xp_logs | Hotel California: Pride, Gluttony, Lust & Wrath II

Scott realizes things are not as they seem.

The air was cool and still again as the hotel walls once again materialized. Footsteps were heard shortly before Jean stepped into view.

"Scott? Oh thank god. He's over here."

Scott blinked in confusion, "Jean?" he questioned timorously. She had just been here hadn't she? Or was that just an illusion, part of that trap for Jean's mind. Scott shook his head trying to clear it, "What's going on?"

Logan came into view at a quick run. "You found him?" He spotted Scott further down the hall and slowed to a walk before stopping beside Jean. He glared at Scott. "You call this a rescue mission, Summers?" He glanced around at the empty hall. "This where you been the whole time? What're you doin' down here anyway?"

"Are you okay?" Jean said, studying him curiously. "You're white as a sheet."

Scott stared at Jean and Logan in confusion before glancing back at the closed door behind him and rubbing his eye, "I...I'm not entirely sure. I think maybe some kind of trap?" The X-Man shook his head and focused on Logan, "When did you get here? Come to think about it how did you get here?"

"Chuck deployed a second team since you were takin' too long. Somehow you turned a quick in and out mission into somethin' else." Logan still didn't see why the hell Scott was stuck down this nondescript hallway. There weren't any visible threats and he didn't smell anything out of place. "That makes everyone accounted for." He jerked his head back down the hallway. "How 'bout we get outta this place then? You should get your head checked out, Summers. Something's off with you."

"Logan...." Jean said.

Scott narrowed his eyes at Logan's tone. "How long have we been in here, can't have been more than an hour at the most," he pointed out. "But you managed to find everyone? Even Remy. Last time I saw him he was back there." As Scott spoke he gestured over his shoulder towards the door. The door with Jean and Logan behind it. "Where were you?" he asked his wife. "You just vanished and no-one could find you. Remy thought this was some kind of trap for you, how did you get out?"

Jean shook her head. "Logan found me. Time works differently around here, I think. We split up to try to look for you. I thought I could find you with my telepathy but it's not working."

"Yeah, when Chuck couldn't contact any of you he called out a second team." Logan shrugged. It wasn't that out of the ordinary. It happened often enough that Scott shouldn't be getting his panties in a bunch over it.

Scott took a deep breath before he answered trying to gather the strands of his psyche together before he responded. "So then you know the way out?" he asked. "How are you finding your way around? It seems that every room I go into has some kind of illusion or the other in it."

"Haven't been havin' much trouble with that. They're easy enough to get through since they don't duplicate smells right." Chuck offered to set up some stuff in his head to help with whatever was going on here but Logan wasn't exactly willing to do that.

"They seemed pretty realistic to me," Scott pointed out sourly; like he needed another reminder of how useful Logan's super senses were now and how easy this was for him. "I'm glad one of us seems to be having an easy time in here then."

Jean rubbed her forehead. "Scott, calm down," she said. It was like watching a child throw a tantrum.

"Maybe you shouldn't have separated yourself from the others then." They'd been waiting on finding Scott. Otherwise, they'd been out of here by now.

"I didn't, I would never break up the team like that. It makes no sense," Scott told Logan with a glare. "We were outside, then Remy and I were inside. I don't know how we got there."

"So where's Remy?" Jean said, glancing around.

"Hrrmph." Logan sniffed the air and detected no trace of Remy, but there was something off. "Doesn't smell like he's been anywhere near here." He prowled the hallway to see if he could figure out what the off-color smell was or find any trace of Remy.

"He was right back there," Scott replied gesturing back towards the door, "a few rooms back. He didn't follow me in when I started looking for you, said that he could fix it or I could go through and handle it. I haven't seen him since. That super nose of yours should be able to smell him. I mean you managed to find me when I was lost, we can't leave without him." He told Logan as he watched the other man sniffing the air.

