*looks at the last time of update* Oh FUCK. Well, I'm back now, I guess, so…*shouts into the uncaring void* HELLLLLLLLOOOOOOOOOOOOOO?! Reviews please? I need reviews! Motivate me already! I'm doing my best, but I need constructive criticisms! For like the three people reading this, check in, let me know I'm not putting considerable creative effort into nothing! Please! Also, I am aware that tattoos are not that halal, like...at all, really? But I feel as if it'd be stupid to have Sadiq Adnan, the representation of Turkey, NOT be Muslim, when he was canonically also the Ottoman Empire. We'll just pretend he's not a very orthodox Muslim and is focusing on what will give him street cred with angry young homeless folk, and religiously observing the rules for everything else.

November 5th, 2019

Nah, fly to Altars, there they'll talk you dead,
For fools rush in where angels fear to tread.

3rd Person POV:

"Yes mum, I'm fine. No, mum, the plane has not crashed, blown up, been hijacked, had pigeons sucked into the engines to create a fiery chain reaction, or otherwise damaged." Arthur recited with a tired roll of his eyes, dragging the small secondhand suitcase he had packed behind him as he shouldered his way through the crowd at JFK International. "And since my arrival, I have not been mugged, murdered, or otherwise set upon. I haven't even so much as lost my luggage."

His green eyes twitched back a little, and his grip tightened on this plastic handle, as he remembered some of the things inside his suitcase. Holly and vervain and mint, yes, but more, far more, for protection this time. Dragon's Blood (herb, not actual) and salt and iron, and books detailing the strongest wards and pentagrams Arthur knew how to draw, and could safely control.

Ghosts were intangible; it didn't matter how or where Allen had died, Arthur could summon him as easily from New York as he could back home in Minnesota. Allen would still be with him in the blink of an eye –but only if summoned. Being no longer living, ghosts produced very little energy of their own, so moving long distances under their own steam was so taxing as to be nearly impossible. Only by yanking a metaphorical "leash" of magical summoning could Arthur bring the ghost from wherever he was now to here –which was no small comfort, as the blond Brit was very nervous at the notion of a murderous ghost trailing behind him, invisible, waiting impatiently, like a tiger caged behind steel bars, for Arthur to be alone so he could finally strike. For now, Arthur was safe, unless he deliberately chose to summon Allen here for information –if he waited for several weeks, there might be cause for concern, because ghosts could travel long distances, just very, very slowly.

His question now, though, was whether or not to summon Allen Jones for information.

It was likely the ghost could tell him everything about how he died –but it was equally likely he couldn't. Caught from behind, a knife in the dark, poison in a random meal…the possibilities were endless. The myriad means and motives behind them were even more dizzying. Arthur may not have many clientele, but he did research thoroughly in his job as a private investigator, and he knew that the circumstances leading to murder were as many and varied as the stars in the sky. Allen could very well have been killed by accident, and have murdered Alfred merely out of a petty grudge or twisted longing for company –they were half-siblings, so Allen had known his victim, which eliminated a large part of the likelihood that Allen's death was relevant to Arthur's current case. But this –Allen's life and eventual cause of death– was the only clue, the only lead that Arthur had, however slender, and he would cling to it like grim death (pun not intended) until he followed it to its end.

Now he had to plan his counter-attack. Excuses given, Arthur had gotten to New York –now he would have to try and do what the combined police forces of NYC and his home town couldn't for over a decade; find out what had happened to Allen Jones. He knew only two things that they did not; Allen Jones was dead, and he had lived in the Bronx for an unspecified amount of time. With that minuscule boost, Arthur proposed to catch himself a murderous ghost.

So it was only natural that he groaned and slumped once safely ensconced in a specimen of the redoubtable New York taxi service, holding his head in his hands and belaboring Dame Fortune under his breath.

"Tough flight, huh?" the driver asked casually as he executed a pinwheel turn that nearly sent Arthur's stomach up into his mouth. Horns screeched all across the street, but the bright-eyed young man seemed to take them in stride as he returned flipped birds with gusto, steering with only one hand.

"You could say that." Arthur groaned, and paused. "Um…"

"Im Yong Soo!" the driver answered as he swerved around an approaching semi truck, a miracle of last-minute steering and balance that scared some pigeons off the nearby rooftop and railings and banged Arthur's head against the partition. "And I know the Big Apple like the back of my hand, da-ze! Where you headed?"

Out onto the sidewalk! screamed Arthur's inner sense of rationality, reminded of the intense New York traffic jams and mentally comparing them to his seemingly crazed driver. It did not seem at all unlikely that, if faced with a bumper-to-bumper traffic jam, he would simply look for the nearest tilted object and use it as a ramp to launch his car right over the obstruction(s)!

"The central police station for the Bronx district." his traitor mouth replied as Arthur cradled his bruised forehead, and Im Yong Soo nodded a couple times, as if to himself, before promptly flooring the gas.

"Alrighty then, da-ze! We'll have you there in a jiffy!"

"Dear sweet lord in heaven WATCH OUT FOR THE TRAFFIC LIGHTS!" Arthur howled, green eyes stretching wide as the taxi cab careened towards a busy thoroughfare.

