The flight was long, though impressive. In less than two thousand years, hell, less than fifty, we had developed a way to cross entire seas in less than a day. Now the only complaints were that it affected the body.
Jet lag, so to speak of it, sucked.
At least he managed to nap a bit in the cab, as the driver took him to this "Departure Science". Chasing pipe dreams, heh. In any case, it was interesting, and if it didn't have what he was looking for, oh well.
His only notion that time had really passed was when the cab stopped and the driver nudged him awake.
"That'll be seventy dollars, mister."
Slightly disoriented, James Azazel dug through his pockets, searching for his wallet, and when he found it, pulled out a clean-ish $100 he had gotten from currency exchange.
"Keep the change," and he stepped out, headed to the Departure Sciences Headquarters, and to the surely sterile underbelly of the beast.
On the way in, he passed multiple people, all crowding against a balding man. Stopping, he turned to the man, who was coughing, and waited.
"Who might you be?" after the coughing fits subsided and the people fussed.
"James Azazel. Here for the testing, sir."
"Down that way. I'm fine, really, don't worry."
Following the pointed finger into the surprisingly blinding abyss, James walks. That is mostly it. Walking.
Eventually, he comes to a door, and opening it, sees a cat eating some kind of chocolate confectionery, several people arguing about... humanoid animals, of all things, and a couple people on their phones.
Slipping in quietly and heading to the corner, he stands, observing everyone, especially how the cat is generally more interested with the male in the heated debate, and watching as the other man moves from the end of the table to them.
Maybe he'd join the debate, but a bit later, after everyone had come.
