Motel Seven

Connie

Dmitri sluggishly moved towards the bathroom. It was too early- or late? Hell, it was too much for him. The hotel was too much for him, even if it had been noon.

The dark haired man stumbled into the bathroom. He blindly searched for the light switch in the dark of the small bathroom, then switched it. The lights came on, humming softly like the lights outside. They were bright, and Dmitri found himself squinting slightly as he looked in the mirror, his eyes still not adjusted from the dark of sleep.

And there was that word.

That damn word.

'Commie'

Well, that's what he figured that word was.

That damn word.

The red, carefully painted letters, had smudged along the 'MM'. The word looked more like 'Connie' than 'Commie' at this point, but he got the idea.

The size of the words looked large on his forehead, covering up as much space as available, but yet the tallest letter couldn't be much over an inch and a half. The paint was smudged and had obviously dried poorly, but the meaning was clear and the precision taken and determination given to get the meaning across was alarming.

That meant he had slipped into his room, in the middle of the night.

He had just strolled into Dmitri's room, red paint and paint brush in hand, and wrote in large letters a word that might as well have been monster or murderer.

That was enough.

Dmitri Popov had had enough.

The Northerner glared at the mirror, at his reflection, briefly. He had stayed too long. He had taken this... whatever this was, for too long. Popov turned and stormed back out of the bathroom, straight past the bed. He grabbed his car keys and hurried to the door. A hand, almost absentmindedly, went to remove the chain lock off the door.

Wait.

The chain lock.

Which was locked, on his door.

The door that Mr. All-American had used to get it.

He had to have used the front door, right?

There was no other entrance.

Then how...?

This was too much. Dmitri was out of here. He shot out of the door, leaving it open behind him. He had to get far, far from here. Far from James. Far from the hotel. Far from New Mexico.

Hell, he was considering moving to France. He had recently been learning some French in his free time, and moving to a place known for romance may not be a bad idea for a man of his age and relationship status. He felt he deserved love now, after this... experience. He deserved a very attractive French girl, one who didn't speak a lick of English and didn't know the colors of the American flag, if that was possible. If there was a divine power of any sorts out there, surely they would take some sympathy on his current state.

Or maybe this was the sympathy. He had wished for some excitement out of his life. This was surely exciting.

Dmitri stopped, his mind going quiet and his feet going still, when he saw his car.

"Oh... shit..."