"Yeah, I should be, but I ain't. I've worked enough times with the man to know his scent and it's not comin' from where you said he was. It's not coming from anywhere." Logan moved down the hall to try the door Scott mentioned and arched an eyebrow when it didn't open under his hands. He smelled Scott all around it so he knew it was the right one. "You sure you're rememberin' right? 'Cause this door ain't openin'."

"Well you obviously haven't found him yet have you," Scott pointed out as he glared at Logan. Scott really didn't appreciate Logan questioning his word, especially in front of Jean. Unbidden memories of the scenes he'd seen while walking through the rooms flashed back into Scott's mind, he was suddenly very glad that Logan couldn't open that door.

"Since you can't get that door open we'll have to see if we can find another way around," he said brusquely as he turned to face down the corridor, trying to figure out which way to go now.

"Remy can take care of himself. Jean was more concerned about you anyway." Logan gave the door a kick for good measure. "If you're so certain you came outta that door, why don't you just melt the lock and take us back through? It'd save us a lot more time than findin' a way around. You said this place was messin' with your mind so the faster we can get outta here the better."

"He's afraid," Jean said, studying Scott. It was rare that she saw him that fearful.

"I just got out of there," Scott replied, glancing over at Jean. "I'm not exactly keen to go back in there."

Logan eyed Jean curiously. "Yeah, okay, whatever. Get over it, Summers, and let's just hurry up and find Remy so we can get outta here." When Scott showed no signs of moving, he popped a claw and started to jimmy the lock.

Jean rubbed her forehead. "Scott, why do you always act like this? He did just save me. I don't know why you have to be so hostile."

"I'm not hostile," Scott objected, "I just really don't wanna go back in there, and Logan seems determined to see what's behind the locked door even though he can't even smell Remy. And since Logan's nose is never wrong he knows that Remy isn't back that way, so he's just curious about why I don't wanna go back in there."

"So you can admit I'm actually better at somethin'." Logan grunted when the door still refused to unlock. "And actually, bub, you are hostile. I can smell the anger comin' off ya. Only reason I wanna get back in there is you said that's where you supposedly saw Remy last. We backtrack through there and I may be able to pick up on where the real one is."

"Now why would I be hostile?" Scott asked sarcastically. "Maybe it's because I had the wonderful opportunity to see how you managed to make the most of the backseat of my car. Who doesn't like to see one of his supposed friends and his wife having sex?" Scott smiled coldly at Logan. "So why don't we all go back in there and see for ourselves shall we?"

As Scott spoke an optical blast shot out of his eye, passing a hairsbreadth from Logan's face and impacting a mere inch about the spot Logan was trying to jimmy with his claw.

Jean blinked, visibly stunned. How did he know that? How was that possible? She'd done her best to bury every mention of those days.

Logan arched an eyebrow. "Friend? That's news to me. I was under the impression you still hated my guts. Maybe if you'd been less of an ass you wouldn't be where you are." He bit back a smirk because he didn't need to rile Scott up anymore. Instinct had him leaning back from the eyebeam. It also had him growling in return. "You really wanna head that route, Summers?" He popped all his claws and shifted his stance to face Scott directly.

Scott arched an eyebrow at Logan. "Start what exactly?" he asked with a smirk. "I was just trying to blast the door open. That is what you asked for isn't it, old man? Or don't you remember that? They do say that your memory is the first thing to go when you get old, and you're way past that now aren't you?" Scott taunted as he turned to square off again Logan, the energy collecting in his eye glowing red.

"My memory's just fine. But what 'bout yours? Never cottoned on to the fact your supposedly beloved wife was cheatin' on ya? How does a man miss that?" Logan didn't have much of an advantage in the hallway. Too narrow and not enough room for him to maneuver. This sure as hell wasn't how he expected Scott to find out, but whatever. It was long past time they had it out. He moved closer to try and get a jump on Scott. "What's that say 'bout you, huh? Can't even satisfy the woman he's married to and doesn't even realize something's wrong for years? Guy's either gotta be denser than a brick wall or just not as in love with his wife as he claims."

"Or maybe he's too trusting. of her and of the morals of a man who really should know better." As Scott spoke a optical blast slammed into Logan's chest. Scott had held back most of the power but enough force was left to knock down the other man and send him sliding back along the floor.

