There were too many break ins, too many unknown visitors, and too much familiarity at risk with Bischofite of all people to continue on months and months without taking some sort of actions. 'Familiarity With Bischofite'- sounded like a stepchild of a grocery check out romance and a geology primer. It never grew less strange that A=B. Alois, Bischofite, beloved and abhorrent who thought and discussed with vehemence and purpose like to his own, but with philosphies kept dark for that one month acted on beyond rhetoric. The path of wisdom and the breaking of things in its spite. The question was never 'how' but why. The whys were oft deplorable, but that they even existed, were thought of and tested, made an equally sick revelation of the powers of attachment and love. The heart kept what was loved in the morning, and the mind what was hated in the wakeful hours of chasing sleep. Or were the times switched?

Quenton been putting it off for other things - the Watch, the nightmares, catching up on coursework, handling client commissions and listings to try to recuperate extra expenses- there was more that he couldn't recall through the haze.

He'd written a crib sheet of necessities on the inside of his left wrist in sharpie. The necessity of he used that hand more to make the writing visible determined the choice.


  • move (safe)
  • secondary -port room
  • thrift
  • hair 2pm @ Moxie
  • chamber 5p - Harmonia Mundi 901134


Only the timed elements weren't in a mess of half-managed and half-mischief. He left Faust at the safehouse to scope out how he felt about it as a part time dwelling with a duffel of clothes and toiletries. New clothes from the thrift store that were notably more new, colourful and intact that nearly all his wardrobe. The style was equally different, leaning more towards urbanite chic than dystopic survivor. As it was, he'd chosen a white tshirt with a very 90's revival, plaid, not-quite-flannel in bright, complementary blues and oranges. A pair of very regular Guess blue jeans. Regular men's leather loafers. He hated all of them. They felt like sandpaper and fireworks of colour drawing peoples eyes TO him instead of AWAY.

I should just ask Alex to come on the next trip shopping. Our styles can't be more different. But then I would look like I belonged on a yacht or at Martha's Vineyard.


The door of Moxie had one of those scream-inducing motion bells on it to let the staff know every single time someone entered or exited. The fresh faced, beach bum girl in the back lifted her hand and came trotting up, "You must be Quenton. We spoke on the phone. I'm Kelly. It is super awesome what you're doing. And NO KIDDING, your hair is totally long enough."

"Did you download the requirements from their website?"

"I looked them over- it has to be braided and then plastic to mail. Hey, I talked to the boss, and your cut and style is free as a sort of thank you for helping kids. "

It was an unexpected bonus, not to have to pay money. "Are you sure?"

"Oh yeah. Do you mind if she takes a couple pictures for promotional? Man..I haven't seen any guys with hair this long. " Unsolicited, over-familiar as most hairdressers (since it was their job anyway), Kelly reached over his shoulder and hefted the fall of pale ash. "So no bleach all natural?"

Cuffs and collar match. It was a crude way to put the answer, but it would have shut down the need for double checks if she was thinking of asking the same question more than once as unmitigated ramblers tended to.

Unexpectedly, Kelly laughed, and waved him back towards her chair. "I'll take that eyebrow lift as a 'yes, all natural'. Let's get you braided first, cut and photo, then shampoo and style."

I'm going to have to try to smile. Quenton nodded mutely and made his way to the overstuffed chair with its creepy foot pump. He was tall enough that she didn't really have to bother, but she did once out of habit. Kelly rambled on about niceties and the Locks of Love mission. Since he was donating his hair, Quenton wondered if it wasn't apparent that he'd done his research and already understood the organization. Kelly was plainly uncomfortable with silence, though most of the dressers down the row looked to make it their business to chat up the customers. A ploy to help them feel at ease? Of belonging? I haven't had more than maintenance trims since I was what...five? I don't want to belong here. I don't even want my hair cut. Fettered in useless vanity, the man with a scar from cheek to chin.

His own hollowed eyes stared back at him from the oval vanity mirror of Kelly's workspace. This will all only go so far. It buys at most a handful of missed street recognitions from anyone who might be looking for me. Stop gaps don't alleviate the real problem. That tar is the real problem. That he survives so engulfed by chaos is. What come next, if no solution is found? Stabbing a major blood path didn't work, and that sword to the heart didn't. Remove the head? Explosion? Burning? Mostly gruesome, mostly slow.

The whole ordeal ended up taking an hour and a half. It would be petty to call the results of a haircut equally petty and slow. 16 inches gone and his neck felt naked- chilled with air and electric nerve life. It was a too-literal 'lightheaded.' Tatters of ash white fell around his jaw and shoulders. He shivered from a chill up his spine as he pushed out the door once everything was squared in tipping Kelly and thanking her. The hot summer breeze drew shudders up his spine and wishes for a scarf despite the season.

It's not near enough to rope and pull.But it wasn't combat with Cinnabar where the use came to mind. His hand trailed to his neck at least three times on the bus back to campus, like he'd lost something.
A mind.