***Time Skip***

"That'll be 71.65, da-ze!" Im Yong Soo said cheerfully as Arthur bent over the gutter, retching. The groggy Brit freed a hand to wave nauseously, indicating that the fare would have to wait a moment, and silently prayed to any god or deity that might listen that he would never, ever have to take a ride like that again.

Maybe Allen died from horrific taxi driving and killed Alfred because he finally got his bloody driver's license after two years of waiting. He thought bleakly as Im Yong Soo started hustling out his bags from the trunk, and spared another moment, his stomach slowly starting to settle, to hope that none of the officers in the building they were parked in front of had seen his ignominious scramble to the curve and the following loss of his lunch.

Though, since it was airline food, there was never really much of a guarantee that it would have stayed down in the first place…

Arthur finally gasped and whipped a handkerchief out of one of the many pockets of his jacket, wiping his mouth and hoping absently that one of the personnel in the president building would have mints.

"Right, you said 71.65?" he asked wheezily, turning to the perky Asian, and Im Yong Soo grinned.

"Yup!"

Arthur forked 75 in paper money over and told him to keep the change. He waited as Im Yong Soo expertly counted out the bills, then grinned wider and made as if to tip an imaginary hat, sauntering back to his vehicle and peeling away in a screech of rubber and an explosion of exhaust.

Arthur wondered briefly how much repair bills for that poor maligned car cost, and then cast it from his mind.

He turned with resolution back to the precinct, straightening his collar and taking stock of his appearance. How did he look? Like a pretentious black-trench-wearing nobody with his caddy of luggage trailing behind him, smelling faintly of vomit, or a qualified investigator and private eye? Only time, and entry into this small brick building, would tell.

He pushed through the doors, dragging his suitcase behind him, and looking all around for a receptionist or someone of the sort to direct him. Arthur's investigative license didn't work in the States per say, and it was only Ludwig Beilschmidt's generosity that kept him involved in the case back home to begin with. He could grease his way with knowing an officer here: in New York, Arthur was an unknown.

Bent over a desk was a young man with limp, shoulder-length light brown hair and a tag spouting "Laurinaitis" on his left breast, a haggard expression on his face as he sorted stacks of paper, flipping stapled packets back and forth and typing into a computer with one hand. The flickering light showed bags under his drooping eyes, and Arthur paused a moment to wince in mutual sympathy for sleepless nights.

The blond cleared his throat as he stood in front of the desk, making the other man jump.

"Oh, ah, hello." he faltered, quickly brushing his paperwork aside and belatedly lacing his hands on the desk, looking up expectantly. "How can I help you?"

"I'm looking into an old Missing Person's case from about twelve years ago, for an adopted relative. Allen Jones. I have reason to believe he ran away to New York City, specifically the Bronx, and as he had, er…disciplinary issues, back home, I was wondering if he's come up on police record here?" Arthur asked as tactfully as he could, and fished inside his pocket, bringing out the photo he had printed out from Ludwig's email. "This is him." he said as he passed it over, and Laurinaitis blinked fuzzily at the image.

"Don't recognize him on sight." he hummed. "I'll check the records."

He turned back to the computer, and Arthur waited with his heart in his mouth as the familiar, sharp tapping of computer keys echoed in the quiet space, each brittle snap a lance to his heart, prickling with uncertainty and anticipation as he was brought ever-closer to defeat or victory, or another slender clue.

"Can I help you?"

Both Arthur and Laurinaitis jumped, though with the latter man, a shrill squeal accompanied it.

"Ah! Mister Väinämöinen, sir, I was just helping this gentleman with a Missing Person's!" he yelped rapidly, and Arthur raised an eyebrow at the object of his terror, which to the best of Arthur's understanding was a short, rather round-faced police lieutenant with short blond hair and a beaming, friendly expression.

"Officer Tino Väinämöinen." he said with a slight Finnish accent, reaching out to shake hands.

"Private Investigator Arthur Kirkland. Charmed." Arthur replied, darting a concerned, slightly confused glance at his companion, who was shaking slightly in his chair. "I don't suppose the name Allen Jones, or this photo, means anything to you?"

Tino reached over and took the photo from Laurinaitis's desk, peering over it with wide violet eyes.

"Ah! I remember him." he said cheerfully, closing them, as Arthur's heart froze.

"You do?" he said thickly.

"Oh, yes." Tino handed the photograph back. "He took a tattoo parlor with a mutual acquaintance, ah, Sadiq Adnan, I think it was. Nice man."

"Keeps a lot of trouble off the streets." Laurinaitis said quietly, his voice shaky. Arthur's eyebrows furrowed.

"I won't say it's entirely legal," Tino said with a slight lowering of his eyelids and an accepting smirk, responding to Arthur's silent request for clarification. "-but Sadiq tends to take in a lot of the troublemakers around here, giving them a warm place to sleep, good food, all the rest of it."

"Very enthusiastically shouted support." Laurinaitis mumbled at the desk, sounding vaguely terrified but rather approving.

