I, Chez

Cheese, as a concept, is gay

[netflixandcheeze]

MASTERLIST OF MULTIFANDOM FICS (ig) (I’ll add more as I make more) (most likely platonic fics, lots of ‘x reader’ because f cringe culture)

MCU

The Screw-Ups: (Thunderbolts x reader) PLATONIC

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3 (it’s-a coming)

Life is Strange: (Wade Wilson x Reader) PLATONIC

In the Stars (Stucky Microfic (50 words IT WAS SO HARD TO WRITE ISTG I’m more used to gushing in my writing))

The Umbrella Academy

…it’s a-coming

TADC

It’s coming!

Bad Times at the El Royale

It’s Always Sunny in California (Miles Miller x Reader) ROMANTIC

I can’t even remember what other fandoms I’m in so this is just miscellaneous fics for now.

Madison Granger (originally incorrectly titled as a Mystrade Fic bc I didn’t know what Mystrade was)

I also do art and fanart (multi-fandom, again)

Please suggest some requests in my asks (ask ZOLTAR, hehe)

[netflixandcheeze]

It’s Always Sunny in California (Miles Miller x F!Reader fic)

This man is so freaking gorgeous you don’t understand.

Here’s another fic, yall, from Bad Times at the El Royale! A longer one, this time. Also can be found on AO3!

Warnings: angst, murder, kidnapping drug abuse, self-harm, depression, implications of suicide, kinda funny ig, bit of fluff, swearing, implications of beastality (it’s in the movie), implications of SA, implications of religious trauma, the Vietnam war, canon and canon-aligned violence. Lil bit spicy, but nothing past 2nd base bc tbh I can’t write that kinda stuff without feeling sick (appreciate my candidness). Let's say 15+. Low-key kinda cringe, (lowkey channelling Jaladdin at one point TvT) in my opinion. Then again, I find everything I write cringe. You also get called Clyde a lot (it’s a nickname). You ALSO don’t have a leg (ehehehe)

No YN, not beta read. English isn’t my first language, so expect inane and insane grammar choices.

Tis a very ship-focused fic. I love Lewis Pullman, and Miles is such a cutie patootie.

Word count: 21k (sorry it’s so long)

You barely look up from your book as the salesman walks in.

It’s been a rather quiet day, at the El Royale. Has been for the past few years, actually. Once a haven for celebrity debauchery and lack of decorum, now reduced to a drive-by motel on the border of Nevada and California. The only people who really walked through those doors nowadays were lowlifes, scum, and people trying to hide something.

Well, we all have shit to hide.

You don’t greet the man as you take a drag from your blunt, your feet propped on the table, your wooden one glinting in the sunlight, don’t even glance up as he tries to get your attention. He seemed around 40, 50, maybe, black hair, graying, his checked seersucker suit distasteful, in your opinion. He had this… set, to his face, if you will. This… permanent expression, which you assume to be confident, but really it’s just pretension. Pure pretension. And the way he carried himself, he seemed to demand authority. Like… like his job of being what seemed to be a ‘vacuum salesman’ was helping others. He waved at you, and you flicked your eyes up at him, then rolled them.

Frankly, your book was much more fascinating. Lord of the Flies. Much more interesting. A social commentary on the war and on savagery. Well, you had your fair share of the war, that was for sure. Seen enough of it to relate real well to Golding. His pessimism was exhilarating to read about. Around this turn of the decade, people really treat war as an adventure, don’t they? Like they’re heroes, fighting the Nazis or the British or whatever, like Captain America. But it ain’t all that fun. Trust me. Death doesn’t choose between right or wrong, British or German, Allies or Axis, man or woman, Black or White, young, old, healthy, sick– he just swings his scythe, and those in the way get chopped down. And that’s just life.

The man thought you must be deaf, not answering him. He still was talking to you, aloud, with a thick Mississippi accent, and you wondered how long it would take for him to get the hint. Then he went up and rang the bell at the reception desk of the El Royale. No answer, and you weren’t gonna help either, so he started muttering something about coffee, and went off behind the drinks counter. You didn’t stop him, just counted how much he was using, and calculated the cost in your head.

Where was Miles? Usually, the two of you spent your hours together, talking, but he hadn’t been out of his room the last few hours, so you assumed he was sleeping. No problem. But he had been asleep too long today.

The infuriating man rang the bell again, so you got up to go check on Miles. As you did, what seemed to be an old man and a young lady walked in. Great. More people. Although a strange time to hire a prostitute. She looked too presentable to be one, though. Very respectable.

You got a good look at the newcomers. The man had that collar– oh, he was a priest. Not a pimp. You feel a hot flush come to your cheeks. You always tiptoed around religion, and you never really wished to offend people, but you never knew, when it came to men. Especially in these times. It was… well, you’ve witnessed enough to despise it.

You glanced at the woman. She seemed… polished. Not rich, no, but presentable. Around 30. Pretty hair too. You really liked her hair. And her outfit. The yellow made you feel warm inside. She held her head up with dignity, with decorum, and that made her respectable. Well, you respected her, most definitely. She stood there, head held high, but not snobby, like the damn salesman. She had a likeable ‘aura’ to her, in a way, a calm mind, a strong personality, a kind voice. You could tell that now, just by looking at her. She was someone who had suffered, and risen out strong. And she probably had. A Black woman in the States, in the 60s. Just 4 years ago, they got to vote. If you could, you’d vote for her, if she ever ran. But so far it had been white, rich buggers who had also frequented this place, and desecrated their bodily ‘temples’ with drugs, debauchery and death. Most were bastards, but there were a few diamonds in the rough. You remembered one politician, who had been kind to you and Miles, or ‘the help’, as most called you. He had done his fair share, and he did his dirty deeds, but you and Miles kept mum, because… he had been nice. He had treated you well. So you had to respect that.

You now analysed the priest. Miles was a devout Catholic, passionate and sweet. He used to go to church a lot, back in the day, but stopped a while ago. You never went with him. You used to, yeah, when you were like, 4, but things happened, and people diddled, and you never went back.

This guy was OLD. Real old. 60, 70? The years hadn’t been kind to him. Respectfully. Point is, he’s old. He was wearing the collar, yeah, but he didn’t seem like a priest. But for one, you were shocked he wasn’t ambling around all frail and stuff. He still had some strength. Enough to get all the way to Lake Tahoe, from…

“The Immaculate Heart of Mary’s, in Bloomington, Indiana.” That’s where Father Daniel Flynn said he was from. You pretty much ignored all conversations happening, but you picked up that the woman was Darlene, Darlene Sweet. No wonder her voice was familiar. You had heard it on the radio, the one you always play to cheer Miles up when he’s feeling down. You pick him up, get him shimmying a little, teach him some old swing moves your grandmama taught your mama, and then your mama taught you. Little spin here, a dip there, and sure enough, your best friend was smiling again. And God, you loved that damn smile. Nothing brightened up your day like his smile.

The salesman, ‘Laramie Seymour Sulllivan’, was holding out three cups of coffee. You see he left you out. Not that it affected you; you were ignoring him, and the others, but still. Bit rude. He handed them coffee, and you finally put your book down.

“Miles will be out soon.” You announce, before stepping behind the reception. Darlene jumps at your sudden voice; clearly she didn’t notice you before and was startled. You walked into the maintenance closet.

Miles was asleep. Again. On the floor. The damn needles in his arm. Again. He had completely missed the cot. Again.

You bent down, eyes weak but gentle as always. You had begged him for ages to stop. But he never did. And after a while, you gave up asking him, finding a better use for your mouth and took to blowing blunts and cash on casino machines, or drowning yourself in the beauty of the bottle, the punt in a Thunderbird a more frequent friend than Miles now. But you always cared about him.

You kneeled next to him, your eyes warm as you cupped his cheek in your hand. He was breathing, so he hadn’t overdosed again. Good. You reverently stroked his face with your fingers. He had beautiful lashes, under which he had gorgeous blue eyes. They almost felt brown. They were warm, like a puppy’s, and closed, now, fluttering slightly in his sleep. His skin was smooth, much smoother than yours. But it was suffering. Dark circles, from both drugs and no sleep. Sallow, kinda. It got worse by the day. Hollowing cheeks. Bitten lips. Miles often chewed on them when nervous. You used to find it cute. But he did it too much now. Something was wrong. His hair was clean, yeah, but only because you sat him down in the tub yesterday and washed him yourself, because he had been neglecting himself too long.

You wanted to curl up next to him as he lay slumped against the wall. It was peaceful now. And so you did. You curled up next to him, for a moment, felt as his arm subconsciously wrapped around you, pulled you closer. He stirred, slightly.

“Mmmh, what..?” “Gotta wake up, love.” you smiled at his sleepy talk, tapping his nose. “5 more minutes…” “We got customers.” He sighed at that, yawning, standing up. He pulled on his uniform, and you tied his tie, like always. The supple fabric in your fingers, your face close to his, breath mingling, eyes meeting… you always got a rush. You straightened out his lapels, smiling. “Go get ‘em, tiger.”

A loud banging knock on the closet door startled the two of you, and Miles chuckled at your nervousness. “Wish me luck.”

“Good luck.”

He hugged you, then tripped on a bottle, stumbled with a thud, then walked out of the closet to address the new customers. You stayed back a bit, cleaning up the closet. You sleep in the lounge, yourself, but often retreat to the maintenance closet to curl up with Miles on the floor. Management failed to provide the two of you with adequate rooms, or a break room, or anything, for the staff, which was just you and Miles for now. He was the clerk, bellhop, bartender, you were the cleaner, finances, the night auditor, amongst other roles. Really, the two of you ran the whole hotel, getting peanuts for it. But you didn’t have a car to run away with, and you weren’t planning to swim across Lake Tahoe, so you accepted your fate, and worked with your best friend. Miles did more than you, but you always helped. But with what little foot traffic you got recently, you had slacked on doing work. So a few rooms were left unserviced, for now.

Great.

You got up from the closet, which was clean, now, and walked out. Miles had given his talk about the California-Nevada split in the hotel.

“You got a number for those people? Cause I got a vacuum they might be interested in. Speaking of which! Who’s your Head of Hospitality here?” Laramie was asking Miles, who was stuttering, unable to form a response. You came to his rescue.

“That would be me.” Laramie grimaced at that, and went on talking, mentioning on how they REALLY needed a vacuum because this place was kinda filthy, which pissed you off, because you were the one cleaning, just you, and he was being bitchy, and you were going to respond and give him a piece of your mind, until the priest interrupted Laramie’s chatter, asking for a map of the hotel.

You ignored them at this point, walking off from Miles to fluff up a couch cushion Darlene had messed up. She glanced over at you, trying to catch your eye, which she did, and when you looked up to smile at her, she smiled back, kind. Real kind.

Been a while since someone smiled at you like that.

