Layla Miller

The early years of her life aside, Layla hadn't spent much time wrapped up in luxury. She'd gone from orphanage to what was effectively the team's Bowery barracks to run-down, borderline post-apocalyptic ruins. The island wasn't bad, although real mattresses, couches, pretty much anything from Pottery Barn would have been nice. As much as she enjoyed her living situation, particularly that time spent in bed- at least since she and Jamie had gotten their acts together- she was immediately aware that whatever situation she was waking up to was better. She shifted a little as she woke up, groggily recognizing the feel of soft, airy cotton sheets dragging against her skin, tangentially aware of a soft pliant mattress beneath her that didn't sag or give any hint as to what was holding it up. Real luxury.

The air didn't smell like the island air. To begin with, it was crisp, void of humidity, vaguely pine-scented. She cracked one eye open toward the nearest source of light, which was coming in a broad balcony window that framed the forested mountains beyond. It was breathtaking. Also, highly unexpected.

I know this view, but not because I've seen it before. Not exactly. I know I'm looking out at Latveria from the exquisite stone framing of my room's balcony the same way I know what kind of crap Rahne tries to pull after she gets all preggers- because my future self told me so. Kinda sorta. Anyway, I know for sure I don't arrive in Latveria by just waking up- wearing the clothes I went to sleep in, or lack thereof, on the island- in a guest suite. Which means this is... All wrong.

I also know that I don't turn up with anyone else in tow.

Layla pushed herself up onto her elbows, looking around the room from behind a messy fall of blond hair before her gaze landed on the sleeping Jamie Madrox beside her.

He was probably gonna freak out. She sort of wanted to let him sleep and just.... avoid that, for a while. Maybe get up, take the tour, figure out what the what was happening, and then come back. If he woke up while she was gone, though, he'd probably freak out more.

She reached over and shook his shoulder gently.

"Jamie." She tapped him, realizing what the result would be if they were, indeed, in Latveria and, therefore, home (or somewhere like it).

"Jamies. Wake up."

Layla had woken up with no Jamie beside her, and for a moment felt a queer sort of panic that made her question her sanity more than the island usually did. After a moment, during which time Richards had slunk up the bed to tuck his wet nose against her jaw and wag his tail a little, she recalled that she had been up, earlier, to let the dog in, and Jamie had been there beside her, asleep.

So she'd passed out from sheer exhaustion again. She could hardly blame herself. She gave Richards' some belly rubbing, then crawled out of bed and into jeans and a tank top, forgoing underwear or a hairbrush, and padded still-sleepily for the door.

Until she remember the Doomtech and small cylinder on her own bed. She went immediately to them and made a show- albeit for no one's sake but Richards'- of hiding them, wondering if Jamie had poked his head in when he'd gotten up and seen them anyway.

Surely, they'd talk about it later. One way or the other. It tied into her fabulous yacht party story, anyhow.

She spent a moment in her own room to twist her hair into a messy knot at the nape of her neck and tie it there before she slipped into her chunky rain boots, jeans scrunched up along the tops, and started out into the still storm-tossed morning. She hoped she didn't have to go far.

It's strange how good the sleep is when you get there by crying yourself into exhaustion. It's something I've done more than once. Even as a kid, I didn't like crying in front of people. I guess it became habit, saving it all up. I'm sure some people would argue it's not healthy, but if it spares me from insomnia, I'll take that trade off. Remembering the conversation I had with Jamie last night is surreal- the first time he'd spoken to me in a week and it had to be while I was disoriented and drained. Waking up this morning, much better rested than I probably should be, I've got it in my mind to try again, or at least get a straight answer out of him. He doesn't do the other thing as well as I do.

Except he's not here.

"Son of a bitch," Layla murmured, pulling on her denim capris and a tanktop different than the one she'd slept in. She toed on her flip flops and pushed the front door open, frowning to herself, ready to make a pretty rapid beeline for the compound, and stopped short.

"...Good morning."

There he was. She stood corrected.

It was the first time since her arrival that Layla had been in a crowded place and not had anyone ask about or comment on her tattoo. The lace and feather butterfly mask she wore covered it completely. It added to her general feeling of well being- not the anonymity, because no one there knew or cared who she was regardless of her garb- because she did, she felt good. A pleasant buzz ran through her. She hadn't been drinking. She didn't dare, because she wasn't prepared for the sort of lack of control that came with booze, but not just observing the crowd but being part of it was pleasantly novel.

Potentially overwhelming, as well. She slipped out of it and down the hall, finding a few strands of silver and blue beads pushed into her hands by other party goers, and absently wound them around her fingers as she stepped outside the compound doors. The party had already spilled outside- Mardi Gras wasn't the sort of even that contained itself easily or well- and she watched the dancing and drinking from her place leaning against the wall, a little farther out of the light than anyone else.