They leave the store together. Whatever misgivings made the store clerk suspicious, does not make him stop the two of them as they depart. Inaho does not express his gratitude, but feels it strongly none the less.

"Does your father do research?" Inaho asks, as the child steps out into the light of day, or the cloud cover of a Paris winter, as it were. It is not too cold, but it is too cold for what the child is wearing. His small jacket is not nearly enough. He should be wearing more, and Inaho can see him shiver just a hair as he walks into the street. Those luminous eyes of his look hesitantly in the direction he's suppose to be going, before looking back up at Inaho, laced with a hint of concern and curiosity. It is quite obvious that the child is wondering if he should stay and talk, or if he should excuse himself to wander back to his hotel room. Inaho wonders if his father is waking up, will expect whatever sugary nonsense this child has bought from the baker, and the instant, cheap coffee. He does not like the thought.

Inaho makes the decision for him, and starts walking in the direction the child obviously wants to go. He blinks, and his little mouth forms a small o, but he follows obediently. Inaho isn't sure if he likes that obedience yet. Is it learned, is it genetic, is it forced, is it natural? He wants to know. There are too many things he desperately wants to know.

"Yes, sir." The 'sir' is added a five seconds after the 'yes', as if the child had to think about adding it, instead of the polite addition being second nature, as it was before. Inaho chooses to takes that as a good sign. The answer is also rather helpful. It narrows things down, even if there are plenty of people in Paris doing research. It is something to consider in his search parameters. Now, Inaho must make those search parameters even smaller. He has accepted, that he likely should not ask for a name right then and there. It could be too risky, so he doesn't. Instead, he is going to endeavor to find this child's father. If he is a researcher at one of Paris's institutes, it shouldn't be too hard to find him, but any minor details will be useful.

"What does he research?" Inaho should be keeping his eyes forward, and paying close attention to where they are, where they are going, where they will end up, but that is hard. The child doesn't seem as hesitant anymore, he walks evenly, and seems more comfortable. Is his presence being adjusted too so quickly? Inaho cannot say, but the child is certainly more fetching when he is not so guarded, when his eyes sparkle, instead of clouding with apprehension. It is something to see, and he is grateful to be witnessing it, so he doesn't pay a great deal of attention to their surroundings. Inaho imagines he will have time for that much later.

The child looks up at him with those beautiful eyes. "Mars" Inaho blinks down at the child, and he continues. "In his lectures, he talks about how beautiful it is, and how it could be like Earth one day." Inaho considers the words very carefully. The image comes to mind of this small child, sitting in a large auditorium of college students who are chatting about things he doesn't understand, the seat too big for his little body, his legs swinging, as he quietly listens to what his father says at the podium. It contrasts starkly with the second image that comes to mind, of a father that talks more to crowds and students, than to his own son.

Inaho doesn't like it at all, but he reminds himself to be impartial. He has not met this man, should not judge him on the emotional and flippant words of a ten year old. He regrets that thought instantly. This is not just ANY ten year old, this is her, but not her. This child is important, and his father is not doing enough to make him happy. It is difficult to be impartial with such a stark reminder. If he was this child's father, there would be a great many differences in his life. Inaho cannot help but feel this way. He thought in error that it would be enough to simply be a part of this child's life, even if it was only in some minor capacity. He sees now that he was entirely wrong. He wonders if it would be better if this child was being obviously well cared for. Inaho doesn't know.

"He must enjoy it." Is all he can force himself to say. He has a hard time imagining someone so invested in a dead planet that they ignore a living breathing child, and he also has a hard time relating his own zeal for research onto someone who is only interested in something he will likely never reach. It is ludicrous.

The child nods his head once. "I think so." Another evasive answer. Inaho thinks that this child is far too young to be playing such word game already. It worries Inaho, but it also intrigues him. There is much to be said about a child who already knows how to say what he means, without actually saying it. His estimation of this child's intelligence is again reassured. Part of him thinks that perhaps he had just assumed that children of this age are simple and uninteresting; he's spent a great deal of time looking at them, but never with them. The louder part of him says that this child is different, special, unique, and precious. There is no surprise in which voice he pays more attention to.

Inaho nods slightly at the child's answer, and decides to change topics. "What school do you go to?" Because it is a school day and this child is not in school getting a proper education, where Inaho would have found him much sooner.