They booked their rooms, Father Flynn first, booking Room Four, signing his name, with Darlene following, counting out eight $1 bills from her purse, although hesitant to be next to the priest, in Room Five. Fair enough. She probably understood diddling too. Old man and all that. And they paid for their coffee, which was a quarter, and went to get their keys. You wondered if they knew that the Royale was too cheap to buy different locks, so every door had the same lock and key. Anyone could easily break in from another room. Of course, nobody tried to. Not because they didn’t want to. But because nobody had bothered trying the keys. Also, the El Royale offered a clean place to sleep and a bathroom and alcohol and breakfast. Not security. You were the only one working security anyway, and you can’t do it all, can ya?

You watched as they walked to the doors, leaving their luggage by the reception. You started loading their luggage onto the bellman’s trolley, when you heard a tinkle of the bell from the Nevada side, as a woman, probably 29, 30, walked in.

A hippie. Great. Why were you not surprised? Like you said earlier, this place was for lowlifes, scum, and people trying to hide something. And this lady clearly had a lot to hide. She probably was high too, considering she was wearing sunglasses indoors. And the way she kept looking behind her. Like she was running. Running from her hippie boyfriend or hippie cult or something. And probably a drug addict. Great. More shit to clean up.

You had nothing against junkies. I mean, you and Miles were junkies. But junkies, like, other ones… never cleaned up after themselves. And you had cleaned up and hauled out your fair share of junkies from this place, overdosing and all that. You lost count of the number of times you dialled 911 from here, telling them another guy had died and for someone to claim the body. It was you who hauled them out of the room, you who called their grieving relatives, if you could, you who always stood witness. You remained terrified everyday, because you didn’t want the next person you drag out of the hotel to be Miles. He was veering off the path, and you feared one day he’d be too far gone to save him.

This junkie remained nameless, but demanded a room. You looked up at that. “That room hasn’t been serviced, or any rooms along that wall–” you didn’t need management docking your pay for letting a customer sleep there. But she didn’t care. She still booked a room, and the salesman finally got his own room.

“Oh, for the record, Mr Sullivan?” You piped up as he was writing. He glanced back at you. You smirked. “We got wood floors. No vacuum needed. I sweep it up. And drop the fake-ass Mississippi accent, would ya?” You walked up to the reception desk, reading the ledger of who had signed in. Not in the correct order, but Father Daniel Flynn, Darlene Sweet, Laramie Seymour Sullivan and Fuck You. You smiled despite yourself at the last one.

His face fell at your comment, and he muttered under his breath, before he went off to his room. You chuckled, and Miles sighed.

“Must you snark every customer, Clyde?” He muttered, a small smirk playing on his lips. You scrape up the quarters from the reception desk– they had all paid for coffee– then looked up at him. Despite the desk in between you, you two were unbearably close, and you felt heat rising to your cheeks. You looked away, bashful, but he tilted your chin up with his fingers. His blue eyes met yours, and you immediately melted, wishing you could drown in his smile.

You loved him, you did, and he knew it. He loved you too– he was the first to confess, when you were 19, but literally after you kissed, underneath the moonlight, having just shared an ice-cream sundae together at the parlour, and a walk in the rain, under the umbrella, he said he wanted to ‘stay friends’. Which was ridiculous to you, but he said he didn’t want to ‘ruin our friendship’ but that was doubly ridiculous for you, because he just kissed you? So, after weeks of you pestering and begging, he finally admitted that he had been scared, because he was real messed up. And you said that you understood, and he sobbed that he was scared he’d hurt you, and you had shut him up with a kiss, stating that he could never hurt you. And the rest was history. He wasn't just your best friend. You loved each other. Deeply.

You even had a ring on your finger to prove it.

It was made of aluminium and brass. Aluminium from Coke cans, brass from bullet shell casings. Miles didn’t have enough money to buy an engagement ring. But he made the ring, himself, out of the materials. Broke into an old high school's workshop just to make it. He had even engraved your initials into the metal. You remembered the proposal. Y’all were around 21. It wasn’t fashionable or fancy. He had taken you out to the pool one evening, when there was nobody staying at the hotel, where he had set up a picnic for your birthday. It had been beautiful, all candlelit, with the ducks all swimming around, and the sun setting over the horizon.

"I love you, I love you. And even when you make me crazy, I still love you." he said to you that day. And you had kissed him, holding his face, and when you broke it, you laughed, finishing the quote. "You're the only one I ever want to drive crazy."

And now, years later, here you were. 4 years later. Hadn’t got married yet, but soon, when you had enough money. You walked around the desk, cupping his face in your hands, smirking. He holds your waist, and for a moment, you forget what you’re supposed to be doing, your breath hitched. You were whipped, that’s for sure. And so was he. You smiled at him, pathetic, and he touched your bottom lip, almost… reverent.

Even after all this time, you still felt like you just met, like it was your first date, like you were still in your ‘honeymoon’ phase. You always felt like a lovesick schoolgirl around him. You giggled, and he giggled too, clearly a bit confused. “Guess what I got.” you chuckled, reaching into your trouser pockets. Well, Miles’ trousers. You stole them from him, and he never asked for it back. He looked at you in confusion, then lit up when he saw the two paper tickets in your hand.

“No way!” He snatched the tickets from you, turning away from you to see them in the light. “On Her Majesty's Secret Service?! You got tickets?!” You nodded, grinning proudly, as he grabbed you and spun you around in the air, whooping. “You’re the best!” He LOVED James Bond. He had introduced you to the books, and had read them all himself. You yourself preferred Agatha Christie or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, at that time, an avid lover of mystery, but you were willing to dip into espionage, from time to time, and that’s how the two of you bonded. Over books. And occasionally movies. You’d walk out of the pictures, complaining about how the movie was ‘horribly inaccurate’, your ice-cream cone dripping down your hand, and Miles would just listen lovingly, head tilted, that same puppy-dog look he always gave you.

“Well, Bonnie dearest, I think we should get back to work. Tickets are for Friday. Don’t be late, or I’ll dress ya up in a frock again.” He cringed at the memory, and you stuck your tongue out at him.

“Remember, you gotta fix the lightning rod, too, yeah? It broke, so whenever lightning strikes, all the electricity goes out for days.” Ugh, Miles was bugging you about that again? You rolled your eyes, smirking. “I’ll do it in due time, love. Now come on, Miller, we got a hotel to run.”

And with this lovely crew of characters staying, you knew you weren’t surviving the night.

｡𖦹°꩜.ೃ࿔

You were going to clean Darlene’s room now, having brought her suitcase over with the cart. Darlene had been singing, and you closed your eyes, getting lost in the music. Her voice really was beautiful. After a while, you felt terrible as you broke her flow and knocked on the door.

She opened it, a startled expression on her face, before softening as she saw you. “Oh. It’s just you. Come in, come in.” You hauled her luggage in, a large flowery suitcase and an enormous roll of fabric. You knew not what this fabric was for, but you’ve seen worse.

“You making a dress, ma'am?” You chuckled, propping the roll up by the door. Obviously this wasn’t dress fabric, but she had brought damn bedrolls, as if she was trying to escape somewhere, and you were gonna lighten the mood. “For the Met Gala, I suppose.” You laughed at your own joke, and earned a small smile from her as she glanced sideways at you. You smiled back, head tilted. For a moment, the silence was comforting, but it grew weird soon enough. You changed the topic.

“I-I heard ya singing, from outside. It was real good, like, REAL good. You-you a singer? Well– I mean, yeah, you are, but are ya a professional one? Like in the shows?” You were trying and failing to make conversation, but she must have taken pity on you, because she just accepted everything you were saying, nodding. “Oh, yeah, I got myself a gig in Reno tomorrow.” “Oh, really?” You stood by the door, smiling, interested, as she unpacked her stuff, laying down wigs, clothes, etc. They were gorgeous, really. “We’ve had many customers here, who performed in Reno. All big shots, but started out small here. Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin– he wrote that song, ‘Half in California with Judy’. Ya heard it?” she shook her head, and you remembered that Laramie had asked that before, in the lobby, and she had said ‘no’ then, as well. “Ah. Wasn’t his greatest hit, no. You know what’s a good hit, though? Ain’t Dean Martin, but it’s real good. ‘Hold On, I’m Coming’ by Sam & Dave. Y’know that one?” She shook her head.

“No, no, you GOTTA have heard it! It goes like ‘Don’t you ever be sad~,” you began singing it for her. “Lean on me, when times are bad~ When the day comes, and you are down, in a river of trouble and about to drown~ Just hold on, I’m coming~” You grinned as you finished, then flushed when you realised you just sang. And, knowing you, you were probably shit. But Darlene smiled anyway.

“You’re real good.” “Ah, you’re a flatterer, Miss Sweet.” “I ain’t kidding, hon. You got talent.” “...aww, really? Thanks, ma’am! But I assure ya, the real song is better. You should use it for your set in Reno. Me and Miles LOVE that song. I got it planned for our weddin’ an’ everything.” “‘Weddin’’?” “Oh, yeah, some time in the future. I dunno when. But some time.” “Are you two engaged?” “Yeah! Got the ring to prove it.” You held out your left hand proudly. Darlene chuckled. You snatched your hand back. “I get it’s cheap, ma’am, but no need to laugh–” Darlene shook her head, still beaming. “I ain’t laughing about that, love. I find it cute that the two hosts of the hotel are engaged.” You softened, smiling back, shaking your head at the realisation. A comfortable silence settled around the room. She didn’t seem to want you to leave.

You glanced around the room, before staring at the mirror. Looked dirty, it did. You whipped out your rag, going instinctively to clean it. She glanced up at you, head tilted. “Oh, is something wrong?” “Dirty mirror. Sorry, housekeeping has been slacking on cleaning here, hasn’t it?” “Housekeeping… as in…?” “As in me.” you turn away from the mirror, towards her, sheepish. “I’ve been slacking. I apologise, I do. We ain’t got so many customers since Kennedy passed, so I’ve been a bit less keen. Well, we did have a bustling number, yeah, but it was reducing steadily, and after ‘66, things just came to a standstill, they did. Business went WAYY down. Me and Miles are barely scraping by.” You paused, glancing up at her pitiful glance. You felt heat bloom in your cheeks, and rubbed the back of your neck, sheepish.

“I’m sorry, I just hung up my dirty laundry there, didn’t I? Sorry about that. Speaking of laundry, I do the washing for a quarter and drying for 10 cents. Special dry cleaning, like suits and dresses and stuff, I do all of it for 50 cents.” Darlene raised her eyebrows. “That’s really cheap.” “It is, innit? But I wanna make it available for the people. We don’t have an actual laundromat in this place; I handwash everything, and I figured I could make some extra cash with it. I mean, I saved up money from this to buy me and Miles tickets to see the new Bond film on Friday. We’re real excited, we are.” You grinned proudly, and she smiled, sharing your joy.

“...you’re real nice, Miss Sweet, listening to me rant about my silly life. Your show in Reno, how much is it?” “Why, do you wanna come?” You nodded eagerly at that, like a little puppy. “Well, then, I’ll see if I can slip you some free tickets, kid. You and Miles.” “Oh, you’d do that for me, Miss Sweet? Wow, you really ARE nice! I’m sure to come, I promise. EEEH, I can’t wait to tell Miles!” You squealed, and she just laughed at your overexuberance.