"Oh no you don't," Scott warned, "I know better than to let you get anywhere near me with those claws. Besides," Scott held his arms out to gesture to the hallway, "You don't have all that much space to dodge, do you. You really wanna head that route?" He asked throwing Logan's words back in his face.

Logan raked his claws along the wall to slow his slide and came up in a crouch. The uptight prick was right. He didn't have much of an advantage right now and he wasn't going to be gaining any this way. But hey, damage done, that meant free rein and he'd leave the boyscout to pick up the tab. He roared and charged at Scott then bodyslammed a door to get out of the way of another eyebeam. Wood splintered around him and he grinned when he spotted the door connecting two rooms together. Let's just see how willing Scott was to keep this going.

Jean studied the two, trying to keep the smile from spreading across her face but her eyes glittered as she watched. She probably shouldn't have been enjoying it as much as she was. Perhaps it was the idea of the two fighting over her. It made her feel wanted. At least Logan wanted her, and he was willing to fight for it.

Scott instantly dropped into a crouch when he saw Logan disappearing through the door; the other man definitely had the advantage when it came to stalking his prey. Scott knew he stood a chance in a head-on fight but when the other man could literally come through the walls Scott knew he was at a distinct disadvantage. The X-Man's eye trailed over all the walls trying to spot the first sign of Logan coming through after him.

It was mere happenstance that Scott's eye crossed Jean's face, but when it did it held his entire attention. Jean looked happy, no, more than that, she looked ecstatic. The look pulled him up short.

There was no way that his wife would ever be happy about seeing Logan and Scott doing their best to kill one another. She would have stopped them. Thinking about it, Scott realized that both of the men should be dangling off the floor right now instead of playing a deadly game of tag though the rooms of the hotel.

"Jean..." Scott stepped forward, looking at his wife, his mind trying to understand the inconsistencies He might have missed the signs of the affair, but not this. This was part of who she was and Scott couldn't think of anything that could change that. There was only one explanation, for everything; but before Scott could follow the thought through to its conclusion he heard a 'snrkkt' behind him.

Scott had been so focused on the Jean lookalike that he almost missed Logan rendering a wall apart as he charged at the energy projector. Scott threw himself backwards feeling the rush of air as Logan's attack barely missed him.

"You're not real, neither of you are," he stated, his gaze turning cold as he stared at the two facsimiles before him. "None of this is real, was ever real, was it. It's all part of the illusion. Remy got it wrong, Jean was never the target. It was me all along, wasn't it. My worst nightmare brought to life." Scott closed his eyes, "Remy too. Everything in the hotel, it was all just an illusion."

Scott opened his eyes expecting to see Logan charging at him again, but he was just lying on the floor in an empty hotel corridor. A corridor remarkably clear of any damage, no holes in the wall or impact marks in the floor; it was as if nothing had happened. Which was true, Scott realized as he got to his feet.

Looking down the hallway in both directions, Scott walked to the nearest door and tested the handle, it was unlocked. With a shrug Scott pushed open the door and walked through. At least he was prepared for whatever the hotel from hell threw at him now.

__*__

Marie-Ange continues downward.

WARNING: Violent content.

Fire and brimstone: that was the next zone. The sky rained ash and cinders upon burning sand. Twisted trees and thorn-bristled shrubs jutted from the cracked earth. A branch broken by a careless swing of Marie-Ange's bag elicited a moan of pain and a trickle of something too bright and red to be sap.

There was a river here, too, but instead of the predecessor's slush this one boiled with fire. It slowly became apparent that its crimson color was not from flame.

Figured moved in the river here, too: not fighting one another, as they had in Styx, but submerged to various depths. As she watched one man, overwhelmed by desperation, made a rush for the shore. Something struck him with a meaty thunk and he fell back, an arrow protruding from his gut.

#Hell may have hit a little too on the nose here, having the violent drown in blood,# Haller noted with the vague interest of one raised without any concept of the place.

