• Chapter Two

    The plane’s ascent had been surprisingly smooth; it had reminded Chris of how tired he was, how tired he’d been since Scarlet had forced him to wake up and drive them to the airport previously that day.

    Chris had only met this girl (who was now sitting next to him and silently sipping an Arnold Palmer and observing the cities below) yesterday afternoon in the midst of a thunderstorm.

    ~*~

    Rain had been pouring heavily from the ominous clouds hanging over Chicago that day, and Chris was sitting inebriated outside a small Irish pub, shivering in the freezing weather.

    Memories and remorseful thoughts of Jill and her death years ago had flooded Chris’s mind, and he’d chosen to stir in it rather than make himself feel better. It was in this stupor that Scarlet had found Chris sitting pale and clammy on the sidewalk. After several unsuccessful attempts, she finally managed to coax Chris to his feet and into the cab she had hired to help her find the bar; both she and Chris were soaked by that point.

    Once the man had settled into the backseat, which was the only thing more cushioned than a barstool he’d been on in weeks, Chris had passed out cold. Only about twenty minutes later, though it felt like an hour, Chris woke up, still in the cab, half-believing he was dreaming. His doubt, of course, came from the fact that these days, his dreams were more like nightmares that usually featured one of the several comrades he’d lost since S.T.A.R.S. There wasn’t usually this much detail, or light, or… pine? The scent of a car freshener sneaked into Chris’s nostrils but was only met with disgust from his intoxicated mind.

    How did it all come to this? Chris thought groggily, stepping out of the cab. The sun was shining too brightly and pierced Chris’s eyes, breaking his concentration on balancing. He was already beginning to sober up, and a headache threatened imminent pain from the back of his head. A thin, soft arm hooked itself around Chris’s left elbow and led him into the more comfortable, dim interior of an extravagant hotel.

    Being guided through the hotel was confusing for Chris in that state; however, he didn’t struggle, and allowed himself to be taken into an elevator and eventually into a large room on the top floor. All the movement and various lighting had caused his stomach to turn over, and bile began to crawl up his throat. His helper seemed to sense this and took him straight into a grandiose black tile bathroom, then gently onto the floor before a pristine white Toto.

    Suddenly, Chris felt his jacket being stripped off of him, and became significantly more aware of how sweaty he’d become from the nausea. The bathroom lights dimmed, lessening his oncoming migraine. A small, feminine hand rested itself on Chris’s damp shoulder. It was a small comfort, a sweet notion in the hell Chris had been in for the last two years. Breaking the condolence, all at once, Chris’s stomach began to heave, and he coughed up bile and alcohol and bar snacks, leaving a sick, acidic smell in the air.

    As he continued his fit, the hand clenched his shoulder in concern. His stomach was finally empty, and Chris’s throat burned from the muscle spasms and the stomach fluids. He stood up and flushed the toilet, allowing the hand to slide off of him. He heard footsteps away from him which were quickly drowned out by the sound of running water. When he turned around, noticing for the first time the luxury of the space he was in, Scarlet handed him a wet hand cloth. He wiped off his face and spit into it, trying to rid himself of the vile taste infesting his mouth.

    “Feeling better, Chris?” the girl asked him softly, as if not trying to encourage his now noticeably-intense migraine.

    “Yeah, thanks.” Chris looked at the seventeen-year-old girl in front of himself with an inquisitive expression, hoping that she would offer him some mercy and decide to explain herself now that he was in this somewhat vulnerable position. Disappointingly, Scarlet merely smiled at him and walked into the main part of their hotel room. She had left the door slightly open, and Chris observed her through the small crack.

    Hands running over dark-colored leather, finding their way into a small pocket, then pulling out a small picture, Scarlet moved swiftly, but with calculated movements. She appeared to be thinking or mulling over something somewhat important; her eyes held a distant emotion, one that didn’t exist in the current time she was in. It was something that sparked a small curiosity in Chris, and at that moment, he wished for mind-reading powers.

    Scarlet frowned slightly at the picture and her gaze retained its original intensity, focusing on the small portrait in front of her. Just then, Chris had recalled he’d been keeping a picture that size of Jill and himself in S.T.A.R.S. just before Arklay Mountain. He’d lost the photo, and as he recognized the jacket on Scarlet’s lap as his own, Chris realized it must have been the picture, but that just created a mystification in him about Scarlet’s melancholy emotion that she carried when looking at it.

    ~*~

    Snapping back to the present, Chris reached his hand into the pocket of his jacket again, revealing the very same photo. Scarlet was still distracted with the ground below the plane and didn’t notice at the time what Chris held in his hand, but she carried that same far-flung stare that she had in the hotel, which left Chris to his own devices. He ordered a Sprite from the flight attendant and a few moments later was sipping on it, bored. This was going to be a long flight.