“I best get going, delivering the rest of the luggage. Ya need me for anything, Miss Sweet, just call for me, yeah? Okay, bye now!” “Bye, hon.” “Sweet dreams! Haha, geddit, because your name’s–” “I get it, hon.” she shook her head, laughing despite herself. “Okay! Bye now!” and you walked out of the room, pushing the bellman’s cart in front of you.

Man, Darlene Sweet was such a sweet person!

You went to Father Flynn’s room next, as it was right next door. There was heavy scraping coming from inside. Darlene had started singing again.

You always felt uncomfortable around priests, ever since… the incident. Well, it was a youth pastor, but all religious figureheads looked the same to you now, so you held precaution out anyways.

You knocked on the door nervously, head craned as you listened to the priest groaning inside. Ew, was he masturbating? Did priests even do that? Probably not, they were men of faith, right? They were above that. You decided to call out to make your presence known. “Uh, Father?”

A thud from inside, and some cursing, before he responded.”Yes? Who is this?” “This is the housekeeper, Father! I have your suitcases!” You held with you two black briefcases, standing outside the door, nervous. You heard something heavy move, like a bed, and the priest came up to the door, holding it mostly shut, but peeking his head around the pine door. You smiled kindly as he looked down at you. He looked rather roughened up. And distraught.

“Is everything alright, Father?” You tilted your head, holding one of his suitcases with both hands. Damn, it was heavy, and you struggled to hoist it up. The hell was the priest carrying in here, the entire body of Christ? It did feel like a whole body was in there. Easily 130lb. And just one suitcase too. The hell?

The other one was light. Like, there was nothing in it. This one must hold the Holy Spirit, you joked to yourself. You looked up at the old man, still waiting to be let in.

“...May I bring these inside?” “Just leave them at the door–” “The floor’s dirty, Father. I’ll just set it inside– woah.” You pushed the door open, your eyes widening at the sight. This man had removed all the floorboards! And the carpet! And you were staring down at an empty cavity in the floor, around 6ft long and wide, 4ft deep. The hell was this guy doing? You looked back up at him, eyes wide. He had, frankly, no explanation.

This poor old man, he’s going insane, isn’t he? And you just embarrassed him by forcing him to open the door. “...would you like me to help ya fix this up, Father?” He quietly nodded, and you stood yourself on the floor which still existed, looking down at the hole. “Wow, you’re a proficient digger, Father, you are. Ya garden? In your convent thing, I mean. Convent? The place in Indiana– ya get it, Father, I know you do.” You started placing the floorboards back into place, smiling. This poor man. Probably senile, wasn’t he? Or Alzheimer's. “What were ya doing digging up the ground, sir?” “Ah, filly, my mind’s not what it used to be.” It was Alzheimer’s! You felt terrible for judging him earlier, and started hammering the floorboards back into place, chattering away as you did. The priest didn’t say anything.

“Ah, ya shoulda seen this place in the 60’s, Father, it was swingin’! Both the Kennedys came here, and Monroe, and all the good singers and actors! Honestly, this place was basically Hollywood away from Hollywood, ya know? I’ve worked here since I was a kid, 14, started back in ‘59. I remember one night, real scary, it was, a guy got shot here, ya know? Straight through the chest. Cleaning that was… well, I’ve cleaned many a crime scene at this hotel, I have, but y’know. First one’s always the scariest. Blood splattered all over the walls and floor, and on the mirror. He had slid down the mirror, and a trail of blood had followed him, it was disgusting. Oh, I cried that night, in the boiler room. The scariest was his eyes. They were just… empty. Like, they were a doll’s, but real.” He seemed a bit interested now.

“‘59? Do you remember his name, child?” You looked up from the floorboard you were hammering into the floor, setting your tools down. “Oh, I do. I remember, it was in his wallet. Real good wallet, it was. Like, Buxton. Nice leather– sorry, carried away. Felix O’Kelly. Yeah, that’s right. Heard he was a criminal. Him and his brother and some other guy robbed this place, and he came here and hid some money here. But I searched the whole room, trust me, and found nothing, so I think he just came here to hide from the fuzz. Got shot in that room, there.” You pointed at the wall, from which you could hear Darlene singing on the other side. “Why?”

“...he was… someone, to me.” Your eyes softened at that. No wonder this priest came! He was grieving, wasn’t he? 10 years later, still grieving. Poor old man. “Oh Father! I’m so sorry for your loss. He was buried close to the Lake, would you like me to take you–?” “No, child, it’s quite alright. Thank you for the help.” You smiled kindly, rolling the carpet back on the floor.

“...what would you need the money, for, kid? What would you use it for?” Father Flynn looked down at you, contemplative. You paused, thinking. “...maybe buy myself a house, get a new job, get Miles a new job, ya know?” You smiled weakly. “I sleep in the lobby, right now, or in the maintenance closet with Miles, and that boy is getting wayyy too big for the cot, Father, I tell ya. We don’t fit no more, heh. So yeah. Buy a room, a bigger bed. Maybe one with good springs.” You smiled up happily. He just looked down at you, pensive, but not pitiful. Thank god. You hated making people pity you. You just ran your mouth sometimes, a bit too much. But it seems you kept a cap on it this time.

“...you need anything, Father, just call for me, okay? I should get going. For a vacuum salesman, that Laramie has an insane amount of luggage, doesn’t he?” You chuckled, waving, before leaving. He dipped his head slightly, bidding you goodbye.

You walked towards Room One. Laramie Seymour Sullivan. What an asshole. Well, you found him to be. I’m not even going to write down what he did, but he basically turned the entire room upside down, and he was extremely loud, so loud you could hear him from outside, yapping in that fake-ass Mississippi accent like he always did, probably scamming some poor old lady for his cheap-ass vacuum. And he didn’t even tip you after you cleaned the room! What a jackass!

You didn’t even bother with the hippie. She was in Room Seven. She could stay there. You heard grunting from that room and screaming and you were not going to investigate that now.

Just survive until Friday, and then you can go see Bond with Miles. Just make it until Friday.

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You were cleaning up the kitchen, singing along to whatever song was playing on the jukebox in the lounge. Miles was… somewhere, and you needed a smoke break. You took off your apron, and walked outside the hotel.

It was pouring. Like, heavy. You stood under the awning, smoking a freshly-rolled blunt. The gutters could barely keep up with the torrents of rain, and with the red colour asphalt, it looked like a sea of blood outside. You watched in amazement as the cars still seemed to keep standing. You wondered if they would eventually float away in this flood, like little boats, or leaves in a river. Just drifting away, towards Lake Tahoe, sailing away. You were so high right now, weren’t you?

You watched as a man came out of the Honeymoon Suite. Ugh. That Laramie. But, he looked different. He was wearing a trench coat now, on a call with someone, his obviously fake Mississippi accent washed far away with the rain. He probably forgot some silly vacuum part, didn’t he? You followed after him, cloaked by the shadows, as he walked up to the cars.

The car he walked to wasn’t his. It was the singer– Sweet’s car. Yeah. And Sweet had been sweet. This guy wasn’t a salesman, he was a robber, and he was about to steal a car! Look– he’s opened the hood and cut the wires! You can’t have this. You stormed up to him, yanking his shoulder back. “Hey! Buddy!”

He looks back at you, his glasses blurry with rain, so he missed seeing you punching his face until it was too late. You hit him hard in the face, nearly breaking his nose. He’s startled, but immediately retaliates, punching your cheek. God, that hand was hard; he loosened a tooth!

In the rain, you two fought. You slipped a bunch of times, your movements inebriated by the high on weed, and your wooden leg giving out, but you held strong. He could barely see, this Laramie, and aimed a couple times for your groin, but you dodged. He probably had no idea who you were, who was punching him, so you did have the upper hand there. He knocked you out, though, clean out, broke your nose after slamming your face into the car hood repeatedly, then leaving you in the rain, face down on the floor, blood mingling with rainwater.

It took a while for you to wake up, but when you did, you were drenched, and Miles was dragging you inside the doors, concern filling his features. “How do you always end up in trouble, Clyde?” He pulled you into the lobby, towelling you down, as you wiped your bleeding nose. That jackass Laramie…

“He cut the wires of the cars–” You coughed violently, spitting out blood, rubbing your bruised ribs. Who knew a damn salesman could be so strong? You took out a molar, sighing. He got you good. Miles looked terrified, and was frantically wiping your face as blood trickled down from your nose. He ran off, then returned with a cold beer and a bandage to wrap up your face– because no way your right eye was supposed to be bleeding from the SOCKET, with the eye POPPING OUT– pressing the beer to the purple swelling forming. He helped you out of your sopping clothes, throwing them onto a chair, before handing you a clean blue shirtdress and brown cardigan. You had been naked in front of him before, but he still always blushed and gave you respect like a gentleman. You peeled off the trousers and shirt which clung to you, then pulled on the dress.

He had just had it laundered, you could tell. It was warm, and smelled of soap and lavender and him. You inhaled deeply, comforted by the aroma, before remembering the situation at hand.

“Miles, we gotta call the cops, he cut them wires–” “Are you kidding? We can’t call no cops!” his eyes were wide as he held your bruised face. “You forgot what we run here, Clyde? A criminal hotel! The cops come, they’ll shut this place down, they’ll arrest us! They’ll find out about the wires! The mirrors–!”

The mirrors. The double-sided mirrors which ran across the hotel. They allowed the two of you to watch all the people who stayed at this hotel, a secret tunnel running behind every room, every mirror a window into the room connected. You had to tape it, too. Management said so. There were mics and all over the suites, and in the mirror, so every ‘precious’ sound could be caught on tape. Nobody knew that they were constantly being monitored, recorded by the two unassuming kids. You had witnessed scandalous stuff, as had Miles. And you sent all the tapes to management. You had to, of course. They said to do it, so you did. You did it because they had blackmail on you. Real bad blackmail. Could ruin you. You had no idea why Miles was here, though. You hoped he wasn’t here for that reason too. He told you it was because he wanted to be with you. And to avoid the tape of you leaking, you did what management said.

To be quite honest, the two of you rebelled. Before sending tapes to management, y’all took time to edit the tapes, just enough to keep them non-incriminating, but not enough to look tampered with. It was a skill. People would come, fuck up here, and you and Miles would take ages, diligently modifying the tapes. Management had no fucking clue. You kept people safe that way. If they were horrid people, like serial killers and stuff, you didn’t even scan the tape before giving it in. But if they were just genuinely good but ultimately flawed people, you gave them a helping hand.

But there was one guy, you and Miles both decided not to give the tape to management. The politician, remember? He had been nice to ya, real nice. Treated Miles and you like people. So you didn’t give the tape. You kept it under Miles’s mattress, where it’s been all these years. Nobody had to know. You had been working here since you were 14, and you and Miles had seen enough stuff to know, some things weren’t worth revealing.

