A Quiet Road

Chapter 1 - The Motel

Rating: PG-13 (...it's slowly rising)

Notes:This is set about eight months after the prolog, in which Riley has been on the road the entire time but don't worry, what happend during those months will pop up again.

Authors Notes:I want to send a warm thank you to CC for the wonderful review. I understand completely where you're coming from about Riley. He is underrated and under appreciated. Hopefully, I don't disappoint you. Oh, and, as for pairings, I haven't worked out all the details and kinks for the later chapters but I'll definitely keep what you said in mind. :)


Chapter 1


The motel was run-down, set back from civilization as though to purposely be forgotten to antiquity. Water marks, mold and thick layers of mud caked the side of the structure, obscuring cracked windows and flaking red motel doors. The “vacancy” sign was only half-lit, the ‘Y’ tilted strangely, giving it the effect that it was going to drop at any moment, and the letters were painfully uneven after years of rough weather wearing down the metal claps and rivets that held it in place for so long.

It was perfect.

“Got a laundry mat around here?” The blonde asked, tugging out the last twenty in his wallet to throw on the counter. It’s the last money he has in the world, his bank accounts having long since been used up and closed so as not to draw any undue attention to his goings on but he still didn’t bother to worry about exact change. The poor bastard behind the cracked yellow register looked like he could use a little extra cash if not to just buy a new shirt that didn‘t have food and oil stains on it.

“Yeah, ’round back. Only has one cycle though.”

Riley nodded, stuffing his empty wallet into the back pocket of his cargo pants before leaning down to grab the strap of his rucksack. It didn’t matter, not really, it’s not like he has delicates to wash. All he wants to do is run them through some steaming water to get the smell of sweat and travel off for at least one day.

“Thanks.”

The man grunted, taking the twenty from the counter and stuffing it into his faded jeans pocket instead of the register before stumbling his way into the back and slumping down into the worn down recliner. For a moment, Riley watched as the man kicked the side of the 8inch black and white television to rid it of static before settling down in the chair to laugh at some old rerun. Shaking his head, Riley let out a weary sigh, picking up the key to his motel room the man had slapped on the counter and turned to leave without bothering to say anything more.

For the first human contact in nearly eight months, that hadn’t been so bad. In fact, that hadn’t been bad at all. It felt slightly good to talk to someone who had no double agendas or, at the very least, wasn’t out to ’get’ him.

Riley grimaced, shaking his head. It was stupid to think like that. If there was one thing he’d learned during life on the road, everyone - no matter how nice or kind they are - were out to get something. Either from you or someone else. Everyone had a double agenda.

Even himself.

But none-the-less, that small amount of human contact was more than he got when he had been sleeping in the backseat of his used car, one hand curled possessively over a Beretta 9MM, a glock semi-automatic with blessed bullets tucked securely beneath the seat in a holster he’d had custom designed a few months ago. Nowadays though, most of what he had was custom designed. From his modified weapons to the wrist sheaths and shoulder holsters he wore. Not that the wrist sheaths and knives he wore would do much good if a hostile made a play for him. He might be military breed and trained but if one of the demons lurking in the shadows decided to rip his throat out, he’d be dead before a weapon cleared it’s holster.

Pushing the door open, Riley jangled the key in his hand, slapping the large plastic ‘10’ key chain against his thigh as his eyes scanned the area quickly and efficiently as any ex-military, black ops trained marine could. There was no much to see, overall. The perimeter was just as it was when he went it, desolate and empty. He let out a sigh.

These past few months, years really, had made him realize that there was no such thing as being too paranoid or thinking someone was out to get you because, usually, someone was.

Shifting his rucksack on his shoulder, he tiredly began to make his way down the flimsy covered walkway, eyes moving smoothly from left to right. Another thing he’d learned while on the road: He’d never really known how -- frightening -- it was to be on his own or how different it would feel.

During his time working in the Marines and then the Initiative, he’d come to rely on the fact that he wouldn’t be alone. That in some way, shape or form, he’d have someone there with him. It was a stupid and ill-equipped thing to do but it had happened nonetheless.

And, sure, he could handle himself better than most. Hell, he could handle himself better than most of the human population, but that didn’t stop a hostile from ripping his throat out if he got sloppy. Or from him being unprepared for a surprise attack.

Again.

Riley sighed, squeezing his eyes shut for less than a moment to try to still the rush of panic slamming his chest. Sucking in a breath to dispel the memories that were trying their best to resurface, Riley curled his fingers against his hip, pressing his hand against the bulge at his side. Concealed beneath his black tee shirt was his Beretta. It only had one in the chamber but it would have to service….

Opening his eyes, the swell of panic still sharp and metallic tasting on his tongue, Riley silently continued on his way to his room. Stopping a few inches off the door, the blonde let his eyes sweep the area again. The motel was practically deserted; only two other cars were parked in the muddy lot, one about five doors down and the other across the lot. Not bad odds if something happened. Especially if one of the cars belonged to the manager.

Turning back to his door, the brass numbers tarnished and crooked, he slipped the key in the lock and jiggled the handle, heart hammering in his throat at leaving his back exposed. Don’t think about it. He chanted to himself. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it.

Another jangle, the door gave way with a ‘snick’, giving him his first view of his room’s interior.

It looked exactly how he expected it to: full-size bed, covered with a floral patterned blanket; water marked walls with stains he wasn’t sure he wanted to identify; brown shag carpet; beige furniture; one rickety night stand and chair. Against one wall, a small television sat on top of the poor excuse for a dresser opposite the bed. There was a small kitchen with sink and stove cut into the wall, a bathroom with running hot water and mirror so he could shave.

It was good enough.