It was like a strange, never-ending loop of every beach-storming film scene ever created. A tide of the damned surged and ebbed out of the roiling river of blood, only to be met by an unmoving wall of centaurs armed with huge compound bows. Every soul that reached the shore was riddled in turn with arrows until they fell back into the river, to be washed out into the depths, and be replaced by another in never-ceasing rotation.

Cries of dismay resounded along the shore, but one victim in particular, a face Marie-Ange recognized, labored in near-silence, broken only by soft grunts of effort. She pulled herself along through the blood with a strange-looking sidestroke, and it was only when she reached the shallows enough to stand that the reason became apparent - her arm was gone at the shoulder.

"Dante has so many creative injustices to answer for." Marie-Ange watched, feet frozen in place as the woman pulled closer and closer to the shore. "Do you think the centaur is a damned soul as well? I would think so, but then, what sort of sin would you have to have committed to earn an eternity of shooting other sinners?"

#The lesser ones take orders from Chiron and Pholus,# Haller supplied. Hesiod, Homer, Pindar, Ovid -- dozens of sources rolled into her mind for review. #The enlightened ones utilize their ignorant, violent brothers to keep order. A parable for the hierarchy of war, maybe. Or civilization in general if you're feeling pessimistic.#

The centaur loosed an arrow, which struck the one-armed woman in the chest, and she fell back into the water, losing some of the ground she had covered.

"Show of... hands, who thinks that we are going to be forced to directly encounter her?" The cold blood rain was making Marie-Ange testy - or maybe it was the entire situation, and she thought maybe she could feel her nerves fraying. "Suggestions?"

#If it's inevitable, just ask yourself what terms would you'd rather meet on: yours, or hers?#

"Always my terms." Marie-Ange answered back firmly. She picked her feet up out of the sucking pitch-like sand, and trod steadily down the beach. The centaur ignored her - the living, damned or not, were not his domain - or, she thought, given the history of the woman she recognized, maybe out of his pay grade would've been more appropriate. "Doug, refresh my memory. How badly am I outranked, if I have to fight her?"

"Outranked, outclassed, and outmatched," was Doug's quick reply. "She fought Wade and Sarah to a standstill, remember?" While Amanda had struggled with the radioactive ghosts of Pripyat and Mr. Barnes had tried to convince Doug to shoot his own daughter in the head with a sniper rifle. Marie-Ange was a fairly good hand-to-hand combatant, but even without her cybernetic arm, Rikki Barnes was significantly better.

"Who do I have on call for strategy?" Marie-Ange asked, shifting the sword to rest it across her shoulder, and adjusting the bag she carried over the other with a shrug. "Could we herd her out of the water and let the centaur do the hard work?" Once Barnes was more weakened, she could just do the rest herself.

#Cover Girl is online,# responded Haller. #Barnes is here for violence. She's already trying to climb out. Provoke her to come out where you want her. Which, according to Cover Girl's reading, is most likely to be . . . # he paused, and an image appeared in her mind, #that patch of shore right there.#

Adrienne's prediction was accurate, as the Winter Soldier stutter-stepped forward onto dry land. Her reflexes were faster than human, and she outstripped every other soul that fell back into the tide, pincushioned with arrows. The centaurs could only seem to hit her by saturating the air around her with bowfire, and even then she twisted to keep the few arrows that got through away from her vitals.

It was unclear as to where she might be headed - there could be no safe haven in a hellish place like this. Stronghold upon stronghold, bristling with fortifications and ammunition, covered the shore as far as the eye could see. But Rikki continued to fight her way forward...

Until she spotted Marie-Ange standing and assessing her. The stump at her shoulder twitched, as if she was attempting to flex the fingers of her missing cybernetic arm. She recognized the redhead - one of the people who had taken her arm, and put her into an asylum and thrown away the key. She veered off in her charge and began moving straight toward Marie-Ange, heedless of the arrows hitting her in the unprotected side.

As it turned out, the only provocation Marie-Ange needed to provide was her presence.