You push his arm off, scoffing. He always was too nervous. You patted his shoulder. “The fuzz have been here loadsa times, Bonnie-boy. Remember, for all the junkies? You needn’t worry your pretty head.” The music had changed to ‘Bernadette’ by the Four Tops. You giggled at that, standing up in your addled stupor, pulling the bloody towel from your nose, taking Miles calloused hands into your own. He started, muttering that you had to sit down, but you shook your head, pulling him up from the plush couch. “Dance with me, Bonnie.” You smiled, your mouth more gap-toothed now, before twirling him around. You pulled him into a jive, laughing, as he stumbled for a moment, then caught up with you.

You always danced better high.

You danced around in the lounge as the thunder clapped outside, which just provided extra lighting for your show. The two of you spun across California and Nevada, the orange hues of Cali contrasting with the purple of Nevada. It was nice, real nice, this place. On the right, on Cali, you had the orange shades, the bar, the fancy tables and plush couch. On the left, Nevada, with its gambling tables and TV and photos of all the glamour that had walked through those doors. You always joked with Miles that it was like this was Heaven and Hell, with Cali as the golden kingdom and Nevada as the fire and brimstone, and the two of you Saint Peter, the reception the pearly gates. He always laughed you off, but right now you really did feel like you were dancing with death. Maybe you were just woozy from the punching. You two eventually stopped dancing, breathless from the high.

God, he really was beautiful. You looked up into his blue eyes, biting your lip, the heat rising to your cheeks again. He looked at you, then down at his feet, laughing weakly, before you tilted his head up.

“...Miles. You okay?” “...something feels wrong. Really wrong. Something bad’s gonna happen, hon, I feel it–” you shushed him, pressing a finger to his lips. “Ain’t nothing’s gonna happen, love. Just a regular night. And plus, we can keep an eye on all of it with the mirrors, yeah? Ain’t nothing’s gonna happen, love, yeah?” you nodded emphatically, trying to get him to agree, but he looked away from you, towards the bar area. You pulled him back, smiling lovingly.

“Nothing’s gonna happen, Bonnie. Okay? And anyway, ya got me to protect ya, dontcha? Won’t let anything happen to ya.” You put a comforting hand on his cheek, which he placed his own palm on. “Hon, I fought in the war–” “–As did I, Miles.” You went a bit harder now. “That’s not the point. You can still get scared. I’m saying I got ya back. Mkay?” you nodded again, inviting him to agree, which he did. You giggled, staring down at his lips.

“Now, why dontcha stop using your lips for silly worries and put them to a better use?” Your eyes flicked up again as a red flush grew on his cheeks. But he didn’t need a second invitation. He pressed you against the wall, lips embracing yours, as he kissed you. He tasted of alcohol and tears, and you wished you knew how to fix his pain. The war left him in a state nobody should be in. And he was only 25, too. So were you, to be honest. Well, 24.

Y’all had been classmates, back in the 50’s, middle school ‘sweethearts’. You weren’t dating at the time, you were best friends, but everyone was rooting on you two as a couple. And truth be told, you had a massive crush on him, back then. Then you ran away to Vegas, but he came following, and he got shipped off to Vietnam, as did you. Well, you faked being a man, so you could find him, fight alongside him, but you never found him when fighting. You were one of the only ones who survived in your fight. Khe Sanh. January 1968. Just last year. The bloodiest battle in Vietnam. You knew Miles fought here too, but you didn’t know where he was. You still remembered the daytime, the way you, leg blown off just up to under the knee, screamed for Miles, dragging yourself around, bleeding. Everyone was dead. Everyone. Both Vietnamese and US soldiers littered the ground, their bodies half buried in the sordid muck of Vietnam. You tripped over a body, barely processing it, still screaming Miles name like a beacon in the darkness, ignoring the blood and mud pouring into your boots. Some of these men, you shot yourself. You still remembered the way you sobbed his name, desperate for an answer, proof he wasn’t dead, or proof he was, and resting in peace. Just proof of his body, so you could cradle it one last time, hold it dear, whisper sweet nothings in his ear, kiss him before you buried him, before you buried every last one of these soldiers, by hand, no shovel, no skill, just a dying woman tending to the dead.

You still remembered when you found him, praying amongst the bodies, the only life in the River Styx. You stumbled up to him, falling to your knees as you embraced him, wrapping your arms around him, sobbing into his shoulder as he sobbed into yours. You had never held anyone tighter before. You thought he was a miracle. He thought you were an angel.

And now, as you kissed him, as you sat on the wooden reception desk, as you unbuttoned his shirt, as he pulled your skirt a bit higher, hands slipping under, you felt nothing but reverence for him. He never went past 3rd base; he was a devout Christian, and you weren’t gonna force him to fuck you if he wasn’t comfortable. His hand snaked up your thigh, high up, kneading the soft flesh, as you stroked his chest. He wasn’t beefy, heavens no, he was too unhealthy for that. He was lean, a bit skinny, but still toned.. You could feel the muscle, but the scrawniness was from the addictions. His lips trailed down from yours to your neck, biting and sucking the smooth flesh there. You muffled a soft moan into his hair, fully pulling off his shirt, leaving his chest bare. He gasped at the cold, and you bit your lip. He stood there, bashful, like he didn’t realise that he looked like he was carved out of marble. He looked like a Greek god, like Apollo. But better, because he was real, and yours, and wouldn’t impregnate the entire population while he was with you. You really were the lucky one in this relationship. God, you didn’t know what you had done to deserve him, but you were blessed to have him, truly.

He stopped sucking your neck, and you knew a hickey was forming, based on his mischievous expression. His one hand had trailed up under your dress, stroking your chest with reverence, while the other still grasped your thigh. You were looking up at him, before grasping his lips in a more passionate, more sloppy kiss. Your tongue slipped between his lips, finding his tongue, dancing with it, as what felt like a million perfect electric shocks went through you. You had kissed a million times before, but every kiss felt like the first, it was true. It was like, since you got together, you two were falling more and more in love with each other, in some crazy upwards spiral. As he moved you from the table to the couches, pinned you onto your back on the plush, you loved him. As you unbuttoned the dress you just put on, revealing your chest, you loved him. As he kissed the soft flesh there, first reverent, then desperate, you loved him.

You were just about to go further when you heard glass shatter in the bar, and a thud. Both of you stopped abruptly, glancing back. You instinctively pulled the shirt back on Miles, half buttoning it, before handing him your cardigan. He looked cold. Plus, the cardigan didn’t pair with the dress, at all. You hid the hickey by popping up your collar, buttoning up your dress to hide your cleavage.

You followed the source of the sound to the bar, where you found Father Flynn on the floor, blood dripping from his head. You looked down at him, concerned, patting his face. No response. You placed him in the recovery position, trying to find a pulse. Nothing. Shit, no, not a murder, and not in this weather, man! That damn Laramie– you bloody knew he was doing this.

“Call the cops, Miles. We got a murderer in our hotel and we gotta get him outta here–” you yelped when the priest stirred beneath you, standing up. “Oh my god, this man got resurrected–”

“I didn’t die, filly.” He muttered, as Miles rushed to steady him. “Father, don’t try to move–” “I’m not your father.” Oh god, he has amnesia now! You were panicking. The El Royale didn’t have the money to pay for any lawsuits. You were flapping your hands, pacing. “Shit shit shit shit–” Miles steadied you, then steadied Flynn. He was questioning Flynn now, asking him who he was with.

“That Laramie fella, he didn’t hit ya?” you questioned, arms crossed. The priest shook his head, then mumbled about alcohol. Miles tried to dissuade him, but his resolve was strong. So you went to fix him a drink, took out 3 glasses from the bar, and sat opposite him in the circular booth. Miles remained standing.

“You can’t’a just fell, Father. You have glass in ya hair, Father, ya do. You don’t need ta protect nobody. If they threatening ya, Father, y’can tell me. I’ll call the fuzz, they’d be here double-quick, I promise.” He shook his head and his hand dismissively. “Shit happens, kid. I fell. I’m old, I said before.” You didn’t want to believe that, but he wasn’t spilling anything else.

You were getting Laramie arrested, that was final.

The priest gestured to your bust-up face. “And you? What happened?” You sighed, shaking your head. “Laramie.” “Didn’t take him for a fighter.” “Neither did I. He cut the wires to all the cars, too. Gonna call the cops on ‘im. He throws a mean left hook.” You grunt, moving your bottom jaw around, which was throbbing. The loose tooth came out again, and you just set it on the table. The priest glanced at the tooth, then up at Miles. “Think she’ll need a stronger drink, kid.” You chuckled, smiling weakly, as Miles returned with a stronger whiskey.

Miles poured out their drinks, his eyes weak and faraway. “Father… I was hoping.. I was hopin’ I could ask your help. I be gone– I be gone from the church for a long while now…” he trailed off, handing Flynn the whiskey he poured for him as you slid around the table and patted the blood off his forehead with a towel. The priest may very well be a diddler, but right now, the lawsuit was on your mind, not no diddling old man. Plus, the fear was gone, after what he said in his room. Poor fella was grieving, and here you were with all your misconceptions. Shame on you. You pressed the towel to his forehead, soaking up the crimson, and he smiled gratefully, before listening back to Miles.

“But I was devout.” He still was devout. “My whole life. Baptised. Confirmed. Never missed a Sunday ‘til I left Indiana.” “I can attest to that.” you chuckled, tilting your cup up to Miles as a cheers, before downing the whiskey. “Bonnie here dragged me to Mass every week, I tell ya. And I ain’t even a Christian. Well, I pray in private. Not at church though.” “...I was born in Indiana…” the priest mumbled, still clearly woozy. You handed him a glass of water instead of his whiskey, urging him to sip it. Which he did. Miles asked him whereabouts he came from, but got no answer. Instead, the priest had his own question.

“Why– why d’you call him Bonnie?” you grinned at that question. “Oh! Like Bonnie and Clyde–” “No, I mean, why is he Bonnie? Bonnie was a girl, no?” “Well, he’s the prettiest outta the both of us, and you know, ‘bonnie’ means pretty. So the name stuck. Innit, Bonnie?” You looked up at Miles lovingly, who looked back down at you, smiling bashfully, before his face steeled, and he remembered why he came to talk to the priest.

“Father, I was hoping… see… I got things I need to confess–” “Not right now, kid.” he glances at the blood collecting on the towel, a grimace on his face. “Okay, Father. Right, of course.” A pause. Then Miles began again, earning a sigh from the priest.

“It’s just… I’m penitent–” “He’s real penitent–” “I’m penitent, Father, I promise. I’m penitent and I’m afraid for my soul.” “So’s everybody. You’ll be fine.” The fuck? You pulled the towel away from his face. He paused, glancing at you, head tilted. You didn’t even know where to begin with this. What kinda priest just dismisses someone asking for help?

He stood up, walking from them. Miles looked distressed, so you stood up, going to comfort him. “Miles. Miles. Love. Drop it. He’s probably not even a priest, yeah? For all we know, he could be a diddler in robes. Or a robber.” Miles chose to ignore you there. That was annoying.

You hadn’t noticed Flynn scrutinising you there for a moment, before shaking his head. “You got a master key to this place?” “Did you lock yourself out of your room?” “Like I said, I’m old.” You rushed up to the drawer, going to check for the key.

Nothing. No key. Just a hook where the key would be.

