust, as he and his friends eyed the two with the most intimidating looks they could muster up.

With what must have been a Herculean effort, the teacher remained oblivious to the class's dramatic reactions to the two newcomers and began the class.

Few things in the world can be more tranquilizing than a boring lecture. Once the teacher began going in circles around an abstract mathematical theorem made even vaguer by her murky explanations, the class that was once filled with excitement over the new arrivals had immediately settled down and tuned out as one.

Jonah was, of course, no exception. As his attention drifted further and further away from his surroundings, he found the teacher's flat, bland voice gradually replaced by an entirely different one, one that was soft and nectar sweet . . .

. . . the garden named Peace boasted of being the home to all the things of beauty in existence. But that was to be expected, since nothing existed in the world beyond Peace back in those days. Its true beauty, however, lied not in mere looks, but in the harmony shared between its occupants, a harmony shared between

the birds

the butterflies

the bees

the grass

the flowers

the trees

and all who resided within the garden. They were as pieces of a puzzle, a puzzle by the name of the big picture . . .

. . . hold on a second.

How could the grass serve humbly as milieu to the flowers? How could the flowers blossom meekly under the trees' oppressive shadows? How could the birds fly high above the butterflies? How could the butterflies not invoke the envy of the bees?

How could all things unequal coexist in harmony?

That's because the keeper of Peace, the gardener by the name of the Light, had watered his garden with the precious dew of bliss and contentment: the dew of innocence.

Blinded by innocence, the grass knew not of its plainness, nor the flowers of their shortness; nor was anything else in the garden aware of what others had that they do not. As such, in the garden of Peace, unhappiness didn't exist. All in the garden, be they tall or short or beautiful or not, were all content to be what they're told to be, to not ask questions, to just live; live according to the wishes of the gardener, the Light, their care taker, the master to whom they were as pleasing, beauteous things . . .

. . . and ultimately, just things.

(. . . amber eyes, burning with flames, consuming every secret dream hidden within his heart . . .)

And Jonah snapped back into reality to see Azrael Fairchild staring at him with an intense glint of light in his narrowed eyes. Startled, he blinked, and found the pale youth to be facing up front, reading off the blackboard and taking notes on a chic-looking electronic notebook.

Dismissing what he saw in the previous flickering moment as he himself seeing things, Jonah continued on with the dreary task of note taking . . .

. . . never noticing Camael Fairchild's frown as the dark-haired boy trained his violet eyes upon him.

For the rest of the school day, the new additions to the class had kept their distance from pretty much everyone, much to the girls' disappointment and the boys' glee. Some of the established class bullies had taken it upon themselves to bash the newcomers. The slight, androgynous young men were just too much of a pair of eyesores for them to ignore, and those boys had been trying to bother the two 'sissies' ever since their arrival. But, to their embarrassment, their efforts had all been met with various levels of failure.

Earlier, in the school hallway . . .

"Hey, nice eyebrows, Camael. Bet you pluck them all the time, eh?"

The offending jock was looked down upon by the dark-haired youth (despite the former being over a foot taller than the latter) as if he had just voiced out the most stupid line in existence.

"Why would I need to pluck my eyebrows when they are naturally perfect?"

"Oooh . . . do we have a pretty boy here or what," the jock sneered sarcastically, as he cracked his knuckles. "You wanna know what we do to pretty boys here?"

At his intimidation, Camael snorted with disdain. "Save it for someone who cares, and get out of my way. The sight of your fat jaws and receding hairline disgust me . . ." violet eyes narrowed with scrutiny, "not to mention all that fur growing on your neck."

"I'm a man, dammit!" the jock roared in macho rage. "I ain't no dolled-up pussy and I'm damned proud of not being one!"

"You're still not moving," Camael's expression darkened with impatience.

The jock was completely floored, before he gritted his teeth in anger and lunged forward to punch the much smaller boy. But somehow, his target had managed to move out of the way at the very last moment. The fist went instead into the face of the vice-principal stepping out of a classroom from behind, knocking the frail old man to the floor. The jock was promptly hauled off to the principal's office as his friends watched on incredulously.

"Next?" Camael turned to the jock's wolfish buddies, who all lowered their heads and walked away amidst the giggles of the by-standing girls.

Around that time, in the school library . . .

"Hey, nice skin, Azrael. What did you bleach it with?"

