Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
ANALISA MORGAN SITS AWAKE IN A LONESOME HOTEL ROOM, the same one that had once been shared with Quentin Beck. She sits idle on top her neatly made bed, with legs crossed and eyes vaguely gazing out into nothingness, her only familiar friend present at that time being isolation. Any attempt she to sleep she had put made upon arriving back at the hotel had resulted in naught, the taxing events that'd unfolded that day finally catching up with her.
Her ever-so-slightly shaking fingers fiddle with the golden band of the wedding ring she'd been gifted by Quentin, reminiscing upon the events which had unfolded that day. She had almost lost him, and that notion alone was enough to allow a meandering sense of dread to seep back into the depths of her heart, worry that history would once again repeat taking a vice-like grip upon her. This feeling is an old enemy of her's, one which she would blissfully allow to remain hidden when in public, and confront only when in isolation.
But, on that night, her silent confrontation is interrupted as a familiar boy frantically swings in through the window she'd left open for fresh air, shattering the silence she had one lingered within. She jolts forward as the abrupt crashing sound of the teenager slamming clumsily onto the floor echoes out, her eyebrows furrowing close together in shock. "Peter, what the fuck?"
"I messed up, and I need your help," Offering no context as to why he had burst through the hotel window in the midst of the night, Peter blurts our these words, sheer panic glistening within his young eyes; his stare brimming with desperation. "I was with MJ, then this thing, a, uh, a projector! The projector went woosh, and it-"
"Peter, slow down," Analisa cuts off the overly rushed words, which seem to escape his mouth at a pace faster than his brain can process, his sentences being barely coherent. "Breath for a moment and think about what you're saying."
And so, Peter goes silent, taking a moment to calm his nerves down so that he can properly conjure a coherent sentence. He gathers the words that are messily scrambled throughout his mind, and, with his voice calmer yet still underlying with panic, he speaks. "Mr Beck isn't who he says he is."
"What?" Bolting upward from her idle position upon the bed, the ice-cold flood of utter shock rushing through her veins, staring dubiously at the teenage boy. Her heartbeat echoes within her eardrums at the mere words that held the potential to strike her heart with the power of daggers, her mind struggling to fathom such a notion.
"I know, I know. Just listen," Peter silences the confused exclaims of the female within a mere instant, her desperation to reach a conclusion causing her to bite her tongue. Gracious for the opportunity to verbalise the knowledge that'd been plaguing his mind, Peter continues, his voice quick with panic. "The elementals that we've been fighting, Beck created them. They're not real, it's all a lie."