Only one damn person would steal it.

“...that fucking Laramie!” you roared, storming off. You KNEW he had stolen it. You stormed into the maintenance closet– well, as well as you could with a prosthetic leg– looking under the mattress of Miles’ cot, finding the pistol you had been hiding there, before storming out again. “I’m finishing this off.” Miles tried to stop you, tried to tell you that he probably left the key in the closet, but you had lost all sense of calm at this point. Laramie was a jackass, who needed to get dealt with once and for all. Fuck arresting, you were shooting his ass now.

You didn’t know if you really were gonna kill him. But knowing him to be a man, he could be trying to diddle Darlene or the hippie, and you didn’t want that. Especially not Darlene.

“I’ll be right back, Bonnie. Just gotta deal with something first.”

You stormed outside, back in the rain. You were smart enough to wear your anorak this time. You noticed Darlene in her car, and waved. She waved back, confused, until she saw you approaching Laramie, standing outside Room Seven, where the hippie was. She began honking her horn, but no sound came out. Laramie must have cut the horn too. This bastard…

You stood in the shadows near the room, watching as Laramie knocked on the door. The hippie told him to fuck off, and he seemed to be leaving. Maybe this guy was respectable.

Until he broke the door down. Whoever was inside got flung against the wall. This bastard! You ran towards the door, ready to take him down, when you heard bangs, and a cry of pain.

An all-too familiar cry.

You ran up to the door, brandishing your pistol. If this jackass hurt anyone, he was SO–

Dead. He was dead. You stood there in shock as the man laid on the floor, dead, clutching a walkie talkie. A POLICE walkie talkie. This guy was a cop! And he just got killed…

The hippie stood over him, holding her shotgun. She had shot him, and the bullet went straight through him and shattered the mirror behind, and now was peering at the tunnel behind it. There was someone behind the mirror, clearly, who she was threatening. “KEEP YOUR FUCKING HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM! WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?!”

Miles.

You panicked, all logic leaving you. You stood at the door, the anorak doing barely anything to keep out the rain, pistol brandished as you pointed it at the hippie.

“Get– Get away from him.” Your eyes burned as you walked into the room. The hippie looked shocked, but didn’t drop her gun. You stayed strong. “Put the damn gun down and stay away from him– AGH–”

You got hit from behind with a lampshade to the head. You fell to the ground with a heavy thud, face to the floor. Your attacker? A younger girl, looking similar to the hippie. She immediately placed the table on you, which was incredibly heavy, effectively pinning you down. You could barely breathe under the weight, and your face was busted up from Laramie, and now your head was bleeding from the back, and you were real dizzy. You heard a cry from the other side of the mirror, as Miles begged them to spare you.

“Rose…” the elder hippie started, disproving. Rose shrugged. “She was getting annoying, Em.” This Em bent down, looking at you, a smirk on her face. “You work with this creep?” She gestured to Miles, who was trying to escape, but much too injured to. Em fired a warning shot, and Miles stopped, staying on the floor with a whimper. You looked up, gritting your teeth. “Leave. Him. Alone.”

“...you’ve seen too much. Come on.” And she tossed you to Rose, who held you tight, and gave Rose your pistol, so that the younger girl could hold you straight. She hoisted Miles out of the hole.

Miles' left side of his face was a mess of blood, glass and buckshot. And you couldn’t help but whimper at the sight. Because he had been right. Something would go wrong today, and you told him to ignore it. He looked at you, just as pathetic when held at gunpoint, tearing up.

“Miles–” you started, your voice a broken whisper, when Em interrupted you. “No talking.”

God, you really weren’t surviving the night, were you?

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You and Miles were tied to chairs, back to back, Em sitting opposite him. Miles was whimpering, and you were trying to hold his hand to comfort him, unable to see his face. You watched as Rose, the younger hippie, danced along the red line on the floor. Now she was in Canada, now Nevada. It would be sweet to watch in different circumstances. She looked around yours and Miles’s age, maybe younger, late teens, around 18, but she didn’t seem that age mentally.

Em started questioning. “So what is this, some sort of pervert hotel?” Miles didn’t answer. Neither did you. Miles was sobbing, and you were trying to comfort him. But this Em slapped him out of it, patting his right cheek. “Hey– cmon–”

“No– yes– I dunno– you shot me in the face!” Valid point there, babe. Em laughed. “Let’s be clear. I shot another man who had it comin’. YOU were back there being creepy–” “HE IS NOT CREEPY–” you interjected, furious. Miles was a sweetheart! “–Shut up. As I was saying, being creepy and doing god knows what and caught a face of buckshot for your trouble. Here, hold still, you got glass in your head.” “Don’t FUCKING touch him–!” “Easy, Popeye. I’m just getting glass out of his face.” You craned your neck as much as you could, glaring at her as she cleaned Miles’ face.

Miles was still crying. And for good reason. “H-how’s it look?” “I honestly can’t remember what you looked like before this, but you should make peace with the fact that things have changed.” You would have laughed at the wit if it weren’t for the situation. “Miles, you still look great, don’t listen to her–” “Down, boy, calm down–” “Oh, and I should be happy that you just shot my boyfriend, huh–?” “He was collateral–” “I’ll show YOU COLLATERAL–” you struggled in your chair, trying to get out of your restraints, but at the sound of Miles whimpering, you stopped, concern flooding your features instead. “Honey–”

“A-are you gonna kill us?” His voice was weak as his hand grasped yours tightly. You went silent too, settling down back in your chair. That’s right, your life was on the line. Again. You seemed to always have your life on the line in this hotel, but this time Miles was with you. So you shut up. You didn’t want him dying because you were wagging your tongue about, spewing filth.

Em sat facing Miles, smiling weakly. “How can I not, after what the two of you’ve seen?” “You ain’t gotta kill us–” “We seen worse. And we ain’t said a thing.” Miles was confident now. Well, confident as he could be in the circumstances. You let him take the lead here, holding his hand for support. “The pair of you’ve seen worse than a man getting sawn in half with a shotgun?” A pause, then you laughed, remembering what you’ve seen. Because this… gunning, ain’t nothing, hon.

Miles told her. The two of you had seen a Senator beat up a whore so bad, she had to shove her own stocking where her teeth were to keep from bleeding out from the mouth. Y’all saw a junkie paint ‘Sorry’ on the wall with his own filth, as if that would make it easier to clean the next day. You and Miles were 17, then, and you had to scrape off the filth of the guy’s cold, junkie body. You threw up 3 times that day, just from the smell, let alone the sight.

One time Miles saw a man lay with a wolf once. The guy dragged in a full-grown, feral wolf by the chain into the room, took it up to bed, ties it up. The wolf was howling the whole time, you remember it yourself. Then the man took all his clothes off, climbed in the bed beside it, and held it all night. It wasn’t sexual, Miles said, but it wasn’t not sexual either. Guy just laid there, crying, saying ‘help me’ all night as he held the wolf.

You told her when you were 16, you watched as this guy brought these three girls in, all teenagers. He was a rich man, he was, and he brought these girls in, a little older than you, all drugged up and confused, and he diddled all of them. Tied them up and barely gave them a minute’s rest, and then he fell asleep in the bed and left them on the floor, bleeding and messed up and all. You told her how you and Miles slipped in, in the night, and called the cops, and got the girls out to safety, ‘cause it was the right thing to do, but management said not to call the fuzz on the man, and you two were kids and scared of going against them. So you didn’t say a word.

“And we never told nobody ‘b-bout none o’ that.” Miles declared, his conviction lacking but the sentiment there.

Em smirked. Not in a good way. In a scary way, like ‘you two really should have kept your pretty lil mouths shut’ kinda way. “I ain’t so sure you shoulda told me that now.”

You hear a squeal behind you. Rose had been stacking chairs earlier into a rudimentary ladder, and was now swinging from the chandelier. “Careful– you’ll fall, kid!” You yelped, listening as the chandelier creaked overhead. Back and forth, back and forth, she swung, and you feared less about dying now and more about the kid getting injured.

Em looked exasperated, lighting a cigarette. Miles continued. “Y-you don’t have to kill us. What could we even say about you, anyway? ‘Some girls shot a guy who was gonna shoot them? We don’t even know your names.” “I’m Rose!” Rose answered, swinging faster now. You couldn’t stop the giggle that came out from your lips. This kid really was innocent.

“Don’t tell them your–” Em looked more panicked. “Rose Summerspring. That’s my sister Emily.” Well, the cat’s outta the bag now.

You smirked. “Well, I ain’t so sure you shoulda told us that now.”

Emily stood up, grabbing her shotgun. Your face paled as you thought she would just end you now. But she just walked to the front desk. “What’s y’all’s names?” “Miles. Miles Miller.” “I ain’t telling you my name.” You hissed, eyes dark. “…But I guess you can call me Clyde.” Emily paused. Then barked out a laugh. “Clyde? Like, ‘Bonnie and Clyde?’ That’s ridiculous.” She stood at the ledger at the front desk, holding it up. “Nice to meet you, Miles and… Clyde.” Then, with a shuddering rip, she tore out today’s page from the ledger.

“Where’s the others?”

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You were walking along the tunnel at the back of the rooms, which was pitch black in itself, only illuminated from the rooms themselves, light shining in through the double-way mirrors. Your hands were bound with rope, cutting circulation, and Emily was pointing her shotgun at you, holding you prisoner as you led her through the tunnels.

“Why can’t ya just walk alone? Why’d ya gotta bring me?” You were nervous, and fiddling with your engagement ring, but you weren’t crying, not yet. You never did cry, usually, even when you lost your leg. Miles usually countered that. That boy weeped like he was trying to end the water crisis with his tears himself. You took him to see Old Yeller in the pictures, when it came out and he was sobbing so much, you were worried he’d dry up in the inside, using up all his water. You always made sure to keep him hydrated, out of that fear. The last time you cried, it was when Miles proposed to you, and you were crying tears of joy. You hadn’t cried since.

You walked past Room One, where Laramie– no, the cop, he’s a cop, Special Agent Dwight Broadbeck. Yeah. Walked past Room One, where Laramie had torn the place up, no doubt looking for mics and cameras. That’s what cops do. Rooms Two and Three were empty, and no light came from them. In Room Four, the room was empty, but light came. Clearly recently occupied. Must have left in a hurry. I would too, if I heard the bangs in Room Seven. Room Five had the most interest. Darlene Sweet was singing. Well, you couldn’t hear it, but you could see her. She had taken off her wig, and was standing there, facing the mirror, singing. Almost like she wanted to be seen.

The priest was missing. You hoped that poor man was okay. You hadn’t even got him a bandage for his head. Maybe Miles patched him up when you left, and then went down the tunnel.

You stopped in front of the mirror, watching Darlene on the other side. There was a black box, a speaker, attached to the mirror, with a switch on it. You touched the cool brass knob, and flicked it. With a crackle, the speaker came to life.