A skeletal head reared up out of the pebbled beach, followed by meters of ribs and spine and rotted speckled scale. The ouroboros whipped around the Winter Soldier's legs, wrapping around thrice before the bony mouth opened to swallow the equally bony tail. The rattle could be seen inside what had once been the great snake's throat, still shaking. The clattering joined the sound of the waves, matching the pounding with staccato accompaniment.

The soldier tipped, ankles caught. She would've recovered, the snake wasn't so fast to regurgitate itself as it was to swallow, but its bones were brittle and sharp, and where they broke off as she fought, they caught and cut her, and so she fell.

Her legs were freed as she hit the ground, but only for as long as it took for her to crawl a few steps, and then the centaur saw her, and aimed arrows her way. Its aim was perfect. Arrows pierced her hands and elbows pinning her to the ground, but before the centaur guard could reach her to drag her back to the bloody waters, a robed figure grew up out of the remains of the snake. It seemed to reform the bones and scales, becoming a looming figure robed in black.

A scythe swung once, cleanly and unerringly.

The final circle lay beyond. The last, and the worst: treachery.

Marie-Ange found herself on the desolate shore of a frozen lake. An arctic wind howled across the surface, whipping away the lingering stench of hot blood carried from the last zone. The site had the look of a caldera, and beyond the stony lip there was the suggestion of some enormous sentry standing guard. Here and there in the rippled surface was a dark shape: the treacherous locked in place, their heads and faces all that were free from the ice.

As she picked her way across the ice, Marie-Ange cloaked herself in thick furs. She paid passing attention to the stream of commentary about how the nordic style leathers and furs being unflattering and out of style by several hundred years. Frostbite was more important than fashion. She pulled the hood of the newly formed cloak up, and shuffled carefully around the outer ring of frozen rock, her path to the one face she recognized weaving in and out of the faces and heads she didn't know.

The dark-haired man's face was almost frozen chalk white and ice covered his nose and mouth like a mask. His cheeks and eyes and forehead were slashed red with wounds from shards of ice and rock that the wind had whipped up. She knelt, gloved fingers touching the ground and smiled thinly. "The circle of hell for those who have betrayed people who trusted them. You are lucky you are not closer to the centre, Doctor Essex."

She pulled a blade, seemingly from the dark inner reaches of the cloak as she stood, and swung. It passed cleanly through, leaving no cut, and no mark. "Ah, but I have forgotten. We cannot touch you." Another smile, and she bent again, turning the swore to the ground itself, and putting her shoulder into the effort of pushing it into the ground and driving up shards of black ice, so sharp they reflected like mirrors along their jagged edges.

Marie-Ange picked them up one at at time, testing the edges against her gloved hands until she found one that seemed to suit her. It was short, and thin, and one side had broken roughly into dozens of jagged points. "Not as nice as a sterile surgery, but I am not the doctor. You may have to advise me on the best techniques in the future."

#Oh, no,# came Haller's voice, heavy with an irony that was the first real emotion he'd expressed through the entire journey. #Wait. Stop. Don't.#

A wet rasp was the only reply.

__*__

Nico faces the wages of sin.

(Placeholder)

__*__

Jean finally comes to terms.

WARNING: Graphic violence, abuse of a child, loss of a child.

The child was trying to scramble away, but something was preventing her escape: an invisible wall. Telekinesis. Kirby advanced on her, pleading with her to run as he did, and his foot arced out in a vicious kick that caught her across the ribs.

Pain shot through Jean's abdomen.

"I've put a lot of thought into my crime," continued Matthews as Jean twisted under the sensation of cracking ribs. "The original crime, that is. The crime of wanting you."

Laurel shrieked as Kirby's heel came down hard on her undamaged hand, and Jean felt the bones grind.

"All I wanted was a night with you, the gorgeous, unattainable lobbyist who wouldn't even deign to look my way," Matthews continued with inexorable logic over the girl's wails and Kirby's sobs as the beating continued, unyielding to every jerk and spasm from Jean. "I gave you a nudge, yes, but it was you who chose to escalate. You went to the Hellfire Club. You involved your husband and friends. Those were your choices, not mine. You didn't like what came out of Pandora's box, but you didn't take responsibility for it. Instead you just punished the one who opened it." He leaned into her as she cried out in the sympathetic pain of a broken nose and breathed into her ear, "You gave me a little box of my own."