The icily pale youth slowly looked up from the electronic notebook he was reading, and stared into the bully's eyes with a look as chilling as the air in a morgue.

"Leave me alone."

And the bully did as was told, scurrying away under his intended victim's deathly gaze.

"You mean the bulldogs have started bothering those two already?!"

"What do you expect? They're new, they have no friends, and they look like girls. You know, this is exactly why I've been telling you to try and fit in more-"

"Jesus Christ!" Jonah cut Cain off as he closed up his locker and arranged the contents of his school bag in preparation for going home. "I can't believe those people! If they don't like the new guys, why not just leave them alone?" He slung his bag over a thin shoulder in an angry motion. "Dammit, I can't stand bullies!"

Cain, who was about to speak up, took the time to give Jonah a once-over with his eyes, and sighed.

"I can see why you're upset by this. After all, you're kinda like the new kids yourself. . ."

Jonah blinked, taken back. ". . . What do you mean?"

"Well, your skin is baby-smooth. And with your small face, girly eyes, thick hair, and waif built, you could be a long-lost sister of theirs . . ." a swing from Jonah's book bag, which he barely dodged, broke off his sentence. " . . . kidding!"

"Who are you to call ME girly, you cross-eyed junkie!?" Jonah barked in a puppyish parody of rage as he repeatedly swung his book bag at Cain, missing all the while due to the other's relatively superior agility.

"Give it up, twig! You even hit like a girl!" Cain taunted between his laughter as he agilely moved back to avoid another swing. . . and hit the back of his head on a locker door. "Oof . . ."

"Got you!" Jonah cried out jubilantly as he swung his book bag forward . . .

"Jonah!"

Freezing, the boy slowly turned around, he saw the music teacher calling out to him from the music room.

"Would you mind going down to the cathedral and picking up seven copies of the blue hymnal books for the choir practice?" The man asked with a serene smile on his face.

"Sure," Jonah called back, and turned back to glare at his friend; Cain was rubbing the back of his head and wincing in pain. "I'll get you later!" With that, the boy exited the hallway and away.

"Hey, Sir!" Cain protested. "Aren't you gonna nail that guy for violent behavior at school?"

And the music teacher replied ever so serenely:

"Why would I do that, Cain? After all, Jonah isn't the one who's the school hooligan here, is he?"

With that, the man slipped back into the music room amidst the delinquent's contemptuous huff.

. . . I'm not unpopular, I'm not dorky, I'm not an outcast, I'm just . . . me . . .

Such were the thoughts that replayed itself over and over again in Jonah's mind as he walked the serpentine, shrub-obscured flight of steppingstones leading to the school cathedral.

The thing was that underneath the defiant act, he did see Cain's point: those who don't conform to the expectations of others will always be rejected and attacked. But what he could also see was that he himself was stubborn beyond his own control. Once he had decided that there was no girl on earth who could reach him the way the voice in his dreams could, it became impossible for him to consider other possibilities. For him to be with a random someone would mean abandoning the possibility that he might one day meet 'her'; that idea to him was way worse than being unpopular.

"He's starting to remember,"

Startled out of his thoughts by the blunt, heavy voice, Jonah looked up to see the Fairchild cousins walking up ahead of him, talking. Azrael was garbed in a black, hooded long coat that seemed to be merging with the shadows under the tall shrubs, contrasting his pale hair and skin to such an extent that he looked almost ghostly in his silvery paleness. In his hand was his electronic notebook, which he was reading with a decidedly grim expression. Camael, on the other hand, was dressed in chic saffron designer gear (Jonah just assumed the designer part based on the sleek cutting) that remained bright even under the shadows. Startled, and more than a little curious as to what in the world the two were doing in their out-of-the-world getups, Jonah followed behind them in silence as he tried to listen in on their conversation.

"Even after all this time, he has held on to his attachment to her, refusing to let go," Azrael's voice was as a breeze in the night as he read from the electronic notebook in his palm. " At this rate, it would take at most another year before he is to remember everything."

"So what do we do?"

"What can we do? What could convince a nostalgic soul to let go of its past? We'll just have to wait and see how it all turns out. For now, let's just prepare ourselves for the case."

"It's a borderline case, right? But why would you need my backup on that? Don't you always prefer handling borderline cases alone?"