Darlene sounded amazing. You just stood by the mirror, listening, closing your eyes, as Emily stood behind you. She even put down her gun. You swayed along with the singing, admiring her voice, the smooth, bluesy notes embedding themselves deep in you, filling your veins with honey and warm wine. Emily came to stand right next to you, and you looked up at her, then back at Darlene, as she sang and clapped, a metronome ticking in the background. Darlene walked right up to the mirror, almost standing nose to nose with Emily, only the glass separating them. And it's now when you realise…

She can see you. Through the mirror, she could see you.

She screams at the mirror, still singing. “I KEEP WAITING–!” Emily yelps, backing away. Darlene glances down at you, smirking, winking, before continuing to sing.

Miss Sweet had a plan. Maybe she was gonna save you all, from Emily.

For a moment, the only noise came from Room Five, before Emily hastily switched the speaker off. You went quiet, looking up at her with wide eyes. She didn’t look back, still staring at Darlene, who was lost in the music. Complete silence now. Then you broke it.

“...what’s the girl to you?” You looked back at Darlene. “Rosie, my sister?” “Yeah. Rosie. Why’d– why’d you kidnap her?” “...She was being held, by a bad man. He… brainwashed her. Corrupted her. Made her something she ain’t. So I’ve taken her away to safety.” “This place ain’t safe.” “I can see that.” Silence again. You broke it again.

“...Miss Summerspring. I– I understand you gotta kill us. I got that. B-but please don’t kill the others.They’re innocent, I tell ya, Miss Summerspring, they’re innocent. The lady, Miss Sweet, she’s a singer– she’s got a show in Reno tomorra, she’s gonna be real famous one day– the talent she has, ma'am, the talent– The priest, Father Flynn, came to see his late brother. He’s grieving, Miss Summerspring, he’s grieving– he’s got dementia, he’s poorly–” Emily looked like she started to soften, so you continued. “And d-don’t kill Miles, please, Miss Summerspring. He’s done nothing wrong, he has, he’s just doing his job–”

Emily finally looked down, head tilted. “The pervert–?” “I assure you, he’s NOT a pervert, ma'am. I’m worse than him, I tell ya.” “Yeah, whatever. What’s he to you?” You paused, for a moment. What could you even say, to encompass how you felt? “W-what’s he to me? He’s everything to me! H-he’s my best friend, ma’am. Best in the whole world. Heck, I fought in Vietnam justa find him.” You were getting more animated now. “He’s my closest friend. He’s more than any friend! He’s my fiancé! He–He’s my other half! He’s the damn reason I wake up in the morning, or eat or sleep or bother to take care of myself, the only reason I’m still alive, let alone working in this godforsaken criminal hotel!” You took a few breaths here, panting. You realised hot tears were rolling down your cheeks, and rubbed one bound hand to your face. “I love him, and he loves me, and I’ve never felt happier or safer with anyone. And I’ve been with men, ma'am, I know how they are, and he ain’t it. He’s a true angel, ma’am, and he don’t deserve to die this soon. He only 25, ma’am, he’s a littlun, please–” Emily shut you up with her hand.

“How about I make you a deal, kid?” You nodded before she could even say it. “Okay then. Your choice. You ready?” She bent down, holding her knees, smirking. “More than anything.” “You sure? It’s a tough one.” “It won’t be.” “Okay, here goes. Don’t say I didn’t warn ya.” she laughed, a wide smile spreading across her lips. “Either, I kill him, or I kill you. Make your pick.” You paused. This wasn’t even a hard decision. “...obviously, me.” You looked up, conviction dripping from your voice. “Oh, spare you–?” “No.” Your voice was harder now. “Spare him. Kill me.”

Emily paused, looking down at you, before she burst into laughter. You looked up at her in confusion. “Why you laugh–?” “Oh, you’re so smitten, aren’t you?” She was grinning, patting your head like you were Rosie or something. You felt so undermined. “God, you’re adorable. I’ll think about it. Come on. Let’s get back to your loverboy.” “...is he okay, with Rosie?” “The kid’s harmless. Mostly. Your damsel will be fine.” “You sure?” “Positive.”

You get dragged back to the lobby, watching Miles pleading with Rosie for your lives. The chandelier was on the floor. Clearly Rose had broken it. She seemed unfazed, using a log from the fireplace to light up braziers around the room. You broke free from Emily, not caring if you get shot, going to hug Miles tightly. He broke down in your shoulder, and you just clung to him, letting his blood stain your clothes, your blood staining his. Emily was still holding the barrel to the back of your head, so you didn’t try to make any escape.

You looked down at him. Face to face. You couldn’t see out of your right eye because of the bandages, and Miles was wounded on the left side of his face. So it lined up. You grinned, and he probably saw the irony too, so he grinned too, albeit more tearfully.

You kissed his forehead, still sitting in his lap, before cupping his face in your bound hands. “...you still look real pretty, Bonnie. You even cry pretty.” You brushed away some tears, and he looked down, slightly blushing, chuckling despite himself. Emily finally got you off him, tying you back to back with him on the chair. She walks up to the reception again, putting her shotgun down, drumming her fingers against the wood. Something’s not right.

“Where’s the priest?” Both of you went silent. Miles shifted uncomfortably, and you looked away. Emily asked again. “Miles?” “I–I dunno–” “But you know something, dontcha?” Emily smirked, before pulling out a bag.

Heroin.

“This yours?” Miles nodded at that. “You want it?” Miles nodded again. “Then where’s the priest?” “I don’t know! I promise. I wanna find him, too. Please.” You heard him whimper. He was sobbing again, and you hated that you couldn’t hug him. “Please, I’ll do whatever you want–” “Miles, no–” “We’ll do whatever you want! J-just let me talk to the priest when you find him. J-just lemme talk to him before you kill me–” “You ain’t gonna die, Miles, I won’t let ya–” “What are you talking about–” “Miss Summerspring offered me a deal, that you could die or me. A–and I chose me–” “What?! NO! FUCK NO–” “Miles–” “YOU AIN’T DYING!” He was screaming now, sobbing, trying to look back at you. He had never yelled at you before. “I WON’T LET YOU DO THIS!” “Miles– listen–” “NO! YOU ARE THE BEST THING THAT’S EVER HAPPENED TO ME! I WOULDN’T BE ALIVE WITHOUT YOU! YOU’RE THE ONLY REASON I STAY AT THIS HOTEL, THE ONLY REASON I HAVEN’T KILLED MYSELF YET, AND THE ONLY REASON I CAN HAVE A HAPPY LIFE IN THIS SHITHOLE–” “MILES–” “NO! YOU LISTEN! YOU WILL NOT DIE! I CAN’T LIVE WITHOUT YOU–” “I CAN’T LIVE WITHOUT YOU EITHER–” “WILL BOTH OF YOU SHUT THE FUCK UP?! I SWEAR I’LL SHOOT BOTH OF YA!” You and Miles looked back at Emily, who was trying to think, pinching her nose bridge. Never before had she ever met such an adorable yet suicidal couple. Honestly, it was both heartwarming, heartbreaking and utterly ridiculous.

Rose laughs from behind, holding up the flaming wood. “I be tryna tell ‘im, we might not have to kill ‘im. But it’s not up to us.” You watched as Emily’s face fell. That’s not good. If the killer is scared, and it ain’t your salvation, then you know you’re screwed. “Who’s it up to, Rosie?” No response from the other girl, but a small smile played on her face. “Rosie… what did you do”

｡𖦹°꩜.ೃ࿔

You didn’t expect Emily to be tied up too, now. Y’all were all sitting around the roulette table, in Nevada, Emily on your right, Miles on your left. Darlene was being tied up next to Miles, and Father Flynn was the furthest away. Thunder cracked from outside, and cult members stood around you, none older than 30, holding their guns at you guys. One wrong move, and y’all are dead.

And in front of you all, half shirtless, was Billy Lee. He was around 30, now, same blond hair, same arrogant stance, same bounce and dance to his walk. You had met him before. Cult leader around these parts. He had stayed here a couple times, you had hosted him yourself, and he clearly recognised you and Miles. I mean, he even called you guys ‘Bonnie and Clyde’ when he came in with his goons. So he remembered you, for sure. It had been, what, 9 years since you saw him? Yeah, you were 15. He had even tried to get you to join his cult. You hadn’t gone along with it. You feared management way too much. And you were loyal to Miles.

You grasped Miles’ hand under the table, tight. He was turned to the Father now, pleading for forgiveness. “Bless me Father, for I have sinned–” he was sobbing, and you were basically begging the priest with your eyes; you hadn’t asked to be blessed because you had long accepted that Hell was your final resting place, but Miles wasn’t beyond redemption.

Billy Lee was holding Rosie, the latter smiling, giving Billy that look you always gave Miles. Billy was glaring at Miles. “Kid, if you don’t shut up, I’m gonna tie your mouth shut.” Miles didn’t care. “Father, please– MMMPH–” Billy had gestured for a cult member to gag him with her bandana. You attempt to stop it, but get whacked in the back of the head with the butt of another cultist’s rifle. Miles whimpers, and clutches your hand tighter. You don’t let go. Your other hand was using the sharp edge of your engagement ring to cut at the ropes around your wrists. And it was working.

Billy kisses Rose. Smooths her hair. Then picks up a red bag, which Darlene had been holding, and a can.

The film can. From under Miles’s mattress. He had shown someone. You glared at Miles. He had sworn never to tell anyone where it was. He just looked sheepish, then gestured to Father Flynn, who was avoiding eye contact.

Billy Lee empties out the bag on the roulette table. Cash, shit tonnes of it, pour out. He tosses the can on the table too.

He whips out the ledger page Emily had torn out earlier, before going around the group. “Im guessing you’re Father Flynn, which makes the dead guy in Seven Laramie Seymour Sullivan.” He smirked at the priest, before turning to Darlene. “And you’re Darlene Sweet, right? Though I suppose you could be Fuck You, but something tells me that’s my Emily here. And I know you two, Bonnie and Clyde.” He turned to Miles and you. “Any other people in this hotel?” The two of you shook your heads.

Billy scans his name tag. “Miles. I’m gonna have my friends search this hotel. They find other souls, you die bad and I fuck your little girlfriend here. Understand?” Miles nodded, but he grabbed your hand tighter. He wouldn’t let anything happen to you.

Billy thought. Then he sent off his goons to stand guard and search the other rooms. Then he sat across Emily.

“Em.” “Billy Lee.” “You left without saying goodbye.” He lit a blunt. The smell had you craving it. Emily didn’t respond. “Did you think I wouldn’t take offense?” “Naw, I figured you would.” She looked calm, too calm. “But I’d be ready when you did.” Billy barked out a laugh. “You don’t look ready.” “You caught me on a bad night.” “Ain’t that the luck!” Billy laughed, then bent down to Emily, whispering. You couldn’t hear what he said. Rose said something too, but you were too busy staring at Miles. You shook his hand under the table, grabbing his attention.

“Hey, hey, Bonnie. Bonbon. I-It’s gonna be okay, yeah? I won’t let nothing happen to ya, trust me–” Billy Lee’s harsh laugh rang out, silencing you. “You think you got any dominion here, Clyde?” He cackled, placing his revolver on the table. “These are my games, darlin’. And when I play, I always win.”

