"What's delaying the plane this time?" George Fox demanded. He paced up and down the gate area, his assistant Wylie watching him. Once more, there was a sighting of the alien and his son, and once more, he was stuck in an airport waiting because his connecting flight out of Midway was delayed.
"Weather," Wylie grunted, trying to be helpful.
"I know that," he told his assistant, reminding him that he knew the weather outside was bad. It was January, and it was Chicago, and if the airport he'd been flying into wasn't so small, he would't be pacing about in Midway. But as incompetent as Wylie was, he meant well, and he couldn't control the weather. Much as he'd like to lay the blame at Wylie's feet, this wasn't his fault.
Which didn't mean that he didn't want the rain to go away so that he could get on his plane. Any moment, the alien could be leaving his current place. Fox had gone to way too many places where he was just hours too late catching the alien, leaving him empty-handed and stuck writing reports as to why he hadn't caught the alien. And when he was stuck writing reports, he wasn't out there doing what he needed to do was save the world.
Bureaucracy! Incompetent assistants! If he didn't need them to do what he needed to do, he'd wash his hands of the whole thing.
But he couldn't, so he returned to pacing, glaring at the rain, glaring at his assistant, and wishing he was anywhere but there.