"This one is kind of different."

"How's that?"

"Drugs are involved. Not only that-"

"Drugs?" Camael sounded startled as he cut Azrael off. "I thought Doctor Raphael is responsible for the junkie cases?"

"His workload is high enough as it is," replied the pale youth. "And since we've already been authorized to remain in this city for a little while to carry out Project R.P.S., I have accepted the case on his behalf."

"Thus completely overlooking our own humongous piles of responsibilities," Camael remarked, dryly.

Silence, as Azrael's electronic notebook screen brightened to the point that it cast a blue glow upon his pale, grim face. Finally, he spoke:

"You want to know the name of the drug my subject is hooked on?"

"What?"

"SD, known around here as the newest thrill to hit the club scene."

Abruptly, Camael stopped and whirled around to face Azrael. Jonah had to dive behind a particularly heavy growth of shrubs to avoid being caught in his field of vision. The boy too was startled from hearing the name of Cain's obscure drug coming up in this conversation.

"Those bitches are passing out SD on Earth now?" Camael asked, outraged.

"Apparently so," Azrael sighed. "According to watchers loyal to the Glass Council, something titled Project Dementia has already gone under way. It basically amounts to large scale distribution of SD on Earth. From the pace things are going, it won't be long before SD is to flood the underground drug market, and become one of the most widely distributed drugs in the country."

"This is a direct violation of the accord!" Camael growled. "They are forbidden from using substance to manipulate humans!"

"Which is why I need your help on this case," Azrael replied as he put away his electronic notebook and turned to Camael. "Not only are we going to salvage the subject, we're going to stop their distribution of SD for good."

" . . . I see," Camael clucked his tongue. "Got a plan?"

"Well, I'm thinking along the lines of . . ." A moan, fragile and pained, echoed in the evening breeze, cutting off Azrael's words and startling Jonah, who had heard that voice somewhere before. Azrael, on the other hand, seemed to take it as some sort of signal, as he finished off his sentence in a frosty snarl. "I'll make it short: you go take up the duel and take down the enemy, while I make sure she won't escape after the duel is over. We'll interrogate her and get the information we need. Sounds good?"

The glints in Camael's eyes were bright as violet frames as he bared his teeth in a vicious grin. "Sounds heavenly."

"Let's go."

With that, the two sprinted up the steppingstones, followed by Jonah, who had become too intrigued by their peculiar dialogue to not follow and see what the odd duo were up to. Up they ran, past the leaves and branches, past the heavy shrubs darkening under the fading sun, and into the clearing right in front of the old cathedral, its limestone walls guarded by thorny vines and its wooden gates wide open . . .

. . . and there, past the rows of benches, up on the altar, lay a young man with his head thrown back and his shirt undone, undulating like a wounded caterpillar as he moaned, breathlessly. The light coming through the stained glass windows had cast a crimson glare upon his washed-out features, making him look as if he was drenched in blood.

Jonah, hiding from outside the cathedral gates even after Azrael and Camael had stepped inside just so he would not be discovered, widened his eyes at what he saw.

What was Job doing on the altar? Was he tripping on that SD thing that Cain had given him?

. . . was he the "subject" that Azrael and Camael were talking about?

Undaunted by the eerie sight, Azrael and Camael advanced upon him, their stride steady and assured.

“A deliberate over dosage,” Camael whispered to Azrael (despite which Jonah could somehow still hear every word he says). “It’s suicide.”

Nodding, Azrael walked up to stand in front of the teen, and spoke up in a voice as clear as a splash of water against ice:

"Job, Job Glasgow,"

". . .what do you want?" asked the teen, his voice airy and raw. He was still undulating, however; his eyes wide and staring into nothingness.

"Open up to me," Azrael implored, as commanding as he was gentle.

"Why would you want that?" the teen murmured.

"It will make it easier for me to help you," Azrael replied.

At that, Job laughed, his voice choked up and impossibly old. "What makes you think you can help me?"

"What makes you think I can't?" Azrael asked back.

"Because I know the way people are, I know how the world works," Job's voice dropped to almost a whisper, "I know what I am."

"And what are you?"

And the teen became still as stone, as his eyes came into focus upon Azrael's icy features.

"I 'm . . ."

"You are . . .?"

"I 'm just someone who dreams impossible dreams," Job finally said, tears evident in his wide, wild eyes. "I'm nobody."

