TM 228 - Three A.M.

[prodigalwatcher]

228 - Three A.M.

"On behalf of British Airways and your flight and cabin crews today, welcome to London. The local time is approximately eleven o'clock in the morning, and the current temperature is approximately fifteen degrees centigrade..."

I tuned out the rest of the captain's speech and instead focused on my watch, which I'd yet to turn from Los Angeles time, which was three o'clock in the morning. I yawned, feeling every bit of the jet lag and the long flight from California. The ticket had been an impulse purchase, made immediately after I'd gotten off the phone with Mother and Father.


The conversation with Father had gone very much as usual, but I couldn't hide my concern when speaking to Mother. She'd asked in that motherly manner that was an absolute order in its own way, whether or not I could visit, if only for a day or two. Without thinking, I accepted.

Of course, I had just recently fired a half-dozen bullets into what I had thought was my father, so my instinct was understandably to see them and remind myself that they were real, living and well. Despite the usual reluctance that built in the pit of my stomach at the prospect of visiting with Father, I had purchased the ticket, packed lightly and boarded the plane.

Hours later, as I was struggling to extricate my satchel from the overhead bin, I was still questioning the wisdom of the visit. I knew what the thing had been, at least in the broad strokes-- some sort of cybernetically enhanced soldier or agent, disguised with a mystical glamour, allowing it to look, sound and feel like my father. Combined with information about me that they had somehow stolen from the Watchers Counil archives, including details that only my father--who had written many of the files on me-- could know, the impersonation was nearly perfect.

But I had spoken to my father, heard the stentorian tone of his voice, and felt myself shrink just a little under it, over the phone. Roger Wyndam-Pryce was in fine health, and currently in residence at the Wyndam-Pryce's family townhome in the city. But speaking on the phone is not seeing, is not being in another' presence.

After clearing customs, I strode in the direction of the exit, bypassing the interminable baggage carousel. I wasn't planning on being in England for more than a day or two, and then back to Los Angeles to rejoin the fight, so all I needed was bundled in the satchel slung over my shoulder.

I stopped just before the glass doors that led out to the ground transportation area, where I could catch a black cab to the townhouse. Taking stock of things, I glanced over my shoulder. The BA ticket counter was fewer than twenty feet behind me. It would take just a little money and my flight to Los Angeles could be switched to the next plane out.

It was three a.m. (at least for me). I was tired and jet-lagged, with nothing in my stomach but airline chicken kiev and three glasses of terrible pinot grigio. All that was likely to be awaiting me was an endless grilling from Father and the usual admonition to beg the Watcher Council to take me back. But I needed to know.


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OOC: Awww, poor Wes and his daddy issues!