"Jean, help me," begged Kirby. Sweat soaked his clothing and left his white hair lank and stringy. "Stop this, stop me-"

"Yes, Jean, help him," Matthews agreed, releasing her. "Go help your old friend."

Tears flooded Jean's vision, staining her cheeks. Her body ached from phantom pain since she didn't see any broken bones or blood and her throat burned from pleading that fell on deaf ears. She stumbled as she ripped herself away from him and took a knee, crouching beside the girl. She checked for a pulse, her hand shaking, letting out a shaky breath of relief when she found one.

Kirby had pulled himself as far away as he could. His thin chest heaved as he clutched at his head, unable to look at what he'd done. "I couldn't stop," he wept. "Please God, don't let me near her again, she's so small--"

Matthews gave a languid wave. "Don't worry, she's still alive. Still, I understand how hard it can be to live with yourself after something like that. But don't worry."

Over her own harsh breathing and the gurgling breath of Laurel, Jean heard Matthews' voice go husky with anticipation.

"Mr. Kirby, take out your pen."

Quickly looking up, Jean leaped to her feet and, after giving Laurel a fleeting glance, immediately tried to grab Kirby's hand before he could do so.

She wasn't fast enough. By the time she reached him Kirby had already taken a fountain pen from his pocket protector and gripped it in his fist, the point towards his thumb. His arm began to rise.

"Jean." Kirby's eyes were wide. "Jean, he's going to make me--"

Matthews smiled. "Pierce his carotid artery. Easy to locate for a doctor. Unless you can stop him, of course."

"Lee!" Jean said. She had tried to pull the pen from his hand but his grip was too tight. Her teeth gritted as she tried to hold back his arm. "Lee--Just..." She grunted.

"God...Hold on...Oh God...I can't...He's too strong--Parker please!"

Matthews squatted beside them, Brook's gaunt face thoughtful. "I'm sure you wouldn't need my help if you had your telekinesis. Or maybe even without it -- I admit, you're in good enough shape this is taking some effort."

The man watched her struggle for another moment, then snapped his fingers.

"Not that much, though."

Kirby ripped his arm from Jean's grasp and plunged the pen into his throat.

Blood sprayed across Jean's face and her eyes widened in shock before instinct took over and she immediately reached down to try to staunch the bleeding by pressing her hands against the wound. "No...NO!" she screamed.

"Yes, yes," sing-songed Matthews. He rose with dissonant grace and began to pace Jean and the bleeding man. "This is what happens when you bring other people into our private business."

Kirby's mouth was opening, but all that emerged was a wet gasp. The only thing he could do as Jean struggled to stop the bleeding was look at her, eyes wide and uncomprehending as his breathing became shallower.

Shallower, then stopped.

Gasping, Jean checked for a pulse, then pulled her fingers away, her hand dropping as if it weighed a thousand pounds. A deep wail erupted from her throat and she forgot about the blood on her hands as she covered her mouth, taking in rapid breaths. She swallowed a curtailed sob, staring despondently at the body, then closed his eyes with her hand. It was a futile gesture, as they refused to stay closed if they died that way.

She slowly stared up at Matthews, a dangerous look in her eyes.

The man continued to stroll, utterly unconcerned by the expression that should by rights have made him, of all people, pale.

"So here we are again. Let's see, what have you done to me so far? The vegetative state, the unending pain loop . . . I admit, I'm curious to see how you top yourself this time. Oh, wait," he corrected, "you can't do any of that now. You can't even stop an old man from bleeding out."

Drenched in blood, Jean was a horrifying sight as she curled her fingers into her fists and she rose to her feet.

"I'll stop you. One way or another. I'll stop you. I'll find a way," she snarled, her words coated in venom.

