[crow]

Beckett almost didn't realize it was over when he finally finished. Only when the haircutter took out a long device and began plasting air at his head did Beckett think that the cutting portion might be over. Of course, by then, he had a new and unexpected horror to cope with: the noise of the air-blaster. He jolted out of his chair, scattering tufts of blond hair from his covering sheet. “Whoa, easy there. I'm just blow-drying it a little,” the haircutter said, holding out a placating hand. He must have turned the device off, because the noise stopped. Beckett blinked for a moment, then cleared his throat, trying for composure and not quite managing to find it.

“Y-Yes, of course. I'm sorry,” he said stiffly, settling himself back down in his chair. With more wariness, the haircutter turned his 'blow-dry' device back on. This time, Beckett opted to keep his eyes open, lest he be caught off guard by something again. It wasn't that he thought the haircutter was out to hurt him, exactly--- there wasn't enough of a motive for that, and Senna had assured him that they didn't look like celestial beings. Not that they were, precisely, being instead mortals that Elirian had accepted, but it was almost the same thing. They had an easier time passing, and no innate abilities; those were the only differences.

[crow]

But loud noises had been few and far between at home, especially working within the Bureaucracy. He himself had made it a point to discourage loud disturbances as much as possible when he came to office, and his subordinates had obeyed as much as they could. Here, where he had little knowledge and even less control, his only defense was forewarning. If he could steel himself for this, and for the other unpleasantness he was sure to find in the mortal realm, that would be better than nothing.

As his hair was dried, the haircutter ran his fingers through it, tousling it this way and that. It was not the neatness of a combing-down that Beckett would have expected, and he thinned his lips in silent disapproval of the procedure. When the haircutter was finished and had turned off the blow dryer, however, Beckett looked at his reflection and found himself... surprised.

Staring back at him was a young man whose features resembled his own. Blond hair was arrayed in short layers, none of which fell past his ears. With his forehead covered like that, he looked strangely younger, his features less sharp and severe than what Beckett remembered as himself. He was not unhandsome, but he looked... alien. He looked as if someone had taken a mortal youth and reshaped him in Beckett's likeness.

[crow]

In truth, the reverse had happened; it ought to have been no surprise that the result looked as it did. “You can spike it up in front, like here,” the haircutter was saying, pointing to a picture in the magazine he'd given Beckett before. Beckett tore his eyes away from the mirror long enough to acknowledge the haircutter's words. Senna was holding a mirror behind him, so he might see the back of his head in reflection. That, at least, was something familiar. The back was even shorter than the front, and he rubbed self-consciously at his neck, already disliking the way the air moved against his skin. He was thankful that the season was warm. He'd have to grow it out again by the time winter came around. This sort of thing was fine in the summer, but it would be intolerable in the winter.

That is, if he was even staying that long. He hoped not, but he wasn't going to be unnecessarily optimistic. He knew what their prospects were, and they were not good. “Thank you,” he said to the haircutter, though he ignored the comment about 'spiking it up'. A cursory glance at the image the young man had indicated showed Beckett all he needed to know, and it wasn't a style he was interested in attempting. “This ought to be enough, surely?” he added, this time to Senna. She shot him a thumbs-up in the most embarrassingly exaggerated manner possible, and Beckett fought the urge to sigh. She was likely just trying to lighten the mood and make him feel better about the cut, but truthfully he still felt like a fool.

[crow]

Worse, he felt drained. He wanted to find a quiet place and rest a while, or shuffle papers in the recesses of the archives back at the Bureaucracy. The latter was impossible for him now, and the former would be a waste of time.

“Payment,” he said abruptly, rising from his chair. The sheet fell from around his shoulders, and more hair fell to the ground. He dusted his shoulders off hurriedly. There were still bits of hair around his collar and down his back; he could feel them prickling against his skin. But there would be time to disrobe and take care of that later. He nearly reached into his sleeve before he remembered what he was wearing, then began to search the pockets of his pants. However, Senna was ahead of him on that score, procuring a wallet from which she extracted several crisp bills.

“Thanks,” the haircutter said, taking them from her and handing them to the older man at the desk. He returned moments later with a more crumpled-looking bill and a handful of coins. Senna accepted them with a smile. Beckett made a note to ask her about money. It was unavoidable for today, but he didn't want to let her handle the monetary aspects of things for the rest of their trip. They might have to go their separate ways at some point, and besides, it made him feel uncomfortably like a dependent. In the Garden, they were equals, and while he did need to rely on her as a guide, it was not a relationship that he relished, or wished to encourage beyond its current bounds.

[crow]

However, all of that was second in his mind next to the prospect of what they would do next. With his apparently necessary haircut out of the way, they would finally begin the true search--- that is, unless Senna insisted on more delays. He glanced at her, and she noted his look with a roll of her eyes. “Yes, fine, alright, we'll start now. My, but you're impatient.” Beckett opened his mouth to protest, but Senna spoke again before he could. “I understand your concerns, but we do have to be patient. No use rushing if we out ourselves or miss out on a lead because of it.”

“I was merely going to ask whether you had any ideas for our next course of action,” Beckett said. It was not entirely a lie, but the look Senna gave him made it clear that she didn't believe it. “Well, if you do not... I have a suggestion of my own,” he ventured.

“If this involves me being stuffed up in a library for days, you can count me out,” Senna said, but her tone had softened. Beckett shook his head. Even he knew that assigning her such tasks would have been a lost cause--- knowledge that might be useful later, if he wished to do some searching of his own. She wouldn't follow him into anything resembling an archive, after all.