"Mm. Anyways, he and this man –I don't quite remember if he used the name Allen Jones– they worked together in the business for a while. Can't say I know why Mister Jones left, can you?"

Tino looked at his subordinate, who seemed to shake harder.

"N-no, sir. It wasn't anything we were called in for."

"Well, he certainly hasn't shown up around here for a decade at least." Tino shrugged. "We can give you Sadiq's business address, if that would help."

Arthur inhaled, then let it out slowly. "Admirably."

Tino grinned and left, and once he was gone, Arthur threw a puzzled glance at the still-shaking Laurinaitis. "What disturbs you so much about him?" he asked, with a jerk of his chin towards the door where Tino had left.

Laurinaitis swallowed. "You haven't seen him when he's pissed. Tino may act like a happy Mister Santa Clause most of the time, but Holy Martin Luther, he's scary when out of temper!"

"…right, right."

"I'm telling you! He's the devil incarnate! I heard he once sniped a person all the way down a city block!"

"Yes, but surely that, er, mood shift isn't all that often?"

"Well, no…but still!"

***Time Skip***

A quick page of notes and another, much less harrowing taxi ride had Arthur standing on the doorstep of a shabby, somewhat garish, but very neat and well-kept tattoo parlor, with, as he stepped in, shining spotless surfaces and a gorgeous, colorful spray of artwork across the peeling walls, presumably finished tattoo designs. At a small desk near the front was an abnormally, obnoxiously tall middle-aged man with dusky skin, stubbled jaw, and a full range of tattoos inked across every inch of skin exposed under his green wifebeater, with white aviators perched precariously on the tip of his nose as he read what appeared to be a Parental Psychology magazine. He glanced up as the door opened with a tinkle, and raised a single eyebrow, but quickly folded up his magazine and took his feet down from where they had been propped up over the desk.

"What can I do for ya?"

"I'm…looking for an old business associate of yours." Arthur said carefully, his fingers tightening a little on the handle of his suitcase. "He would've been here about ten years ago…Allen Jones?"

Something very like –no, it was a flicker of concern– passed across Sadiq's face. "How'd you know him?" he asked, not belligerent, not yet, but there was…there was an edge to his voice, not worry, not a threat, but with the implicit acknowledgement that, if Arthur answered and tripped some invisible catch with his words, Sadiq's attitude would shift in one of those two directions irreparably.

"I…I suppose you could say we are family." Arthur said, opting for honesty as a faint smile twitched on and off his face. "We are…ah, well, I'm an adoptive brother. Looking into his Missing Person's, don't you know."

Sadiq's eyes widened, and Arthur caught the flash of alarm in them as it swelled and deepened, the shock and fear like stepping onto thin ice and plunging into a frozen lake without warning.

"He never made it home?!"

Arthur blinked. "What?"

"He…" Sadiq fell back in his chair heavily, running a hand through his already-messy cropped hair. "Astaghfirullah…I knew he never called, but I thought…ya allah, I don't know what I thought, but I never…his Missing case's still open?"

"Ah…yes." Arthur managed. His first thought, coming here, was that Sadiq, somehow, for some incomprehensible reason, had murdered Allen, or at least been involved somehow in his disappearance prior to death, but no. There was no lie in Sadiq's devastated, shocked, startled look, no deception in his shaking hands and sudden defeated, guilty, confused posture. "He never came home."

"He-!" Sadiq surged up in his chair, gesturing for a moment, before collapsing back, another look of incredible defeat and incomprehension washing over his face. "He was going back. That was what –I patched him up, that's what I do," He waved both hands vaguely at the window to the street. "-I keep these kids from downspiraling and going off the edge with drink and coke and, and I don't know, whatever the hell else they get up to when they don't have someone looking after them and feel like the world's out to get them, and Al…sure, he was a bit rough around the edges, but he had some serious talent, and he was getting secure, he was loosening up and smiling again…" Both hands returned to his mussed hair, combing through it. "We agreed, he agreed, he was a grown man and didn't need his parents to give him permission to live how he wanted in the world, but we both said it'd be better for him to at least go say goodbye and let them know he was still alive…he never made it back?"

"He never made it back." Arthur confirmed quietly. "Or if he did, this is the first I've heard of it."

"Ya allah." Sadiq whispered again, his dark face turning ashen. "I…he…you're sure?"

"What was his intended destination and itinerary?" Arthur asked, probing gently. "How did he plan to get home, and where did he plan to go first?"

"Ah…" Sadiq calmed a little, though he was still shifting uncomfortably, a look of guilt and sorrow and desperate hope on his face. Arthur knew that face: it was the face he had worn standing in Alfred's doorway, preparing to treat his brother's room as a crime scene. "He was going to take his motorcycle down, he'd saved up enough from helping out around the shop to make a round trip in motels and such. I lent him some too, just in case…he was going to drop his bike off at his favorite mechanic's, Eric's, I think, before talking with his parents. I remember planning out the route with him and everything…he really never made it back?"

Arthur shook his head.

"Do you mind telling me that route?" he asked. "I think I can get to the bottom of this, if you do."

10.54 PM, USA Central Time