Scott Summers' eyes stared blankly at his reflection. His face was shadowed with more than thirty-six hours worth of beard, his hair was greasy and stood stubbornly where it wasn't plastered to his head, and fresh cuts accented it all. If he hadn't been so god-awful tired, he probably would have smirked. For the first time, it kind of looked like the Scott Summers he recognized looking back at himself.

His arms were chained together with cuffs, and so his hands lay in his painfully brightly-colored lap. He had nodded off too many times to have any kind of accurate guess how long he'd been sitting in this interrogation room. He imagined it probably wasn't as long as it seemed. Every time his head jerked awake, he would resume staring at the unseen eyes on the other side of the mirror. He knew they were watching him, probably sipping coffee and eating doughnuts, if the TV shows he'd seen were to be believed.

Unconsciously, his lip raised into a sneer. Though he'd voluntarily surrendered himself back in Westchester County, he found himself full of aggression and contempt. Try as he might to talk reason to himself, the feelings wouldn't go away.

Scott's eyes snapped open from another half-nap as the doorknob turned and the door opened. The mechanics seemed agonizingly loud after the deafening silence. Scott winced and squinted towards his visitor. He had expected to see two officers, but the bespectacled man in the sports jacket that pulled up a seat in front of him was alone.

He sat a coffee cup Scott hadn't noticed onto the table and clicked the top of his pen with his thumb. He opened the folder in his hands, licked his fingers, and began flipping through the papers.

Scott simply stared at the man, unimpressed and not intimidated by the detective's "cool." The detective looked up and shifted in his chair. He cleared his throat. Scott guessed that his expression must have made the man uncomfortable. He didn't care.

"Sergeant Scott Summers," the detective said finally, staring back at Scott. He rubbed his reddish moustache, and then leaned forward, laying the folder onto the table. "It's a pleasure to meet you." He took a sip of his coffee. "I'm Detective Bates. I'm here to figure out just what the hell you thought you were doing up there," he said, pointing towards the sky.

Scott remained silent. There wasn't a simple answer to the question, and he certainly didn't feel like sharing a lengthy explanation.

Detective Bates sighed. "I'm sure you know the procedure. We ran your name. There's been some interesting things floating back to us, not the least of which is a possible kidnapping—with you as the victim—reported earlier today by your wife?" The confusion was obvious in his voice.

Still, Scott remained silent.

"Well," Bates said, "whether you want to talk about it or not, you're in a heapin' hell of a lot of trouble. You B&E an airport in Pennsylvania, take off in a stolen plane without any kind of clearance, fly suspiciously around New York City, and then avoid arrest by landing in the middle of a goddamn golf course." Bates laughed and the chair squeaked on the floor as he stood.

"Now I don't know who you think you are, but if I were sitting on that side of the table, I'd start gettin' really cooperative right about now. He came around the table, leaned his hand on the heavy wooden surface, and lowered his face to Scott's. "Right now," Bates continued, his voice low and suddenly very serious, "I'm the only friend you got. The owner of that golf course you tore up is already screaming for blood and most of the guys here agree with him. But me, I look at this folder and I don't see a guy looking for trouble. I see an officer of the law, awards and commendations enough to fill two trophy cabinets, with a family and no criminal record. And I ask myself, 'why does a guy like that suddenly go nutzo and play the Red Baron with a stolen plane when, near as I can tell, he's never even stepped foot on an airport before?'"

Bates leaned in even closer. Morning breath mixed with coffee and apple-filled pastry filled Scott's nostrils. "It tears me all to pieces when I don't know the answer to a question."

There was a knock on the door and Bates pulled away from Scott's face and twirled around the table, tucking his hands into his khaki pockets. "Excuse me," he said.

He opened the door and Scott watched as an officer in full uniform whispered into the detective's ear. Bates' moustache twitched as the younger man spoke. Scott couldn't be sure, but he thought for sure he heard the word "coma" whispered. Finally, Bates nodded and thanked the officer. When the door was again closed, the detective rubbed his brow and swore under his breath. "Just when I thought it couldn't get any weirder," he muttered.

"Listen, Summers," he said. "Some men are coming to put you into the pen until somebody can decide what to do with you. I suggest you start thinking about that pretty wife of yours, your daughter, and what kind of future you want for them. Maybe that'll loosen your tongue."

With that, Detective Bates exited the room, and Scott was again slammed into silence. Slowly, he turned his bloodshot eyes, and stared into the mirror.

It wasn't long before the door burst open and Scott was jerked from his chair and led out of the small room, through a flurry of people and sounds, and through a heavy, barred door. On the opposite side, several areas were barred off, forming large communal cells. Each of them was occupied by a small group of ne'er-do-wells. Scott was escorted to the one on the right, furthest down the hall. It had a couple men less than the rest of the cells. The door was opened, and Scott was shoved inside. One of the officers entered the cell and released the handcuffs around Scott's wrists.

Scott remained unfazed by the cat-calls and yells of his fellow in-mates. In fact, he zoned them out completely. He rubbed his wrists as the policeman locked the door to the cell and knocked on the bars. "Make yourself at home," he said with a smile.

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I apologize for the short chapter. Still transitioning. Like always, I appreciate the reviews AND the associated constructive criticism. I'm sure I would make fewer mistakes if I would proofread... Sorry.