Rose had poured him out a drink. Scotch. Your favourite one. You grumbled, but stayed silent as he took a swig. “So what is this, then, some pervert hotel?” He glances at Miles, waiting for an answer. What was he supposed to say? He was gagged. Father Flynn took over. “The kid can’t answer you. You tied his mouth shut.” Billy glanced at you for an answer. You didn’t say anything. You assumed that by the end of this, he’d let you live, because he always did have a fancy for you, so being quiet wasn’t gonna affect you much. But you’d probably become his concubine or something, which wasn’t ideal either.

So he turned back to the priest. “Why don’t I ask you then? Why don’t I ask the priest walking outta the hotel with a bag full of money?” Father Flynn paused, then continued. “Alright, then, yes. I think this is some sorta pervert hotel. Kid told me the two of them film people doing… whatnot, then sends the films off to their bosses.” “Who are their bosses?” “Bad people.” You piped up. Billy glances back at you, almost pleased you were talking. But you didn’t give him more. He sighed, turning back to the priest. “And he just offered this up to you?” “I think he was trying to confess. I think it’s been weighing on him.” They all glance at Miles. “I think he’s tryna confess right now. Because he knows how this is gonna go. And he fears for his soul.” “That ain’t what he’s confessing for.” You mutter, sighing, but going unheard. Billy Lee smiles, then pats Miles on the cheek.

“If you're so worried about your soul, kid, maybe you shouldn’t be doing all this bad shit in the first place, huh?” That made you laugh. Bitter, but strong. Miles laughed with you, because the naivety of this cult leader was hilarious. All 4 other people around the table watched the two of you in curiosity as your laughter grew stronger and stronger. You really were concussed, high and bloodless, weren’t you, laughing in the face of death like that? Because you couldn’t stop laughing, couldn’t even stop when the tears were rolling down your cheeks, when your entire body was shaking in a mix of laughter and sobs. Miles even stopped laughing and looked at you in concern as pain racked through your body, as you sobbed, hiccuped and suffocated, broken and insane. You never cried. So this was new. For everyone watching.

Because it was so fucking easy for Billy to say that, wasn’t it? He didn’t know what they went through. He didn’t know their life was on the line, everyday, huh? He didn’t know they were being held at gunpoint to do their job. Half the cameras in this damn hotel were trained on them. When management said to do something, they did it. Heck, the one time they didn’t, when they didn’t send the tapes, they sure got punished. Bad. Worse than you could imagine. And they can’t run; well, you can’t run. You’re held here by blackmail, and Miles just wants to be with you, so he came here too.

You remember how you joined the hotel. You were 14, running from home. You had stolen your brother’s jeep, and drove here, running away from being married off to some asshole. You drove across the US, fuelled by nothing but coffee, crack and KFC, from Indiana to Nevada. You had planned to go to Vegas. You didn’t have many skills, so you were planning to be a showgirl at the clubs. You had only told Miles where you went, and some months later, he followed, but not before you managed to ruin your life.

You had been accepted as a showgirl, yeah. A burlesque one, too. Higher paying. You told them you were 18. They weren’t bothered to check. And you got money, you did, good money. And you were excited, because you had planned to run back to Miles in Indiana and live with him and your pot of money. You had planned it all, even at 14: white picket fence, and you and him would be husband and wife and you’d have your honeymoon at Coney Island and go on the Cyclone everyday and eat cotton candy and play and everything would be all fine, all alright, and you’d be happy with Miles, and he’d be happy with you. So you worked your ass off as a performer, doing everything you were told.

And then shit happened.

There had been a fire at your place. The place you were staying at, that is, not work. Nearly all your possessions got burnt down, except the ones you had in your bag, which you had taken with you to work. So, with what little money and clothes you had left, and your dad’s pistol for protection, you booked a room at the El Royale. Room One, Nevada side, to be exact. The one Laramie had stayed in.

Now, you were just minding your own business, when someone broke in, in the middle of the night. And you couldn’t see shit, but you could hear him, and you weren’t getting diddled tonight. So you picked up your pistol from under your pillow, sitting up, silent. In the dead of night, the only light coming in was the moon. And it shone down on this guy, giving him a silver outline. Bingo.

You fired, 3 times, from your bed. The man went down. But he got up again, grunting. Oh, this asshole really didn’t know when to stop. So, you stood on the bed, then grabbed the lampshade, and started bludgeoning this guy with it. He was trying to crawl into bed, still, after everything, so you didn’t stop. You knew you were covered in blood by this point, but you only stopped when he stopped moving.

You didn’t move. You sat there, with the body, panting, silent, before turning the lights on. The man was face down on the bed, the back of his skull smashed open, blood staining the sheets worse than any period could do. You stood there, panting, before gently lifting the head up to see the face of the intruder, in case he was still alive, still ready to attack.

Fuck. That was an actor. A real popular one. You had seen him in so many shows. But the El Royale had a reputation for ending successful careers.

Someone came in the room, from Room Two. The wife. This guy wasn’t gonna diddle you. This guy was trying to sneak into bed to see his wife, and entered the wrong room, and was too drunk to process himself in danger. And you just killed him. The wife came in, and started screaming, so you shot her too. Couldn’t have her tell anyone. So now you had two dead bodies, and nowhere to hide them.

Well. Actually…

You opened up the floorboards. Shoved the bodies there, buried them 6ft deep, then sealed it up. Nobody would find them. Who looks under the floorboards? Felix O’Kelly wasn’t the first crime scene you’ve ever cleaned up. No. The first one… was your own.

At the time, you thought your secret was safe. You cleaned everything up, made it look like nothing ever happened. You found out that everyone had the same lock and key at the hotel, which made sense why the actor had accidentally come into your room in the dead of night. You made it look like they left in a hurry, covering up your tracks brilliantly. But on your third night at the hotel, you didn’t expect to get a notice to speak to management at the hotel.

You spoke to them. They told you they had it all taped. The murder, the cover-ups, everything. You didn’t have anywhere to run, and they had concrete proof. They gave you two options. The last staff members had died in a previous shootout, so you could either take their place and work at the hotel, basically as a slave, or run away, and have the cops hound your ass, get found, tried, executed. So you took option one. Worked here.

And everyday, you regret it.

Heck, the war had been an escape, can you believe it? You preferred the war to the hotel. At this point, you were just inviting death, waiting for the end, waiting patiently. You wouldn’t kill yourself, that would destroy Miles, and he was damaged enough. But you had such little survival instincts. Heck, you’ve looked down the barrel of a gun so many times these past 10 years, you barely even flinch anymore. It’s like an old, dangerous friend, at this point.

Fuck, why didn’t you just stay in Indiana in the first place?

Billy didn’t want your crying, so you got gagged too, but you didn’t stop sobbing until you got socked in the face by a goon. Completely unprompted from Billy. And he didn’t look too pleased. But he left it. You still were crying, but silent now, and Miles just put his head on your shoulder, to try and comfort you. That did work, yeah. Your breathing slowed as you rested your head on his, thinking. Emily’s and Billy’s and Dock’s and Darlene’s and Rose’s voices faded in and out of your thoughts. You barely processed them. You were thinking.

That cop, Dwight Broadbeck…he came investigating the murder. Didn’t he? That’s why he booked Room One, the room you stayed in. The room you buried their bodies in. That's why he tore up the whole room. He wasn’t just looking for surveillance. He was looking for the corpses.

That means, management released the tape. The fuzz knew. And they were coming for you.

You would go to jail. Or die here. Or become a cultist. And you didn’t find either particularly enticing, maybe the second one. Tears welled up in your eyes again, but you were snapped out of it when Billy spoke to Miles. “Well, I guess that makes you black, altar boy.” And he spun the roulette wheel. You processed what was going on. Billy was gonna kill either Emily or Miles, with a 50/50 chance. If it landed on red, Emily died, Miles lived, and vice versa.

You were praying, to any gods above, that it landed on red.

Miles started coughing, so Billy took pity, and let him speak, removing the gag. He immediately began begging Father Flynn to bless him. You watched the ball in horror, your eyes weak. You couldn’t even do anything, now. You just prayed, prayed harder than you ever had before, willing the ball into a red spot.

Come on, red, red, please God, hear a sinner’s prayer. You don’t ever ask for much, but grant you this one, please.

“Forgive me father, for I have sinned, please, I done so much worse than you know–” Billy started laughing at Miles’ sobs, but he continued. “Father Flynn, please, I have sinned and I repent–” He was shaking now, screaming, pleading. “Kid–” The fuck was he hesitating for?! “FORGIVE HIM YOU SICK FUCK–” You screamed under the gag. “Do you wanna tell him do you want me to do it?” Billy was smiling, too much now. You stopped yelling, your eyes landing on the cult leader, paling as you processed what Billy meant by that.

Oh no.

But Miles hadn’t realised yet. “I HAVE SINNED AND I REPENT–” “Miles–” “He’s not a fucking priest, kid!” Silence. Miles stopped begging, his eyes filling with realisation, then pain and betrayal. He saw the priest for who he really was. A conman. A fake. An idol. He went silent, completely, before letting out a pained wail and burying his head in your shoulder, sobbing. “...Miles, I’m sure you won’t go to hell–” you tried comforting him. “I will.”

The ball came to a stop in the tray. You held Miles hand tighter. Please, be red– “Well, it looks like the Lord hasn’t forsaken you yet.” Billy smirked, picking up his revolver. BANG BANG BANG! Emily lay dead on the floor, next to you, crimson pooling around her, pouring from her chest, tears in her eyes.You stared in horror. Then gasped in relief, as Miles remained alive. You put your head on his shoulder, panting, before glaring up at Father Flynn.

Rose didn’t even look fazed at her sister's death. You saw what Emily meant by ‘corrupted’. That was cold, cold, cold.

“Miles, hon– hon–” you had removed your gag, whispering to him as he rocked back and forth, staring at Emily on the floor. You were trying to avoid looking down, trying to distract him. “Bonnie– Bonnie-boy–” “I’m going to hell–” “No you ain’t–” “I am, I’m goin–” “You didn’t have a damn choice–” “I’m a monster–” “I’ve done SO much worse– “I don’t wanna go to hell–” “Miles–” “I don’t wanna go to hell–” “Miles–!” “Kids, if you don’t shut the fuck up, I’ll make you play again. Against each other.” Billy threatened. You both shut up.

“Where’s the money from?” Billy was focused on the so-called priest. “I stole it from a bank a decade ago. Hid it here, but got myself caught by the cops. Did some time, got out a few days ago, came back tonight to retrieve it.” “Tonight?” The priest nodded at Billy’s question. The cult leader continued. “Why you dressed up like a priest?” Miles was glaring at Flynn, eyes burning. “I didn’t want too many questions. People tend to look the other way when you’re wearing a collar.” Billy seemed satisfied by that.

