Alter/Native
Title: Predictable
Word Count: 261
Crossposted: HERE at runaway-tales
Kestrel Blackfoot had been awake for exactly three minutes and seventeen seconds when she realized that she was going to have a bad day. Housekeeping, as diligent as they had been about tending to her temporary accommodations, had forgotten to leave her another pack of instant-brew coffee. There were also no clean towels in the bathroom, and while she normally would have no qualms about being economic and using the ones from the previous day, those towels were currently covering the enormous, quivering, violet-green cocoon in the bathtub. And to top it off, the loud whomp that rattled the paintings above her bed and the screech of the smoke detectors that followed indicated the fat, aggravating man with the smoker's cough next door had finally gotten around to spontaneously combusting.
Grabbing the golf umbrella from the other side of the bed, she popped it open just as the sprinklers activated, and tucked her legs behind her as first spray of fetid water drenched the room. Not five seconds later, her cell phone started growling the opening chords of "Iron Man" from within the confines of the leather handbag on her lap.
"Good morning, Matty," she said pleasantly.
"I'm in the lobby," he told her. "Are you coming down? People are in a goddamn panic."
"Two minutes," she said, and tapped the phone off. The carpet squished under her runners as she stepped off the bed, grabbing her one suitcase - wrapped in garbage bags beside the door - and heading into the hallway.
And this was supposed to be her vacation.
Word Count: 261
Crossposted: HERE at runaway-tales
Kestrel Blackfoot had been awake for exactly three minutes and seventeen seconds when she realized that she was going to have a bad day. Housekeeping, as diligent as they had been about tending to her temporary accommodations, had forgotten to leave her another pack of instant-brew coffee. There were also no clean towels in the bathroom, and while she normally would have no qualms about being economic and using the ones from the previous day, those towels were currently covering the enormous, quivering, violet-green cocoon in the bathtub. And to top it off, the loud whomp that rattled the paintings above her bed and the screech of the smoke detectors that followed indicated the fat, aggravating man with the smoker's cough next door had finally gotten around to spontaneously combusting.
Grabbing the golf umbrella from the other side of the bed, she popped it open just as the sprinklers activated, and tucked her legs behind her as first spray of fetid water drenched the room. Not five seconds later, her cell phone started growling the opening chords of "Iron Man" from within the confines of the leather handbag on her lap.
"Good morning, Matty," she said pleasantly.
"I'm in the lobby," he told her. "Are you coming down? People are in a goddamn panic."
"Two minutes," she said, and tapped the phone off. The carpet squished under her runners as she stepped off the bed, grabbing her one suitcase - wrapped in garbage bags beside the door - and heading into the hallway.
And this was supposed to be her vacation.