As Smoke steps out the airport, the first thing he sees and hears is the falling of rain, moderately splashing down on the gravel of the all-but-empty car-park that lays before him, creating puddles and pools of water that had been cried out of the blackened clouds in the dark, early morning sky. It bounces off the small metal roof situated above him, drumming a fast and uncoordinated beat, the kind that makes you feel cozy knowing you are protected from the rain, permitted to stay dry - for now. Still, the cold of the early autumn's day makes contact with Smoke's skin, standing the hairs of his arm on end, sending a tingling sensation coursing through his body. He stands but a few feet away from the falling teardrops, his hand sloppily placed on the extended handle of the suitcase he had taken with him from San Diego, in awe and amazement. The car-park itself is small and rounded by cobbled walls of assorted stones, rocks and slabs, with several slopes and stairs leading up to a pavement beyond, onto a street decorated with corner shops, simple pastel-painted houses, and brightly lit lampposts that dot the edge of the pavement above.

Really, it's nothing special, but being away from it for so long, and the way it was presented to him after being above the clouds for the past few hours made him appreciate it all. Everything. It seems so special, for whatever reason Smoke can't quite realise. Perhaps he'd missed it in his own way, even if he thought he wouldn't, even if he tried not to.

But he can't stare forever. The fatigue of the flight and overall travelling had taken it's toll, and Smoke pulled himself back to reality by rubbing his eyes with his free hand, once again clenching his suitcase with the hand that had previously been draped carelessly over the handle. He stretches his eyelids to lose the blur this caused, blinking furiously to focus on reality. He admires the scenery once again, and after pulls the hood of his jacket over his head. Smoke had packed preparing for the rain, but the hassle of taking out a raincoat would be too much effort for his tired body and mind.

He pushed his otherwise free hand into his jeans pocket and pulls out his phone, observing the time; 04:12AM. He's also expecting a text but... not yet apparently.

Smoke breathes in a large gust of air, and exhales it. Using this psuedo-power, he boldly steps out onto the car-park, and into the rain.

As he walks forward, through the heavily barrage of water that pours down from the sky, the cloth on the hoodie soaks up, further chilling the dry skin on his forearms, which are not protected by a shirt, thus first hand receiving the cold air that makes it through the weaved material on his hoodie's sleeve. The angle of the rain sends droplets spitting into his face and eyes, stinging and dousing him at the same time, quickly becoming streams from the top and the edge of the hood, trickling down the line of his head and face, dropping off like a waterfall at the end of his chin and jawline. There is no way out of this happening, despite him keeping his head down. He is drenched from head to toe by the time he reaches about halfway across the car-park, his suitcase pathetically squealing behind him as it struggles to maintain a straight line over the slippery wet gravel upon which it is being dragged continuously. The hand that is gripping on the case, at this point, is cold and soaked, feeling the full force of the foul weather without any form interruption since departing from the safety of the warm and dry airport. It feels the stings, the trickling of each drop, and the cold of the water running across the skin.

Rounding an outlet of the wall, Smoke quickly climbs a slope, as a few cars drive past, splashing up water from the huge puddles on his side of the road. He carefully times his moment to go out and quickly walk the short walk to a bus shelter on the road, diving in and sitting in the dry and warmth, safely out of the way of a splash that just sprays over the glass ahead of him.

And now comes the waiting game, patiently waiting for a bus he didn't really know the timetable for, really just expecting it to show up. Either way he knows his destination, whether the bus actually takes him there or not is a different matter, but he can always ask the driver the correct bus to take so that really isn't even a problem.

So he sits there, with the sun slowly rising off to one side, and the pouring of the rain slowly yet surely releasing its wash, waiting for something as simple as the bus. He sits there, fighting sleep, thankful for the break at the very least, thinking about his impulse decision to fly here, and what he will actually do now that he is here for a week. For one, he knows where he'll be going today, he'll get there one way or another regardless. His mind also traces back to thousands of miles away, about what happened at his apartment just before leaving for the airport...

But just then the bus is visible down the road. He stands at the station to let the driver know he's there, and is thankful that the bus is empty. He steps on and the driver begins to speak in an English accent that is usually associated with - what Smoke assumes - farmers.

All roight then, son. Looks loike yur the furst on 'ere today! Were ya headin'?

Do you go to Bristol Train Station?

Yus indeed oi do. Why, you headin' sumwere or summit?

Yeah actually. I was going to take a train down to Gloucester.

Glozzer? Why'd you wanna go down thur, thun?

Oh, I'm...

Well, I'm visiting family.