The Shoshone with the long lifeline inched forward in the airliner seat when the arrival announcement was made. It wasn't like he (and the entire passenger complement along with him) wasn't aware that they had landed, it was just the conditioned response. The flight had been long and fairly bumpy, and the passengers had been as polite as possible for the duration. Now, they were about to be released from the plane's confines, and their eagerness overruled courtesy. In moments, they would all be pressing against each other to escape.

Deciding that he could be patient for a few more minutes, Thomas settled back and closed his eyes, letting his mind wander over the journey. He'd had worse, but those had usually been on travels made with more specific purposes in mind. All he had was a destination, a group of pictures of swords, and Amanda's talisman. If only he knew what the connections were.

His truck was now parked in a storage unit near a county airport back in Arizona. He'd caught a puddlejumper flight out from the the tiny airport, then made a series of connections to successfully larger flights. It had taken some ingenuity to ease his luggage onto the name airlines without an overly serious search of the bags, especially in this day and age, but there were ways. Primarily it meant cash and a knowledge of which ear to whisper to. Cash he had, even if it wasn't the massive riches he had once thought he might one day own, and there was a certain look to the people he needed to speak to, a look that he had learned to seek out.

Of course, he did have papers for the weapons. He held a position as a historian, and the items secreted in his bags could qualify as a items of historical interest, if one didn't look too closely. The lance and the tomahawk were built to look authentic, but his ancestors didn't work that much with some of the alloys and polycomposites that these were made of. And no lance had ever been constructed in the old days to break down in the manner that his did. Still, they could be explained if a nosy agent decided to get fresh.

He knew the moment the door opened, even if he couldn't see the action. People in the aisle pressed forward, seemingly positive that they could shove through and no one would notice. Half of them had immediately pulled cell phones from their pockets, only to discover that not all the benefits of modern technology had been gifted to the storybook city in the mountains. Thomas smiled, then noted the faint pressure in his chest, and the extra effort needed to draw what he considered a normal breath.

Twelve thousand feet above sea level. He reminded himself. Pilots are required to begin using oxygen two thousand feet below this. Only mountain goats and indigenous people are used to the effects, the potentials for massive systemic deficiencies, the increased stresses to heart and lungs. His own system could adapt quickly, but the non-specialized bodies would require time to adjust.

Finally finding an opening in the group, he left his seat and entered the airport. This building was one of the most modern facilities in La Paz. He would need to one of the high quality hotels, a bank, or a government building to find the technology and training that would be noted here. He noted the shiny fixtures, the freshly cleaned floors, the computer monitors keeping meticulous track of the comings and goings of flights to and from all parts of the world. For all that Bolivia was a third world country, it's airport could handle almost any size aircraft that wanted to come here.

Customs was a brief affair. Few officials looked at what people brought into the country. It was the exit policy that would be more difficult. With cocaine production being the largest (legal or otherwise) industry in the country, legal concerns would make a more thorough search of his belongings a certainty on the return flight.

Providing, of course, that he made the return flight. His life was such that he knew he may not survive whatever was about to happen. He harbored no illusions about his immortality, and accepted that he might be decapitated at any time. If so, he intended to go to the next world with as clear a head as possible. And, of course, he might not choose to exit the country the same way. Over half the country was mountainous, and a skilled trailsman could find his way out with relative ease.

Luckily for him, he'd been a skilled trailsman for centuries. The Shoshones had spent plenty of time exploring. Or running and hiding from their enemies, if that was your chosen take on history.

Pulling his backpack on, he left the facilities. Once outside, he found himself in a different world. Beyond the physical stress changes, the financial hardships of this country became readily noticible. Beggars appeared immediately, pleading in the local tongue. Shining Turtle spoke some Spanish, but noted that this language here had distinct differences. Definitely an older language. Similar to others he had known, but still different.

He had hoped that his heritage would provide him with a degree of anonymity. He was wrong, as he quickly found out. While there was some shared blood in the features, his skin didn't have the weathered appearance, his eyes didn't have the haunted expression. Most notably, the clothes these people wore were an odd mix of flowing robe and flashy colors on the women, and strange copies of business suits on the men. Hats were everywhere, odd felted bowlers that didn't seem to set firmly on their owners heads, or colorful knitted mountain caps that gave a new slant to the shape of their heads. And these people were small, a reaction to the harshness of the environment. In contrast, Thomas stood above them, his face smooth, his hair shiny, his denim jeans and jacket marking him with deadly accuracy as a foreigner.

He considered finding a market and purchasing some local clothing, but quickly banished the idea. It could wait. First, he needed to get closer to his goal. A quick decision, and he dipped a hand into the pocket that carried some folded money for a cab fare. A sweep of his arm, and the beggars were scrambling for the thrown money. He pressed past, and found the city bus stop. Climbing onto the brightly painted bus, he settled in for the ride to the train station, passing the time by alternating between watching the street, and attempting to decipher a Bolivian overdubbed version of "The A-Team".

Twice during the trip, he felt that an Immortal was near. It was only a brief flicker, and he assumed that it meant that the others were taking taxis or something similar. Most likely headed to the same place he was.

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"Bucky, we're not playing Rock, Paper, Scratches." - Get Fuzzy.