I don't have a white horse, but you can come along for the ride.
Who: Eliot Spencer
When: Late evening, arriving at the Hotel.
Where: The lobby.
What: Eliot hates surprises...
The Challenger's powerful engine rumbled as Eliot pushed the accelerator down. They'd just wrapped up a job in Washington DC which Eliot opted to drive to and back. It was only a seven hour drive (five hours, if he was in a hurry) and it saved him a ride on an airplane, trapped with Hardison's inane yammering. That meant he didn't have to get annoyed and Hardison didn't have to have any bones set and cast. Everybody won.
The open road was soothing, even if it was all interstate and concrete dividers. A time or two, he found himself drifting along, his mind blank but for the hum of the tires on the road and the growl of the engine. Eliot shifted in his seat, turning his head first to one side then the other to crack the vertebrae that were complaining from staying in one position too long. It would be time for a brief stop, soon. He was four hours out of DC and while it wasn't really a long way to go, the hour was weighing on him. His personal obsessive nature just wouldn't be satisfied until after he'd seen his crew onto a plane and watched the thing take off. Once they were in the air, he was free to relax and worry about getting himself home. The downside was that it was well past dark when he finally got on the road.
It was the darkness, perhaps, or his overall level of exhaustion. Whatever the cause, it took several minutes for Eliot to realize that something had... changed... about his route. There were no concrete barriers between the east and westbound lanes. A simple, double-yellow line marked the blacktop. The towering, metropolitan buildings had vanished. In their place were open expanses of desert dunes as far as he could see in either direction.
Desert?
In New England?
He was dreaming. Had to be. Jesus Christ, had he fallen asleep at the wheel?
Sitting up straighter in his seat, Eliot started to pull off the side of the road when he saw lights up ahead. Just a few yards, up in the distance, a driveway turned off the main road and twisted its way up to an enormous building. A man who'd traveled as much as he had knew a hotel when he saw one, even a really old one like this. The only question was: What the hell was it doing out here?
And, for that matter, where the hell was here?
He made his decision and turned onto the driveway, following it up to the main office where he rolled to a stop and killed the engine. The lights were on, although he saw no one moving around the perimeter of the building. Eliot sat behind the wheel for a long moment, trying to clear his head and hoping he might wake up from whatever crazy-ass dream he was having.
A thought struck him and after a moment of digging around in the duffel bag he'd tossed into the back seat, he retrieved his communication earbud and tucked the tiny device into his ear.
"Hey, Hardison? Nate? Anybody?"
Silence was his only answer. Either they were still on the plane or he was somewhere in which there was no signal to carry his message. He was fervently hoping for the former.
Well. There was no sense in sitting in the car all night and even less sense in getting back on the road. Whatever colossal wrong turn he'd made had him well and truly lost. Driving off without a plan would only make things worse.
He grabbed a zippered folder from his duffel and rummaged around until he found his FBI identification badge. The badge listed him as Field Agent Robert Morrison. Not his favorite persona, to be sure, but when in doubt.... go for the guys who don't tend to have jurisdiction issues. He pocketed the matching credit card, tucked his phone into the jacket pocket of the suit he'd, thankfully, been too tired to change out of, and got out of the car.
Inside was impressive. He'd stayed in a few swanky places in his time and this one ranked right at the top. Plush carpets, marble accents, crystal chandeliers overhead... it was stunning. It also made no fucking sense what-so-ever. Who built a place like this out in the middle of nowhere?
He smoothed back the few strands of flyaway hair which had escaped the elastic band that held his ponytail in place as he approached the front desk. The lobby was empty except for the man behind the desk. Eliot took the walk to the desk slow, forcing his overly tired mind to memorize every detail of the lobby and of the man's face.
"Evening," he greeted the man and flipped open the leather billfold that contained his badge. "I'm Agent Morrison from the Boston FBI office. I'm in town for a training session and seem to have gotten turned around trying to get back to my office to check in. Don't suppose you could point me in the direction of the highway?"
"My goodness. I'm afraid you're well off the beaten path, Agent Morrison." The man smiled the plastic smile of the too-long-in-customer-service and shook his head pityingly. "The highway is approximately three hour's drive from where we are."
Eliot growled low in his throat, frustration rising. There was no way. He might have drifted off for a few seconds or even minutes, but there was no way in hell he'd gotten that far off course. "Listen, friend. I'm sure whatever tourist trap scam you're running works great on the usual passersby, but you're interfering with the FBI right now. I don't think you want to find out what happens to people who screw with the Bureau."
"No, indeed, officer. I certainly don't want any trouble," the man answered back in a completely believable, timid voice. Eliot hated him even more for it. "I was merely trying to encourage you to stay for the night. It's late, it's dark, and you're ever so tired..."
Damned if he wasn't tired, too. Eliot felt his shoulders sag minutely and his eyelids felt even heavier. The rational majority of his brain was screaming about neural-linguistic programming even as he heard himself agreeing. "It is late. I really am tired... guess I'll take that room, after all."
He handed over Agent Morrison's credit card and cracked a jaw-popping yawn as he waited for the clerk to process it. The card was returned to him along with a receipt to sign. He signed, took his carbon copy, and pocketed the credit card and key he'd been given. Deep down, he knew something was wrong, but he continued to trudge along as if in a dream. Then, as he turned his back on the desk, intent on gathering his things to carry up to his room, he happened to glance down at the receipt...
Just above the signature in his own handwriting that read 'Robert Morrison', the credit card machine had clearly printed: Eliot Spencer.
Jolted into full alertness, he turned back to the desk, mouth open to demand an explanation from the clerk, he found himself alone in the lobby.
