Benji had decided not to tell his family or friends what he was doing. He could only imagine their dumbfounded expressions if he explained that he had received money and plane tickets from a stranger and was actually going to use them. Instead, he'd told them vaguely that he was going on a vague camping retreat type thing and changed the subject if they pressed the issue. Not many had. Camping retreat type things weren't an uncommon feature in Benji's life. Luxurious holidays abroad didn't really suit his lifestyle or, rather, his income. Camping was technically free once you'd got hold of a tent.

That said, he didn't look like the arty vagabond cliche he'd carved out for himself as he handed his first-class ticket to the red-lipped stewardess. Light fabrics, faded from former gaudy colours were traded for subtle pinstripes and leather shoes. He'd half-heartedly looked at a tie, for the first time since his aunt's funeral, before deciding he might as well do it properly and thrust the thing around his neck. He'd even had his blonde hair very lightly trimmed, and while it was still very shaggy, it now looked more like an artistic decision rather than the triumphant haystack of yesterday's negligence. The only thing that let down the costume of a young, trendy businessman was his choice of luggage. He could think of no honest reason to buy new luggage when he had a decent satchel in decent nick and a rucksack in camouflage print. It was probably army surplus, but he didn't know; he'd literally found the thing in a hedge a few years ago. They were safely in the luggage hold now.

He stretched as he sat down, leaning backwards and wriggling. Then his jacket was uncomfortable and so the same red-lipped stewardess took it from him. She looked at him very closely before offering him a drink. That was the thing about first class. It wasn't the legroom. It wasn't the less contemptuous staff. It was the free drinks. He accepted the (disappointingly small) glass of lager with a smile. It would be rude to decline. And foolish. You never turned down a freebie. And this was the biggest freebie of all. Benji yawned and stretched again as the plane began to take off.

He was on his fourth glass by the time the plane inserted itself into the particularly fluffy bowels of a cloud, and nodded off shortly afterward.

----

The arrival lounge was like any other, he supposed. It was full of foreign. Intuition dictated that this particular brand of foreign was probably Swedish, but it could be French for all he knew. He couldn't read the posters in whatever foreign language they were written in, so it didn't matter which one. Then again, English words did creep in, in particularly amusing ways; [i]hurdy-gurdy hurdy-gurdy hurdy-[/i]chocolatey[i] hurdy-gurdy-gur[/i]. The novelty was short-lived, though, as he, sick of waiting for his luggage to arrive on the carousel - when every other passenger had collected theirs - sat heavily on the luggage trolley, still groggy from his flight-long snooze. He put his head in his hands and, after a moment, drifted off again.

-----

"Excuse me, sir," A voice from nowhere. Whatever.

"Sir?" A hand shook Benji gently at the shoulder. He spluttered awake, "Excuse me, sir. You are Benjamin Rainsford?"

"That would be me," He said, groggily. He wasn't very good at mornings. Was it morning? Still counted.

"I am your driver," He certainly was; as Benji's vision came into focus he could make out an almost comically over-dressed middle-aged man with a hat and gloves straight out of a costume shop. They shook hands on Benji's initiation; the driver's hand was stiff and reluctant, "And your luggage is in the limousine. If you'd follow me."

Still a little bleary-eyed, he followed the driver to a swanky-looking limo outside. If this was a scam, they'd put the effort in. He was awkwardly bowed inside and invited to help himself to the minibar. He didn't feel anything. As his arrival killed the conversation and all eyes turned on him, he smiled, "I'm Benji. I'm guessing we're all English?"