Connor's skin was alight, his nerves racked with a sinking suspicion. After years and years of living on a Native American reservation, he was going to a new city. Not only a new one, but the biggest place he'd ever been. It was exciting, yes, but dread also followed like a dog follows it's master; waiting in the silence.
Connor was happy, to say the least, that he was meeting his father for the first time. Of course, Connor wanted to make a good first impression. This was his chance, his one and only chance to have a relationship with Haytham.
He couldn't wrap his thoughts around his feelings for Haytham. On one hand, he was anrgy for him leaving Connor and his mother; on the other, he wanted a good relationship with his father. A family was all he ever wanted, especially after his mother had fallen ill with the flu; and with lack of medication she died.
Connor took out the note his father had sent him again and read it over. Haytham had contacted Connor, extending at invitation to join him on the Bureau of Investigative Services as his father's assisstant detective. Enclosed were train tickets. Connor had been confused by the letter. How did Haytham know about him? If his father had known all this time that he exised, why did he not send for him earlier? Why now? Did he know of his mother's death?
He was pulled from this thoughts by the train whistle as it approached it's destination. Connor had never been much for materialism – unlike Haytham – so alll he owned fit in a small suitcase. He retrieved it from the carryon section above his seat. His bulky frame made is harder to weave through the people leaving the train.
The station itself was huge. Metal structures held up a circular glass celling. In big letters were the words Chicago Union Station. From large radios, a woman's voice came singing in a high voice.
Connor's feet came to rest when he eyed whom he was searching for. A man stood, his face twisted up in a form of disatasfaction. Connor's throat began to close. Connor couldn't have already done something wrong... he barely knew the man. He didn't know the man. All he knew was that the man with a stren look was holding a sign with Connor's name on it.
"You must be Connor," the man drawled as Connor approached. "And you must be my father," Connor replied, a head cocked to the side. "You're late. Not a good start, boy," The man addressed. Connor looked from the man, to one of the clocks posted to the wall. Connor scofed. He didn't owe Haytham to be on time. He didn't owe Haytham anything. He bit back his anger.
The air of Chicago was fresh and chilled with the winter air. A newsboy milled around shouting "Extra, extra! Read all about it! January 27th, 1943! 50 bombers mount the first all American air raid against Germany; Wilhelmshaven is the target!" Connor eyed the boy. He'd heard about the way. Hell, everyone in the world had heard about the war, but he hadn't know how serious it had gotten. Not much word got around to the reservation, and that which did was the elders complaining about it using up resources. The various stores and cafe's were swarmed with people, and a gentle breeze gave the city a homely demeanor.