[crow]

“Why don't we make use of those employed in this world? We have money enough, and there must be those in the business of searching for lost persons,” Beckett said. He'd been mulling this over for some time, between their various distractions. Besides experience with the ways of the mortal realm, for not even Senna was expert enough to be on equal terms with a native, what they lacked most between the two of them was manpower. They were both perfectly competent by mortal standards, but even two such as they were limited by time. Coin was the easiest way to build allegiance quickly, and even if Beckett did not care for the kind of loyalty it bought, he did appreciate the value of even that much aid.

The fact that Senna didn't immediately shoot him down was a sign that his suggestion had merit. Still, she mulled it over a while before nodding, slowly. “That's not bad, I suppose... It does give away our purposes pretty quickly, but I can't think of a real reason for secrecy either, as long as we don't give away the nature of who we're looking for. But, come to think of it, how are we going to describe him to them?”

Beckett winced. “Yes, I ran into that problem too, but... there must be some characteristic he keeps in all his forms, for one. Perhaps an anomalous vestigal ability or two. We still have a line to Irael. We could ask him.” If Irael didn't know--- and he was the most likely of any of them to have that kind of knowledge--- then it really was going to be a trip to the books for them. But Beckett didn't say so, since Senna would certainly have protested that.

[crow]

Noon found Tor tossing bits of paper at the dartboard on his wall. At one point he'd had actual darts, but over the years they'd contrived to get lost in the various nooks and crannies of the office, and he hadn't bothered to buy any to replace them. The only reason he'd acquired the set in the first place was because he thought they would be cool, a throwback to the laid-back noir heroes of the private-eye world, but they were a good way to pass the time.

Contrary to what Morris probably believed, he wasn't being idle for nothing. He was expecting a client today, to show her the results of what he had found regarding her case. That was the nice way of putting it. The not-so-nice way would be something along the lines of 'handing over the notes he'd taken while spying on her son'. When it wasn't lost pets or lost relatives, it was petty spying under the label of 'investigations'. Tor would have sorely liked to turn these things down, but any business was good business these days.

[crow]

A ruckus outside the door signaled the arrival of his client, and Tor straightened and swept the rest of the wadded-up paper from his desk into the garbage bin in one fluid practiced motion. Nice. He clasped his hands together and laid them on the desk before him, putting on his best service smile. “Madam! Welcome! I---”

“I've told you, it can't be worth it!” A shouting voice, muffled by the door but distinctively male, made itself known. “His reputation paints him as nothing more than a neighborhood busybody for hire. We've visited every establishment worth our time here, and---”

“And got kicked out, that's what! So he might be a dud, well fine then! At least he'll take our money even if he doesn't believe us,” said another, equally hotly.

“Yes, that is exactly what I am afraid of. He'll take our money and do nothing in our service, squandering it on liquor and sky-knows-what.”

[crow]

Tor blinked. It seemed that they were talking about him, and not particularly kindly at that. He especially resented the idea that he would dupe them out of their money, but the rest of it had something of truth in it, and that stung too. He was just beginning to wonder whether he ought to open the door and invite them in--- or show them out, or something--- when the door burst open on its own. Well, alright, not of its own accord; clearly it had been pushed open by the owner of the second voice. She was a small thing, slight with a playful, open face. She couldn't have been more than her mid-twenties, but there was a look in her eyes that made him wonder all the same. “We'd like to make an appointment, if you please,” she said, in a voice full of forced cheer. Her demeanor, however, suggested that she expected to be obeyed and accommodated.

The young man who followed her into his office was her complete opposite: tall, slender, fair-haired, all long lines and angles. There was something pinched in his face that gave him a terse, put-upon air. He was rubbing at one temple with long fingers, feigning exhaustion, but his eyes darted back and forth as he surreptitiously surveyed the room. What he found seemed to displease him even further, and the corners of his mouth tucked down.

[crow]

Tor was so stunned, and so occupied in taking in the appearance of his guests, that he was rendered speechless for several moments. In that time, the smile on the woman's face had faltered a little, and she began to peer at him with something like concern. Tor pushed up a smile of his own and said, “Of course! I'm expecting someone in--- but of course. Actually, why don't you sit down? You look as if you could use a drink,” he said amiably.

“That would be wonderful,” the woman replied. “You wouldn't believe the day we've had!”

“I hardly believe the week we've had,” the man said, looking pointedly at her. Clearly they weren't on the best of terms. Tor rose from his seat and busied himself with making iced tea, offering a glass to each in turn. The woman accepted graciously, and drained half the thing in one go. The man held his gingerly in one hand, took a few sips, then left it on a shelf next to a stack of books.

Thus far, the man had made no effort to speak to Tor, so he turned to the woman. “So, what brings you to Truman's Detective Agency?” he asked. He could hear the man huff derisively at that, but he ignored it, smiling even more. The woman studied him for a moment, as if trying to gauge something by the look of his face. There was a pause before she spoke.

[crow]

“We're looking for someone,” she began.

“Well, you've come to the right place!” he said, but she put up a hand to stop him.

“The, ah, problem is... We don't know what he looks like, exactly.”

“Well, that's perfectly fine. Do you have a document? Past addresses, places of work? Relatives, contacts...” The woman shook her head slowly at each of these things. Tor's own smile began to droop. “... Baby pictures, neighborhood rumors... Anything?” he finished helplessly.

With a sigh, the man said, in a dry and biting tone, “We know that he likes... stars. He is irresponsible and he likes stars. This is all we have to go on.” From the way he spoke, it was obvious that he was as deeply irritated by this lack of information as he expected Tor to be, and Tor felt a pang of sympathy at that. However, all the sympathy in the world did him no good. On information like that, there wasn't much he could do for them.

“I'm very sorry,” he said, and tried his best to look as if he meant it. “That's... just not enough for me to do anything with. You understand, don't you?” He tried a smile. The man averted his gaze, and perhaps he sighed again. The woman didn't look ready to give up yet, however.