Home again, home again, jiggety-jig
He hasn't liked travelling by plane, not for some time. It's too confined, being pent up in a metal tube with wings, 30,000 feet above the ground. Thomas used to be the sort of man who could handle that kind of thing.
Things change.
Now, all he smells is the re-processed air, the stale scent of fear-sweat coming from three seats over, the cheap perfume on the flight attendant with the plastic smile, and the baby spit-up decorating the blouse of the large woman with the colicky, coughing infant seated two rows back, three seats to his right. He's sitting on the aisle, not wanting to look out the window and see nothing but clouds.
Nowhere to move.
Cats always land on their feet. He said something like that to Oliver Queen once.
In this particular case, it probably didn't apply, and he didn't pack a chute anyway.
"Ladies and gentlemen, this is your Captain speaking, we are now starting our final approach into Gotham City. The weather is 78 degrees, and I hope you packed an umbrella into your carry on, because there's a chance of thunderstorms."
There always is. He knows when he gets off the plane the first thing he's going to smell will be car exhaust, laying over something that carries the sweetly faint odor of rot. The scent of Gotham City.
Corruption.
Greed.
Fear.
If he said he'd missed it, he'd be lying. But he had business here, and deaths to avenge. The best place to get information, the best starting point, would be Oswald Cobblepot. The Iceberg Lounge. Assuming, of course, that the Bat wasn't standing by to try and frighten him back out of the city.
He disembarked from the plane, made it through the final cursory security checkpoint, and wandered to baggage claim, trying not to gag at the antiseptic and overwhelming smell of the citrus-scented floor-cleaners that they used in this facility.
Delightful.
Things change.
Now, all he smells is the re-processed air, the stale scent of fear-sweat coming from three seats over, the cheap perfume on the flight attendant with the plastic smile, and the baby spit-up decorating the blouse of the large woman with the colicky, coughing infant seated two rows back, three seats to his right. He's sitting on the aisle, not wanting to look out the window and see nothing but clouds.
Nowhere to move.
Cats always land on their feet. He said something like that to Oliver Queen once.
In this particular case, it probably didn't apply, and he didn't pack a chute anyway.
"Ladies and gentlemen, this is your Captain speaking, we are now starting our final approach into Gotham City. The weather is 78 degrees, and I hope you packed an umbrella into your carry on, because there's a chance of thunderstorms."
There always is. He knows when he gets off the plane the first thing he's going to smell will be car exhaust, laying over something that carries the sweetly faint odor of rot. The scent of Gotham City.
Corruption.
Greed.
Fear.
If he said he'd missed it, he'd be lying. But he had business here, and deaths to avenge. The best place to get information, the best starting point, would be Oswald Cobblepot. The Iceberg Lounge. Assuming, of course, that the Bat wasn't standing by to try and frighten him back out of the city.
He disembarked from the plane, made it through the final cursory security checkpoint, and wandered to baggage claim, trying not to gag at the antiseptic and overwhelming smell of the citrus-scented floor-cleaners that they used in this facility.
Delightful.