My dearest and most beloved readers,
I've made some interesting observations...There are a total of nine people receiving alerts for this story, and a grand total of seven reviews. Now the conclusion I've come to is this: those who are not reviewing find this story so reviling and perverted that they don't want to be associated with it, If that is the case, a less generous author might be inclined to stop updating, or at least rethink the direction this story is going. However, I am a kind and merciful woman, who would like to casually suggest that if that be the case—for whatever reason—you pretty please drop me an anonymous review, personal message, or even an e-mail, because I thrive on feedback and would like to hear all your thoughts, feelings, and concerns:D
Chapter Four: Roadhouse
Scott opened his eyes to the unfamiliar surroundings of a cheap motel room. He yawned and stretched. He felt groggy, like a shroud of dust had settled in his mind. Nevertheless, he forced himself out from under sweat-soaked sheets and onto his feet, which didn't seem entirely ready to accept the weight of his body. His head ached, not the dull throbbing he had grown accustomed to, but a sharp pain in his temples, like a nail being driven through his skull. He took a few deep breaths and pushed the pain out of his mind, temporarily at least.
He surveyed the room, to find it quite ordinary. One double bed with papery sheets, two stiff pillows, a tacky comforter, and, most likely, legions of bedbugs. Thin carpeting, tattered at the edges, a blocky nightstand and a matching dresser, a small, primordial television set that had been branded with the motel's insignia. The thick curtains, adorned with patterns of triangles, circles and squares, all in rusted colors, were pulled closed.
He went to the window and pulled the curtains open, squinting as the bright light flooded in all at once. He adjusted his visor slightly, before heading back to the bed, and taking a seat. On the night stand there was a key—to the room, he guessed, from the attached, wooden keychain with the number 16 carved into it—a notepad, and a few stray bottles containing what might have equated to a handful of pills. He took a look at the hotel-provided notepad. Printed across the bottom, in scratchy, thick font was: Toronto Roadhouse
"Toronto?" He pondered aloud, as a thick sickness first settled in the pit of his stomach, "Toronto, Canada?" He picked up the phone and dialed an all-too familiar number.
"Hello," came the answer of a familiar woman's voice.
"Ororo, it's me," he started. There was a pause.
"Scott?" She sounded apprehensive.
"Yes, Ororo," he replied shakily. "Look, I need to ask you a favor, I'm at this hotel, and I'm not feeling well. Could you come pick me up?"
"Do you know where you are?" She asked, cautiously.
"Sort of," he offered. "I've got an address for the hotel," he read the address off the note pad for her and gave her his room number.
"I'll be there as soon as I can," she answered finally.
"Thanks, Ororo," he offered finally. "I'll see you soon." He set the handset back down, and fell back onto the bed. As he waited he soon became more aware of himself, and the fact that he looked like someone had just rolled him off a tractor. He had on a worn pair of coveralls and a plaid, short-sleeve, button-up shirt. His hair was unruly and he felt that he desperately needed to shave.
Scott casually shoved a hand into one of the deep pockets of his overalls. His fingers met with something round, and slightly ribbed. He removed what seemed to be an old, wooden poker chip, with slightly worn, purple writing on it reading: Liberty Resorts. Atlantic City, NJ. He rubbed a thumb carefully across the lettering before placing the chip back in his pocket.
He took one of the containers of pills off the night stand and went to read the label. He was surprised to find that it was a prescription, the label reading only: Zolpidem. Take one tablet before bed.
'Sleeping pills?' He determined; however unsettling it seemed. He took a look at the other container to find it bore a similar description: Lithium. Take two tablets daily. He wracked his brain for the medicinal uses of lithium, but came up lacking. The last bottle was just asprin. He felt another sudden pang in his head and decided that it might be a good idea to take some.
He got up, heading into the bathroom for a glass of water. He noticed a small duffle bag in the corner by the door, and guessed it contained a change of clothes. He entered the bathroom and washed out the small, plastic cup sitting on the sink, before swallowing down a pair of capsules. On the counter there was a small black-leather carrier, containing a few primitive toiletries—shower gel, shampoo, and the like, as well as a few more vials of medication.
So after taking care of the unbearable five-o'clock shadow he had developed, he took the small bag, and tossed the medicine in it, and packed it away in the duffle in the corner. None of it was familiar to him, but he though it would be best to take it back to the mansion anyways.
A moment later there was a knock on the door. He opened it and was greeted with a fist in his face. The white-haired Storm pinned him against the wall with her foot high against his chest. Still perfectly balanced, fists poised to defend or attack in an instant. He grunted, unprepared for the sudden attack.
"Well hello to you too," he started, the unsettled feeling in his stomach worsening.
"Who are you?" She demanded sternly.
"It's me, Scott," he assured her, she pushed her foot harder into his chest.
"And I can prove it," he continued more desperately, finally managing to push her off of him. "Like we did at Liberty Island, when we thought Logan might have been Mystique...and he called me a dick." Ororo let her guard drop, and observed him critically, and then she hugged his neck.
"Scott, it's you," she started breathlessly. He smiled awkwardly, returning the embrace carefully. "It's so good to see you."
"It's good to see you too, Ororo," he offered, not exactly sure how to take the weather goddess's uncharacteristic spout of emotion.
"Where have you been?" She asked him at length. Scott shook his head.
"I couldn't say," he admitted. "One minute I'm..." There was a break as the sharp pain in his head worsened severely as he tried to recall the details. "And the next I wake up in a whole different country—And look at me, I look ridiculous."
"You look wonderful," she assured him, and even went so far as to offer him a kiss on the cheek. Scott was bewildered by the loving gesture, and Ororo took note. "Let's get back to the jet," she suggested finally. "I left it in a clearing back in the woods."
Scott stayed behind a moment as she started out, and touched his face gingerly where her lips had brushed his cheek, before taking up his bag and following her out.