undergrounds | Every single holiday, a head in a box

Faolan is used to people coming and going, doing as they please here in Hillingdon. He's used to people just waltzing in and dumping their kit on the tables as they please. What he isn't used to is said kit in fact consisting of a severed head. Not that it's the first one he's seen, but he'd like to have been a little more prepared than he finds himself here and now.

"What in god's name do you think you're doing with that thing?" he exclaims, leaping forward to try and deal with this problem as fast and efficiently as he can. Not that he can spare anyone who might have seen it already. But he can at least step between them and the offending object, and up to Eames himself as he tries to get a hold of the situation.

"Offering a job," Eames responds, in a tone of voice that may as well be accompanied with 'duh' and him rolling his eyes. He doesn't see the issue here. Clearly anyone who comes to work with Hillingdon must be used to all manner of gory nastiness, how could a (remarkably well-preserved) head possibly be an issue?

Be that as it may, that the people in Hillingdon are generally used to gore, they are not used to it suddenly appearing and being waved around in front of them in an area that's supposed to be something of a safe house for them. Faolan's clearly not impressed, and the look on his face says as much.

"So you had said," he comments, before glancing down at the offending object in question and asking the obvious. "Alright, then. Speak. Why are you waving a head about in my living room?" Not that it's exactly 'his' living room, but he's feeling protective since this man is an outsider and he does have an unexplained body part in his hands.

"She's-- or she was an ally to the fae." Eames sighs and looks at the head, it was sent to his flat in Lambeth at least, so small blessings, they don't know where he's living now. Still. It's hardly pleasant. "Seelie, actually. But I suppose whoever had it sent to me didn't feel like doing much research on the structure of the courts."

Faolan wishes that the man would put that thing away. Can he put it away? "Did you bring the box it came in?" he asks, hoping that it will hint as much, but also the box could be useful to investigate as well. Maybe there are some traces on it that might not have lasted on the head itself.

He makes sure to keep his own eyes firmly locked on the other man rather than the object in tow. "I take it you don't have any suggestions as to where it might have come from yourself. Other than her identity. Which was...?" Faolan had been a private investigator, before this business with Hillingdon, after all. He's trying to pick up as much information as he can before the problem gets dumped in their laps, both figuratively and literally speaking.

"It's out on the table," Eames says with an absent gesture toward the main room, and he picks up the head to inspect it a little more himself.

"Her name was Mushira Ahmad, I believe. Bog standard human," he sighs a little and tilts the head to look at the neck. "Shoddy work, this," he adds as an afterthought. The neck's all hacked up, it's a real mess. Eames even tuts. He'd never do such bad work.

Faolan takes note of the name, and the fact that this man knows it. "You knew her?" he asks, trying not to look at the head but instead keeping his eyes focused on Eames himself. "To what extent?"

And alright, yes he'll look at the head. And he's right of course, the neck's a mess. It's certainly not a clean cut, nor does Faolan recognize it as being the product of simple brute strength. Whoever had done this to her, it had taken some effort on their part. Which did narrow it down, to some extent, he supposes.

"Not well," Eames shrugs a shoulder. They didn't run in the same circles, but a human at all the fae parties is bound to be remembered. "She clung to the Seelie, mostly."

Ah. Well that gives Faolan more of an idea what sort of fae he's dealing with here, then. It doesn't particularly matter to him one way or the other, but it will be important to any sort of investigation that may follow, so he takes a mental note as he continues the conversation.

"You want us to take this off your hands for you, then," he half asks, gesturing to the head, already knowing the answer. "You say you'll pay. How do we know that we aren't putting ourselves in danger for accepting the offer?" He raises an eyebrow as he waits for his answer. It's a simple enough question. People are sending the man heads in the post, after all. It doesn't exactly bode well.

"You don't." Is Eames' simple reply. He considers a joke about offering hazard pay, but thinks better of it. Still, it's hardly as if he's twisting anyone's arm to take the work, and this is far from the first potentially dangerous job that's rolled across their desks. "I don't know who sent this or why. I can't even be completely certain it was sent with malicious intent." Some people considered this sort of thing a gift after all. Not Eames, but some people do.

Faolan thinks better of trying to point out that he'd meant danger from him. But so far, this fae man has not given him anything to concern himself over. He's bringing the head here to have the mystery solved for him, possibly to dump his problem on someone else, but it doesn't appear that he has any malicious intent in it himself.

Faolan stands in place assessing the man for a long moment, before nodding slightly. And just coming right out with the question. "What is your intent in this, then?" he asks. "We can investigate the matter, if that's what you're after. If it's more, our answer will take longer than simply accepting the job, as it were." If this is supposed to be an offer of an alliance after all, it's the oddest offer he figures he's ever received. And not one that he's sure he should be taking, not with how unpredictable things stand with the fae at the moment.

"My intent is to find out who sent this to me and deal with the issue." Eames shrugs, interest in the conversation waning. He can't help it, people are so terribly dull after a little while, especially when it comes to business. "I'd deal with it myself, but I really don't have the time to spare right now."

Faolan wonders just what exactly he has going on that would be more important than the proof that there's been a murder and that whoever's done it is obviously trying to send him a sign, but he leaves that thought where it is. And instead asks one last question of the fae man standing in front of him.

"What do you make of it, then?" he says. "Do you have any thoughts as to who might have sent it to you? Or why?"

Fae business, Faolan. Do you know how many feasts he's expected to attend? So many.

Anyway. He sighs through his nose and looks at the head, "there's some magic on it. Could be a witch?"

Every single holiday, a head in a box

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