there's a vulture perching right off screen
[ooc note: Should you decide to tag Fletcher with a demon, please do so with extreme caution. He is not in the best mindset right now and is very, very, very likely to attack. Violently. Also, feel free to place him anywhere in the city for tagging purposes, as long as there's a sidewalk there.]
Fletcher's plane arrived at O'Hare four hours ago. Since then, he's been clambering to get his bearings, to regain some semblance of reality here in this new, huge, full city. The city itself isn't his problem, though; his problem is why he's here in the first place, and he can't help but wonder what kind of irreparable damage he's done by leaving his home entirely without telling anyone except Maddock and Dunn. He didn't even tell his sister. But when they found that note, when it pointed to Chicago-she couldn't have expected him to do anything else. If she didn't expect this, he tells himself, trying to comfort his own racing heart and mind, she doesn't know me as well as I thought.
He'll call her. Later. Much later. Maybe in a week. Maybe not until he's finished what he started when he left.
It doesn't help that the biological clock ticking in his brain is completely wrong. The watch ticking on his wrist is wrong, too-he hadn't thought to adjust it to the new time zone before leaving the airport, or to even bother finding out what time it even was-but he knows it's getting dark and he's tired and needs to find a place to stay before someone tries to steal his suitcase, or something.
So, he walks. And he thinks. And he looks at every single man, woman, child, and creature he passes with suspicious, tired eyes.
Much as he hates clichés, something tells him this is going to be a long night.
Fletcher's plane arrived at O'Hare four hours ago. Since then, he's been clambering to get his bearings, to regain some semblance of reality here in this new, huge, full city. The city itself isn't his problem, though; his problem is why he's here in the first place, and he can't help but wonder what kind of irreparable damage he's done by leaving his home entirely without telling anyone except Maddock and Dunn. He didn't even tell his sister. But when they found that note, when it pointed to Chicago-she couldn't have expected him to do anything else. If she didn't expect this, he tells himself, trying to comfort his own racing heart and mind, she doesn't know me as well as I thought.
He'll call her. Later. Much later. Maybe in a week. Maybe not until he's finished what he started when he left.
It doesn't help that the biological clock ticking in his brain is completely wrong. The watch ticking on his wrist is wrong, too-he hadn't thought to adjust it to the new time zone before leaving the airport, or to even bother finding out what time it even was-but he knows it's getting dark and he's tired and needs to find a place to stay before someone tries to steal his suitcase, or something.
So, he walks. And he thinks. And he looks at every single man, woman, child, and creature he passes with suspicious, tired eyes.
Much as he hates clichés, something tells him this is going to be a long night.