"Maybe. You have before. But in the meantime . . ."

Matthews reached a decorative end table and dropped to his knees. His arm shot out, and suddenly his circuitous route became clear.

He had found Laurel.

The girl must have crept away to hide when the other two had been focused on Kirby. Her injuries hadn't allowed her to go far, but she'd found what meager cover she could and kept quiet. In other circumstances the instincts would have served her well.

Not against a mind-reader.

The girl shrieked as Matthews dragged her out by the ankle of her broken leg. She made a grab for one of the table legs but her ruined hands couldn't close around it. Instead she succeeded only in knocking over the table.

". . . I'm going to enjoy myself."

"Put her down," Jean growled, snatching a heavy paperweight off a nearby coffee table. Pain shot through her hand but she ignored it. "Put her down now! Or I swear to God I'll--"

She never got close enough to use it. Jean was struck full-on by an invisible wall only a few shades softer than stone. Telekinesis.

"There is no 'or'." Matthews hoisted the weeping Laurel by her hair as the girl beat against his grip. "You can't save her anymore than you could save Sophie Cuckoo." His lips curved in a cruel smile.

"You couldn't even save your own baby."

Jean lifted the paperweight high, knowing it'd have no effect but unable to keep the rage from burning through her veins. She wanted to kill him. She wanted him to die, screaming in agony for everything he had done, for everyone he had killed.

But as she stared down at Kirby's body a voice came through.

"You're so much more than this. Don't let him destroy you." Charles' voice, a memory. She remembered his hands over hers.

There was a small reading area in the sunroom that Jean frequented, perhaps more so after Scott's temporary housing there years ago. Though she had a book in her hand she had read the same page 5 or 6 times already but hadn't really figured out what it said. Her mind was wandering, playing the memory of Matthews over and over in her mind. They'd told her to take a break from searching for Vanessa and she was trying, but her mind had other ideas. It was almost easier to look for her than to be alone with her own thoughts.

There was the faint squeak of rubber wheels on wood, the near-silent hum of the motor of Charles' chair, and then the man himself appeared at the door of the sunroom. His expression, as it was too often these days following the invasion of the mansion and the death of Sophie Cuckoo, was worried, his mind carefully guarded from Jean's.

"Jean, may I trouble you for a moment?" he asked, although the tone really didn't give her much leeway in terms of refusal. It was serious, almost sad, and held a note of determination that Jean would know all too well.

Glancing up, Jean put a placeholder in the book as she studied him, curious, almost wary. She moved gingerly, setting the book down, shifting positions to cross her legs, adjust her shirt, brush her hair back. Her body was still recovering from being in the coma and as a result she'd been doing physical therapy, which helped to bring some focus.

"Of course," she said. In the back of her mind she had a suspicion.

A suspicion that was confirmed all too quickly as Charles fixed her with his intent gaze. "Tell me what you did to Matthews," he said, tone neutral, for now.

It was a look Jean had rarely seen, one that made her feel like a child again. Perhaps rightfully so. She stared at the ground. When she finally found the words they were faint, barbed with the deep pain of memories and anger at the man they described.

"I... made him...feel what they felt. I made him regret it."

Something flickered in his eyes. "And what gave you the right to decide that? Who gave you the right?"

Jean straightened, almost flinching. She swallowed, her jaw clenching, wavering between a failing attempt at resolve and guilt. She couldn't look at him, instead focusing on a nearby window.

"And who gave him the right to kill two people? He murdered Amelia. He murdered Sophie. He tortured the people I love and tried to blow up the mansion. He controlled me like a puppet...not once...but twice. He has to be held accountable, Charles. He can't just...just get away with it. It's not fair."

"This wasn't justice, Jean, no matter how much you try to convince yourself it was the right and fair thing to do." Charles' tone wasn't angry, despite his words. Instead he was deeply disappointed that his first student, his... daughter, in so many ways, had been driven to this. "It was revenge. You didn't just make him accountable for what he did, you tortured him with it."

