"Room 205"
by Laney

The Palace. London's most affluent resort was now in it's hundredth year of serving a majority of Europe's upper-class, as well as anyone who arrived from farther away to visit the much esteemed Great Britain. This included everyone from your Third-World government leader to your American tourist with enough to make their stay. Among these would be the Japanese Englishwoman whose soft, dark violet hair and eyes were a force for the Palace's long, crystal-decked halls to be reckoned with.

She had five suitcases and a bag all tagged to "Elizabeth Braddock," but quickly instructed the attendant moving her luggage along that he call her, "Betsy."

"The keys to your room..." the short, round man muttered as his arms extended further than his height would suggest he could. Betsy offered her hand accordingly, accepting the keys. With a gasp, she quickly dropped them to the floor. For it was too late when she finally realized what room she in which she would be vacating to: Room 205.

It was just three years ago this same British spring season that Betsy found herself first staring at Room 205. She was then a very different woman. Driven by the same passions: love, power, sex; yet cursed with a very careful nature that prohibited her from going after these passions assertively. Not to mention that this was before she had been given her new body and face (long story). She was far from self-conscious, but her small bust-line and very short legs definitely slowed her speed in going after men--part of the reason she was making this trip.

As usual, she had a cover. She was "visiting her brother," Brian. Of course, she had to deny his request that she house at Braddock Manor--their home. As tempting as that offer was, her eagerness to delve into new affairs without the hounding protective eye of Brian's would ultimately force her into one of her country's most luxurious suites. That wasn't too bad a deal. In fact, it was especially good once her eyes met with the neighbor across the hall.

She would see him three or four times every day, usually dressed in clothing for sport. A tank top that exposed his long, strapping arms, brute hands, and protuberant pectorals. Trunks that allowed her admiration of his long, tightly muscular, legs. Not to mention his prominently chiseled cheeks, and the sharp, jet black hair that so well flourished him. There was one thing that in particular that picked madly at Betsy about the charming man that so frequently stood before her. Those eyes. Those cold, dead, hollow eyes. Betsy had to wonder whether they were his normal, or if he only saved them for her.

She could not help but be taken by the blank and passive trances he aimed at her. She could easily use her mutant mind-reading powers to know everything about him--his past, his present--but she instead chose to take his challenge fairly. She would do things the hard way, as he chose to play hard-to-get. The hard part was getting him to notice her, and not the other way around. When she wasn't looking at him and drooling, she was reading one of her many romance novels and lusting after him. It went on for hours. Those hours became days. After more than a week of this ogling, she finally manage to sneak her way into casual conversation, asking his name.

"Jean-Paul," he quickly responded, taking her hand, pecking it mildly with his thin lips. She had waited long enough for his touch, so she rewarded him with her best smile. A smile that through long contact led to laughs, cries, dances, and dinners as she and her new beau toured London for the weeks immediately following--getting to know each other very well. It turns out that he was a mutant, too. He had vacationed shortly after a falling out with a Canadian Government force named Alpha Flight. What he needed more than anything was the chance to relax, and Betsy had given him that. He enjoyed her company.

Betsy enjoyed the way things were coming along with herself and Jean-Paul. Suddenly, his initial arrogant appearance had melted away to reveal a loving, caring, gentleman. She all but patted herself in the back for "molding" him. Suddenly the quick glances were replaced with a more attentive resolve, but not everything that Betsy had expected.

She still saw it difficult to get past his eyes. Even as they spoke, as her pupils dug into him, there was something missing from his eyes. A glimmer that was never there. A compliment she gave him that wasn't returned. Perhaps it was overconfidence in her abilities that urged her to focus on what else he gave her. The protective hand he held her in during those long walks into the night, the warm shoulder he gave her to rest her head on as they rode around town, and the caressing arms he so affectionately bestowed upon her hips, were all enough to take her mind off of the shallowness she saw as he looked at her. Instead, she convinced herself of the connection that they had built was love, and that this love assured them they were in love.

"Jean-Paul," she would remember saying on that fateful day, five months after their initial meeting. In the middle of a breakfast in his room with chuckles almost routine, she thought to reveal what she had inside. "When do you plan to go back home?" she inquired; her words no more nervous than the trembling fingers that echoed them. He followed his instinct as usual: taking her hands, comforting them, and easing them of their stress. With her hands tightly folded in his palms, he felt safe to speak.

"I haven't much thought about that," he stated frankly.

"I think for the sake of 'us,' that we discuss this together," Betsy quickly charged, snatching her hand and rising from her seat. For the first time since their encounters began, Betsy read something definite is Jean-Luc's eyes: fear. He responded in a robotic voice.

"I'm unsure of what I want."

"Let me remind you," Betsy responded quickly as she thrust herself toward him, holding his head up high and pressing her lips deeply against his. She held him as best she could, fighting him until he eventually gave in and kissed her back, which he did. It lasted only for a few seconds, before he broke the embrace completely.

"Why?" Betsy slammed her hands on the table so furiously, it hurt. "Why fight what we have?"

"I just don't think this is right, Betts," he said adamantly.

"Not right? Jean-Luc, I love you!" she outburst as she gripped her hair compulsively, "I... love..."

"I love you too, Betsy, but--"

"But what? What?" Betsy bolted. In less than a second, the meal they were eating, the table at which they dined several dozen times, the chairs which they rocked during rapid elation were all on the floor as she made her way through his quarters and back to hers: Room 205.

******************

"Room 205, miss? You dropped your keys..." the attendant stood in the hallway three years after the time of Betsy's flashback. Extending his hands far once again, he muttered, "You were lost for a quite a while, there. Had me scared."

Betsy's response was a simple frown. For she had just recalled the last time she entered Room 205. It was after someone she had fallen completely in love with had disappeared from her life with no trace. The second she went crawled into her suite, she had already seen the last of her beau. Thinking back, Betsy, with a completely new and different body and face, managed to shed the exact same tears she shed those three years ago.

"Can I help you with your things, Miss Betsy?" the small, round attendant asked.

"Yes," Betsy pulled herself together. "Yes, I'd like that."

~ The End of Part 1 ~

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