This question brings back the hesitancy, and the fiddling of the child's fingers, as they grip the canvas bag. "I wasn't very good at school. Father took me out." That is a lie, or as close to an outright lie as this child gets. Inaho can see it in his shoulders, as they come up, as if he can hide between them, as he bites his lip every so softly, and as the child digs his nails tightly into the bag he is holding. They are all tell tale signs, and things that he suddenly remembers her doing when she was young. They are all signs of nervousness, but Inaho knows better. He could always tell when she was lying, and often, he let her. He will do the same now.

Inaho can imagine that there was trouble, that the child didn't get along, just as she never got along, and how his peers tormented him. Inaho can imagine that, but it is not the whole story, if it happened at all. The child looks up at him, and whatever lie was in the words before, the next ones holds no deception. "I have workbooks. I finish those, and get more."

Inaho gazes at those blue green eyes, looking up at him, of the clear waters teaming within them, and he is mesmerized. He has to do something, so he says "Do you like them?" not even really sure what he's asking. He just has to put sound back into the world or he's going to drown.

The boy looks up at him for another five seconds, before he nods his head, and looks forward again. Inaho can suddenly think and breathe again. It is maddening and exhilarating all in one erratic, crazed go. He reminds himself that he was denied for a long time, that he was stuck in a desert with no water, and now, he is suddenly in the ocean, trying to stay afloat. It makes sense that he needs time to adapt. He reminds himself of this, but can't help but feel that he is woefully unprepared for this situation. "Mmhm, I like them. I like learning things."

It takes Inaho longer than it should to figure out exactly what the child is talking about. He has to play a mental game of catch up to realize that the child is talking about the workbooks, and that Inaho actually asked about them, so it isn't strange that the child responded in that way. It takes him far too long to figure all this out. He feels crazy. "Did you like school?" Inaho is surprised at how calm he sounds, how collected and with it and rational his voice is. Perhaps he should not be, he's always been hard to read, people can't understand him at all, but he feels quite exposed in front of this child. There is no indication that he is, but he feels that he is, because she would see it like pocks on his face. The child doesn't know him, and it must not be so obvious. What would he do if he knew? Maybe run away, the thoughts are certainly overwhelming for Inaho, he can't imagine how a child would handle them.

As Inaho contemplates his own sanity, those blue green eyes turn furtive, and downward. The child doesn't answer with words, just one soft nod of his head, and the tightening of the grip on the bag in his small little hands.

\/

After Inaho says his goodbyes to the small child, after walking him to his hotel, after going back to his own hotel and taking a long, warm bath to collect the tatters of his thoughts, it is surprisingly easy to locate this child's father with rather high amounts of certainty.

Dr. Carthach Troyard, 37. A well documented astrobiologist of decent renown. His focus is on the hypothetical terraforming of Mars. He has published two books, and several studies on the subject for a variety of scientific journals. Currently in Paris looking into the use of a new theoretical simulator in development and giving lectures in the interim.

What makes the search so easy, despite no mention of a child, is Dr. Troyard himself. His eyes are a strikingly similar color. His hair, though a touch grey, is also of a similar, fluffy consistency. Inaho is also pleased to see that he is a generally attractive man; tall, and studious, despite the hard eyes and serious face.

Once he has Dr. Troyard's name, he does his homework on finding the son. He's spent plenty of time acquiring software and databases that would be useful in this sort of situation. They cost a pretty penny, but in the area of study he has immersed himself, they are simply one more tool to be used. Now with his objective found, he'll be terminating his need for them in a rather short time period. Unless Dr. Troyard absconds off to some strange place, in which Inaho will have to track him down again. But, he's already formulating a strategy against that.

It doesn't take him long to find the boy. Slaine Troyard, ten years old, born January 11th. The image that looks back at him is one from a primary school in Vienna, of a nervous looking six year old, with flyaway hair, and luminous blue-green eyes.

Inaho saves the image, and prints it out. He'll make a better quality photo later, and with any luck, he'll add many more as time goes by. But for now, his low grade portable printer will do. He cuts out the image, and puts it in the back of his wallet, where he used to keep her picture, before he burned every image he could find of her 8 years ago. He'd left that space blank since then, to remind himself what damage he could do in his grief. Now, it is filled again.

It is only mid day, but he is exhausted. Inaho crawls into bed, and allows himself to fall into sleep. And if he cries, it is only out of joy and relief. Ten years, is a long time to mourn.