Alphonse had started his morning in a blind tumult of routines.  First, as per usual, came the bumbling and mumbling he made as he re-tightened his bandages.  They always came loose when he was at rest, be it at the dining table or in the bed, but by the work of God...well, they weren't in the way when he didn't need them to be.  As the mummy in the morning, Alphonse had to go over and avoid getting his wrappings caught on the peeling wood shavings and cracks in the bathroom tiles, and with a rough scrub, his teeth were just as white as the next baron's pearls.

Granted, when your teeth's been stained with more motor oil than a lawnmower can go through in a lifetime, anything lighter than a stale sooty grey seems sterling.

Next came on the sweater, then the trousers, and then the socks and coat.  As usual, the shoes and gloves always came last; one time, he had the pleasure of almost tearing his shin apart when he tried to tuck his trouser's ends in the boots.  Shit, he had to dress more and more like a Texan by the day.

".. | .-.. --- ...- . | -.-- --- ..- .-.-.-," rang the telegraph, precisely at 5:05.

And back, he sent his own telegraph :

"--. --- | -... .- -.-. -.- | - --- | ... .-.. . . .--. .-.-.- | .. | .-.. --- ...- . | -.-- --- ..- | - --- --- .-.-.-"

If the caller was stubborn, he'd get more, but today wasn't one of those days.  No wars to fight, no rare, legendary B-52 being sighted...yet.  So, after a good 30 seconds, he left the telegraph machine and sauntered out.  Hopefully, London would be kind today, as it had been for the past two weeks.

Then there came the perilous task of starting of the coffee machines.  Each bag was a mix of roasts, so the end product was usually a hit-or-miss.  On occasion, he could get a real smooth, rich serving that could be drunken black, or (like today) he'd come up with some sour, root taste.  Cream couldn't fix the batch, and the farther he got with it, the stronger the sour taste became.  3 filters, all filled up with the same nasty beans, tragically went into the trash as another set replaced them.

The result was acceptable.  It tasted like coffee, at least.

And so, with a cup of café in hand, Alphonse waited in the common room.  The hour flew by with him wolfing down two servings of gruel (as of late, the only food he could be comfortable eating without feeling like he could break his jaw), and as soon as the decisions were made, he raised two fingers in favor of the trans-Atlantic option.

Sure, he might've gotten a glare by a few others, but all things considered, the stakes were higher for every opponent they met, not just themselves.  They could dust a flock and that would be the end of the matter; not many, unless they were flying a fleet of the last B-17s in the world, would have enough guts to brave the trip as retribution.  With the northern route, the crew could be hassled at every stop and flight in-between the check points; that was a sure-fire way to get tangled in some annoying affairs.

Once he stated his choice, he strode out alongside the other pilots, and made his way to not his plane, that Old Fart that sat way in the back like an elephant in a room full of hippos, but rather towards the "Seishin Gado".  He needed a wingman to handle things, and the plane looked just about large and armed enough to cover those blind spots he had above and below him.

But did she agree with his plans?  His knuckles beat the sheet metal like a drumstick.

First, Alphonse procured a map, and drew his fingertip along the trans-Atlantic route, before following up with a thumbs up and a thumbs down.  Good, or bad?

[@ClocktowerEchos]