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After a twenty minute drive through the outer ring of Seattle, King found himself in a very dingy motel room with a lighter in one hand and a cigarette in the other. The Marco Polo Motel was a 'quaint' two-star hotel tucked into the river-side lanes of Aurora Road, and while the officer seemed to be a local King wasn't quite sure if the man had understood his request for a "clean and safe" place to stay. Upon arriving the group had been greeted by lackluster smiles and tired eyes, and the key they had received was bent in more places than one and felt like pure slime between King's fingers. 

The room itself wasn't [i]bad[/i] just... Something a rich kid like Richard King wasn't used to. Two twin-sized beds were pressed up against a rather wide nightstand. Stained but otherwise clean-feeling sheets were melded onto the springy mattresses, and the single lamp plugged into the wall was their only source of light for when night threatened to fall. The bathroom was small and off-white, containing a toilet, sink, and tiny, tiny tub that harbored the weakest looking shower head money could possibly buy. King noted the lack of soap with a stiff lip. There wasn't a kitchenette and there wasn't a single TV guide or booklet in the available drawers by the beds. King only found a dusty and torn bible, which he promptly trashed as soon as he realized what it was.

As King padded against a crumbly shag carpet he began to notice the many things to hate about this room. The curled wall paper, the bars on the outside of the window, the odd blue memory of abuse that stood out on the TV screen. Everything was old and worn and treated horribly and, for some bizarre and sick reason, King felt himself relating to it. [b][color=ab2020]"Gross."[/color][/b] He said suddenly, mostly to himself, and without another word he snatched a cigarette from Malcolm's back pocket and settled in front of the open window.

It was the quickest smoke of his life. As King stared out at the crowded, misty road and pressed his shoulder against the dew wet bars he found it was simply unbearable to sit in silence. The cigarette's cherry gleamed bright orange and ash crumbled as King finished off the smoke in two quick drags. He snuffed the remaining heat on the windowsill, noting the similar burn marks that had gathered over the years on that very same plane of wood with an apathetic look, and then turned to his companions. The taste of fire on his tongue had done well to quell what remaining nerves he harbored, leaving him instead curious and hopelessly mopey as always. Now wasn't a time to wallow, however. 

King jutted a thumb towards the injured television and cocked his head, [b][color=ab2020]"We got the news and we got some locals downstairs, in case anyone is curious about these terrorist threats that are currently taking place in this very city."[/color][/b] He wanted to ask why they weren't leaving right this very moment, because the thought of getting caught in attack shook him to his core, but instead he leaned in and whispered, [b][color=ab2020]"Is there anything worth staying here for? Anyone see Seattle in their stupid dreams or what?"[/color][/b]