Jean was silent for awhile, though it was clear from her suddenly glassy eyes that she had heard him. She shook her head repeatedly, almost unable to stop as she stared down at her trembling hands, which soon balled into fists.

"I know," she breathed finally, heavy tears spilling down her cheeks that she didn't even bother to brush away. The tears landed on the book in her lap like rain droplets.

"I hate him so much. I...I wanted him to suffer. Like I did. Like we did."

There was no glee in her voice, no delight. She knew it was wrong. The guilt was there, crushing everything in the room. She lifted her head weakly.

"I don't know how to stop feeling it."

"Let it go, Jean. Let him go. As long as his torture goes on, so will yours." Charles came closer, reaching out to put his hands over hers. "You're so much more than this. Don't let him destroy you."

Staring down at Charles' hands, Jean studied the folds and lines canvasing his skin that had become more pronounced with age.

"What if he already has?" she whispered.

Everything she'd done out of retaliation, out of pain. He was right. It was revenge, plain and simple. At the time it almost felt good, satisfying. It wasn't her yet she let herself do it. She didn't stop. What if that was what defined her?

"Do you really believe that?" Charles lifted one hand to wipe the tears from her cheek. "I know you, Jean. I've known you since you were a child. This... it's not you. You are better than this."

Jean shook her head, glancing up to him. "I want to believe it," she said.

It was her calling to save others. She took pride in that, felt fulfilled. But in the face of those who destroyed life, who manipulated people...she found it hard to forgive. Especially Matthews. He'd gotten too close. He'd been in her home. But if she allowed it to continue it made her no better than him. She was better than that. "Okay," she said.

Drawing in a breath, she swallowed, then nodded.

"I'll let him go."

"Didn't you hear me?" Matthews said, Laurel squealing as he gave her a harsh shake. "What was it you said to me about dying, it 'didn't take'? That's something else I learned from you. You and I can do this dance until the end of time: the only difference is which guests we invite to the party."

Jean blinked at him. The anger was still present but most of it had been significantly drained away because of a question. A curious one. "Why?" Jean said. It was the same question that she had asked him before but this was different. It held with it a certain clarity.

"What can you possibly stand to gain from this?"

It lasted only a fraction of an instant, but Matthews' expression went perfectly blank. Not from confusion or hesitation, but something else.

It was the look of an actor who had forgotten his lines.

The sneer returned in an eyeblink. Matthews' hands tightened around Laurel's hair. "What we've always had," he hissed. "What we will always have. Your pain."

"'We?'" Jean said, cocking her head to the side.

"Who's we?" Something didn't feel right.

Matthews snarled. He grabbed Laurel's broken fingers with his free hand, squeezing them until she screamed.

"I am going to kill this girl," he reminded her. "I will kill her, and I am going to do it in a way that makes Kirby's death look like peaceful euthanasia by comparison. And you are going to watch me."

Jean narrowed her eyes. "You didn't answer my question," she said, putting the paperweight down. A moment passed as she studied him.

She took a step forward. "You're not Parker Matthews. He wouldn't have known I was here. And he couldn't have linked up with Brook that quickly. I didn't even know I was coming here until two days ago. Who are you?"

Matthews' lips remained curled in hate as he gave Laurel's bones one more painful twist, but the brutality was no longer having any effect on Jean. She was calm now, wary, and he seemed unable to adjust to the shift.

Then he disappeared.

Matthews, the man "he" had inhabited, Laurel, Kirby, the hotel staff and the other lodgers -- suddenly they were all gone. No blood or bodies marred the floor, no signs of panic or struggle remained. Now it was only Jean, alone in a pristine hotel lobby.

It was quiet. So quiet that when Jean let out a breath the sound almost startled her. She glanced around as a huge wave of relief washed over her. No one was dead, but her hand and her leg still hurt. That meant whatever it was wasn't just all in her head. Whatever had happened, at that moment, had been physically real.

The sense of deja vu. The two phone calls already made. The overwhelming weakness. And now this. What the hell was going on?

The first place she noticed something was wrong was in the hallway near the manager's quarters. She figured there was the best place to start.