At Job's words, Jonah recalled the way Cain had kept on drawing parallels between Job and himself.

You really do have a thing for the impossible, don't you?

Are we alike? Jonah felt his heart tightening as he studied the hurt, broken youth on the altar. Both considered weird, different . . . am I like him?

. . . I too, like to dream impossible dreams .

". . . they all look down on me . . . no, more than that, they all hate me for not being a jock or a freak. Everyone but him, they . . . they all hate me for being different . . . but he . . ."

Amidst Job's monologue, the evening glow burning through the windows further darkened. It cast everything inside the cathedral under an ever more oppressive shade of blood-crimson. Reaching out a pale, finely shaped hand, Azrael brushed the teen's tears off his cheek in a gesture that was tender as the night.

"Poor you," the pale youth murmured, "dying for the world to accept you, dying for your dream to come true. Your soul, filled to the brim with pain, is exquisite like glass. Isn't that right . . ." abruptly, he raised his voice into a rumbling, commanding volume, " . . . BEHEMOTH!!!"

Jonah (now hidden behind a row of wooden benches as he edged closer and closer to the players of this eerie play) watched on, stunned, as Job abruptly shot up to his feet in a sleek, puppet-like movement that seemed to defy the very law of gravity. But it was what happened next that totally stole his breath away, as he saw all the crimson light in the cathedral was abruptly pulled around Job as if by a huge, unseen force, cloaking him in a whirlpool of shadowy, twisting mass, before exploding outwards in countless shards of crimson sparks, one of which hit Jonah on his cheek in a wet splat. Slowly, the boy reached a trembling hand to his face, and came away with it covering in a slick crimson fluid.

Jonah would have screamed, had he not been shocked into silence by what he saw upon the altar now that the twister of blood had dissipated.

Job, now comatose, was caught in the arms of a tall, dangerously curvaceous figure all covered from head to toe in a dark-brown leather suit glowing with crimson luster. The suit was of the skin-tight variety, which left very little to the imagination. The figure's entire face, including her (it has to be a her with those kind of curves, thought Jonah) eyes and nose, was covered by the leather as well, leaving only a vague impression of her profile revealed (which also left Jonah wondering as to how she could possibly see or breathe). Despite her visually stunning proportions, her entire presence seemed to radiate something sinister, something that made the hair on the back of Jonah's neck stand up as shivering spikes.

"Azrael, Camael," the being known as Behemoth spoke in a throaty, womanly voice, "it's been too long."

"Indeed," replied Azrael, smiling frostily.

"No kidding," Camael, who had been silent for a while, spoke up flippantly. "You're speaking, by the way. Have you finally gotten past that lady-like little habit of wearing a ball gag in public?"

Behemoth stiffened, as Jonah finally pinpointed the reason for his discomfort: the leather-clad creature had a strong SM feel to her.

"Gentlemanly as always, Camael," the creature snorted without answering Camael's question. "So what brings you boys to this place?" She cupped Job's ashen-skinned face roughly with her leather-gloved palm. "Could it be that you want to challenge me for the right of this child's soul?"

"Gee, whatever gave you that idea?" Camael snorted, his flat, blunt voice dripping with sarcasm.

Behemoth growled, enraged and bestial and yet undeniably womanly at the same time, as she clutched Job to herself in a possessive gesture. "I've spent years grooming this child, sheltering him from the light of the world just so he could blossom into this exquisite creature of beauteous pain. What gives you the right to take him from me?"

"The fact that Job, despite all your efforts, had remained a valid borderline case instead of a total lost cause has given us more than enough reason to step in and take action," stated Azrael in a voice frosty to the point of being painful to the nerves. "Our watchers report that you also have a hand in leading this child and others to consume SD, thus breaking Article14 b of the Eden Accord, which forbids those of your kind to control the bodies and souls of living mortals by means of substance or magic."

"The Eden Accord was sighed with the powers of Emmanuel and Lucifer," Behemoth laughed. "Are either of them even in this world right now? Besides, any action against our kind by the Glass Council would trigger a full-blown war between the two sides. And your side is clearly *not* ready for that.” her voice hardened. “For now, I'm afraid that meddlers like you would have little choice but to sit back and let us do as we please with the world . . . just as your kind had for all the ages past."

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