When: Late evening, arriving at the Hotel.
Where: The lobby.
What: Eliot hates surprises...
The Challenger's powerful engine rumbled as Eliot pushed the accelerator down. They'd just wrapped up a job in Washington DC which Eliot opted to drive to and back. It was only a seven hour drive (five hours, if he was in a hurry) and it saved him a ride on an airplane, trapped with Hardison's inane yammering. That meant he didn't have to get annoyed and Hardison didn't have to have any bones set and cast. Everybody won.
The open road was soothing, even if it was all interstate and concrete dividers. A time or two, he found himself drifting along, his mind blank but for the hum of the tires on the road and the growl of the engine. Eliot shifted in his seat, turning his head first to one side then the other to crack the vertebrae that were complaining from staying in one position too long. It would be time for a brief stop, soon. He was four hours out of DC and while it wasn't really a long way to go, the hour was weighing on him. His personal obsessive nature just wouldn't be satisfied until after he'd seen his crew onto a plane and watched the thing take off. Once they were in the air, he was free to relax and worry about getting himself home. The downside was that it was well past dark when he finally got on the road.
It was the darkness, perhaps, or his overall level of exhaustion. Whatever the cause, it took several minutes for Eliot to realize that something had... changed... about his route. There were no concrete barriers between the east and westbound lanes. A simple, double-yellow line marked the blacktop. The towering, metropolitan buildings had vanished. In their place were open expanses of desert dunes as far as he could see in either direction.
Desert?
In New England?
He was dreaming. Had to be. Jesus Christ, had he fallen asleep at the wheel?
Sitting up straighter in his seat, Eliot started to pull off the side of the road when he saw lights up ahead. Just a few yards, up in the distance, a driveway turned off the main road and twisted its way up to an enormous building. A man who'd traveled as much as he had knew a hotel when he saw one, even a really old one like this. The only question was: What the hell was it doing out here?
And, for that matter, where the hell was here?
He made his decision and turned onto the driveway, following it up to the main office where he rolled to a stop and killed the engine. The lights were on, although he saw no one moving around the perimeter of the building. Eliot sat behind the wheel for a long moment, trying to clear his head and hoping he might wake up from whatever crazy-ass dream he was having.
A thought struck him and after a moment of digging around in the duffel bag he'd tossed into the back seat, he retrieved his communication earbud and tucked the tiny device into his ear.
"Hey, Hardison? Nate? Anybody?"
Silence was his only answer. Either they were still on the plane or he was somewhere in which there was no signal to carry his message. He was fervently hoping for the former.
Well. There was no sense in sitting in the car all night and even less sense in getting back on the road. Whatever colossal wrong turn he'd made had him well and truly lost. Driving off without a plan would only make things worse.
He grabbed a zippered folder from his duffel and rummaged around until he found his FBI identification badge. The badge listed him as Field Agent Robert Morrison. Not his favorite persona, to be sure, but when in doubt.... go for the guys who don't tend to have jurisdiction issues. He pocketed the matching credit card, tucked his phone into the jacket pocket of the suit he'd, thankfully, been too tired to change out of, and got out of the car.
Inside was impressive. He'd stayed in a few swanky places in his time and this one ranked right at the top. Plush carpets, marble accents, crystal chandeliers overhead... it was stunning. It also made no fucking sense what-so-ever. Who built a place like this out in the middle of nowhere?
He smoothed back the few strands of flyaway hair which had escaped the elastic band that held his ponytail in place as he approached the front desk. The lobby was empty except for the man behind the desk. Eliot took the walk to the desk slow, forcing his overly tired mind to memorize every detail of the lobby and of the man's face.
"Evening," he greeted the man and flipped open the leather billfold that contained his badge. "I'm Agent Morrison from the Boston FBI office. I'm in town for a training session and seem to have gotten turned around trying to get back to my office to check in. Don't suppose you could point me in the direction of the highway?"
"My goodness. I'm afraid you're well off the beaten path, Agent Morrison." The man smiled the plastic smile of the too-long-in-customer-service and shook his head pityingly. "The highway is approximately three hour's drive from where we are."
Eliot growled low in his throat, frustration rising. There was no way. He might have drifted off for a few seconds or even minutes, but there was no way in hell he'd gotten that far off course. "Listen, friend. I'm sure whatever tourist trap scam you're running works great on the usual passersby, but you're interfering with the FBI right now. I don't think you want to find out what happens to people who screw with the Bureau."
"No, indeed, officer. I certainly don't want any trouble," the man answered back in a completely believable, timid voice. Eliot hated him even more for it. "I was merely trying to encourage you to stay for the night. It's late, it's dark, and you're ever so tired..."
Damned if he wasn't tired, too. Eliot felt his shoulders sag minutely and his eyelids felt even heavier. The rational majority of his brain was screaming about neural-linguistic programming even as he heard himself agreeing. "It is late. I really am tired... guess I'll take that room, after all."
He handed over Agent Morrison's credit card and cracked a jaw-popping yawn as he waited for the clerk to process it. The card was returned to him along with a receipt to sign. He signed, took his carbon copy, and pocketed the credit card and key he'd been given. Deep down, he knew something was wrong, but he continued to trudge along as if in a dream. Then, as he turned his back on the desk, intent on gathering his things to carry up to his room, he happened to glance down at the receipt...
Just above the signature in his own handwriting that read 'Robert Morrison', the credit card machine had clearly printed: Eliot Spencer.
Jolted into full alertness, he turned back to the desk, mouth open to demand an explanation from the clerk, he found himself alone in the lobby.