“...Felix O’Kelly… the guy in Room Five… the money’s– you and her were gonna leave without us–” You looked up at the priest, your eyes weakening, as he struggled to make eye contact, almost ashamed of using you. Then you looked at Darlene, who hung her head low, also feeling bad for trying to leave you behind. God, you spent YEARS looking for that money. Searched the entire grounds of the hotel, looking. You had planned to give it to management, to bail you out, so you and Miles could escape, and finally buy yourself a bed, a house, a safe place with Miles, maybe even get married. And instead, you unwittingly revealed its location to Father– no. You knew who he was. His real name. You remember it on the news, his face burned into the TV screen, into your mind. Dock O’Kelly. Bank Robber.

You looked pathetic now. Years, years you wasted looking for it, and you gave it all up in a night. You couldn’t cry, you ran out of tears already. You were too tired to be angry, much too scared, too, so you just pathetically smiled, shaking her head. “...I’m sorry. Got no right to say nothin’.” Billy began questioning Darlene, who shifted nervously in her seat. “I’m just a singer. The money happened to be hid in my room. He said he’d split it with me if I helped him get it back.” “‘Course he did.” Billy Lee laughed, before picking up the film can, waving it around a bit. “‘Cus that ain’t even the real score, is it, padre? No, ‘cus you found this.” He slams it down on the table, making you jump. “Which one of ya filmed it?” You and Miles went silent, then you gestured to Miles with your head. Billy laughed. “Shame, you coulda made a pretty buck on this if you sold it.” He turned to Darlene. “I bet he didn’t tell you about this, did ‘e? Don’t you even wanna see who’s on it–?” “No.”

You looked up at Darlene, eyes wide. In fact, everyone looked at her with wide eyes. Even Billy, who again tried to convince her.

“Darlin’, then you ain’t understandin’ what’s on this–” “Stop. Stop talking.” Girl had balls of steel. Respect. “I don’t need to look at the film. Let me guess..” She pretended to think, glancing at you, before the smallest hint of a smile played on her lips, and she looked back at Billy, resolute. “It’s some man… who talks, a lot. He talks so much… he thinks he believes in something. But really…” And she made direct eye contact with Billy here. “He just wants to fuck who he wants to fuck.” Billy looked surprised. But also mildly impressed. Darlene went on. “I’ve seen that enough. I’m not even angry about it anymore.” A glance at Dock, then Miles, then you again. “I’m just tired.” You nodded. You were tired too. Tired of diddlers, or cultists, or people trying to make you be something you ain’t.

“I’m just bored.” Darlene was glaring directly at Billy now, accusatory. “You think I don’t see you for what you are? A fragile little man, preying on the weak and the lost.” You glance up at Rosie at that, making eye contact. She really was brainwashed, wasn’t she? Emily was right. Billy started to speak. Darlene cut him off. “I’ve heard it. I don’t care.” She settled back in her seat, looking out the windows, before looking back at Billy, locked in a staring contest. “I’d rather sit here and listen to the rain.”

Silence from the people. You heard the rain pouring outside. You looked, watching two of the cultists loading Dwight’s body into the boot of their car. Ew.

“...You go right ahead.” Billy’s voice brought you back, as he glanced back at Dock. “Why didn’t you just leave when you had the film? That’s worth way more than some bag of money.” Was this 20 questions? Why was he asking so much? Dock was thinking. Then spoke. “I did time for that money. My brother died for that money. That money’s mine.” “That money’s ours.” Darlene corrected. “And what about us?” You piped up, serious. “You woulda continued searching if I hadn’t told ya where it was. And ya wouldn’t have the film if Miles didn’t tell ya.” If they were planning on ditching you with the cash, you wanted your fair share. Miles looked at you in confusion. You were speaking like a criminal now, not the girl he knew and loved.

See, Miles didn’t know what you did in Vegas, or the crimes you committed, or why you worked for the hotel. And he didn’t know why suddenly you were speaking like you had robbed a fella or two before. Which you had, in Vegas. He also had no idea where the money had been buried, or that Felix O’Kelly existed. And he certainly didn’t know about the murders. But now, people knew. The cops knew. And they were coming from you. And you were planning on using the money as bail now. Miles would understand. Right?

Dock shook his head, looking down. You weren’t wrong. You had technically revealed the location, and you had a valid reason for using it, to free yourself from the technical slavery you and Miles were under. So he just sighed. “Filly’s right. That money is theirs too.” Darlene seemed to agree wholeheartedly, even though she didn’t know why Dock was suddenly sharing with you two.

Rose started talking, and Billy spouted some bullshit on how ‘the memory of a man matters more than the man himself’. Like, shut up, Charles Manson. And then the questions start again.

“Who’s gonna come looking for this money?” “Nobody.” Dock looked almost confused. “Somebody’s always looking for money.” “They’re all gone. ‘Cept me.” “And who are you again? Let’s say I wanna check this story out… who am I looking for? What’s your real name, father?”

Dock nodded. “It’s…” And he trailed off, his eyebrows furrowed, as he was thinking. “It’s… um…” He looked desperate now, racking through his memory, as the panic filled his face. Because… he couldn’t even remember his own name.

Dock looks at Miles, then at Darlene, almost pleading. “D-did I tell you my real name?” “You never did.” “Really?” Billy looked unamused, gripping his gun tighter. “Now you wanna start playing games again?” Darlene came to his defence. “He can’t remember. His mind– it ain’t all there no more.” “That’s what he told you.” “He did.” “And you believe anything this old crook says.” “I believe that much, yeah.”

Meanwhile, Dock was staring at you, desperately, because you knew his name, you HAD to know. You knew, you did, and he needed his name back, he needed it. And he had wanted to leave you behind. Let you get killed by Emily, who was dead now, anyway. Run away with the money, not even sharing with you, which would be the decent thing to do, since you buried his brother he cared so much about. And he knew that. And he had fooled Miles, made him believe he’d be okay, he could have a chance of salvation, until the last minute. He fooled Miles into thinking that the young man could be saved, and now it was too late to fix it. And both of you were thinking that, at the same time. Screw Dock.

But you saw his face. Saw the desperation, the pain, the fear of losing himself, losing himself to a battle he couldn’t win. To a sickness he couldn’t control. And, damn your compassionate side, you no longer saw the conman who had fooled you and given Miles false hope. You saw a poor, addled, grieving old man, the one who was standing in his room, as you fixed the floorboards, trying to figure out where he was. And you may be a murderer, but you hoped you weren’t a monster yet.

“...Your name is Dock O’Kelly, father. Your brother is Felix O’Kelly. Y-you remember?” You smiled weakly, head tilted, trying to see him out of your one good eye. He smiled gratefully, nodding.

“...my name is Dock O’Kelly.” He said it with stronger conviction now, less to Billy Lee and more to himself, hearing it roll off his tongue and reverberate in the air, as if he got back a precious memory.

“...let’s see if we can’t jog a bit more, eh? Darlene. Pick. A. Colour.”

Just as he said that, a thunderbolt clapped. Loud. And all the power went out for the hotel. The jukebox, which you hadn’t noticed until now, went silent. Miles glanced at you. “You didn’t do the lightning rod, did ya?” “Are you serious?! We’re gonna die and you’re scolding me?” “I’m just saying–” “Priorities, Miles!” “You never do it and we always lose customers–” “We’re about to lose our lives! You nearly died! Enough about the damn rod! It’s just the dark!”

You looked up. Billy looked… scared? He looked scared. Real scared. But he laughed it off. “Oof, that’s right unsettling.” “Not really.” I mean, y’all could still see. The braziers Rosie lit earlier illuminated the lobby in a lovely warm glow only you seemed to appreciate.

“It’s quiet again.” Billy shivered. Wow. Big scary cult leader was scared of the dark? The guy who just killed someone over roulette, as an example, was afraid of the dark? You couldn’t stop the laugh that rose from deep within you. Miles grabbed your hand, shutting you up. Don’t goad the guy with the gun. Please. He couldn’t lose you, over this.

You nodded, going quiet. Billy asked Darlene to sing. Promised she wouldn’t have to play roulette if she sang. So Darlene sang. And by god, was it beautiful. You never heard better. She sounded angelic. Deep, honeyed, rich, creamy tones, and you closed your eyes, blissful, head resting on Miles’. You found yourself slipping into a daydream– no, a memory. A memory of you and Miles, before the hotel, before you got betrothed to some guy, before you ever left Indiana. You were 12. He was 13. Two years before you ran away, here. It was Miles’ older brother’s wedding, and he had to dance with a bridesmaid, and poor fella had two left feet. You two were close friends, by now. You met on the first day of middle school– he had been too scared to do a flip off the climbing frame. You offered to catch him and he landed on you and broke your arm– and by this point, you two knew everything about each other. So when he asked you to teach him to dance, of course you helped.

You guided him, strong but gentle. Teaching him everything you knew, then running to your mama for stuff you didn’t. And by the time of the wedding, Miles was almost as good as you. Almost. But what you were thinking of wasn’t that. You were thinking about an earlier lesson, near the start, where he was tripping over his own two feet, so bad he knocked the two of you down on the floor. You were outside, in the fields, in the early morning, so that nobody could see you, so nobody could see that epic fail. The both of you were exhausted, so you guys decided to take a break. You flopped down in the grass, Miles settling next to you, as you looked up at the clouds. You didn’t speak. That was unusual for you. Miles didn’t speak either, which was less unusual of him, to be honest. But it wasn’t weird silence. It was comfortable. You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. You two were so in tune that y’all knew exactly what the other person wanted. You had wrapped your arms around Miles, eyes closed, head on his shoulder. He was hugging you back, the sleeve of his daddy’s tweed jacket scratching your cheek. And the two of you just laid there, in the grass, warm in each other’s presence, listening to the birds chirping and the cows in the other fields, as you nestled closer together like birds. You didn’t remember when you fell asleep, but you woke up when the entire town came looking for the two of you, afraid y’all got kidnapped. Your momma was soooo upset, back then. You got a right ass-whooping. But you wouldn’t trade that day for the world. That day, when everything was good, was safe, and all was well–

Billy Lee interrupted the dulcet tones. “I’ve heard better.” He spun the roulette ball. And shit hit the fan at once. Dock exploded out of his seat, shattering his chair. Then he slammed his forehead into Billy Lee’s face. Blood splattered EVERYWHERE. Then they topple over, crashing into a brazier, fire and embers going everywhere. That’s not good. Meanwhile, a cultist you had deciphered her name to being ‘Annabell’, surprised by the attack, fired her shotgun, barely missing Dock by a few inches. Darlene, terrified, accidentally kicked the table backwards. Everyone hit the ground in a mess of cash, whiskey, chips and glass. Dock lands on top of Billy Lee, whose gun goes sliding right between Miles and Darlene. You had managed to slice the ropes around your wrists, and now you were trench crawling towards Miles and Darlene, hidden by the table and the fighting. You were gonna go help Dock, but first to free ‘em.

You got the ropes off Miles, before feeling his arms wrap around you, tight, head buried in your chest, and it finally occurred to you just how much you missed his touch. You hugged him tightly, kissing his forehead, and for a moment, the violence around you disappeared, and you were back in that field, back when life was good–

And Dock’s cry of pain rang out. You looked down at Miles. He was shaking his head, begging you not to go. You smiled weakly. “I’ll be right back, Bonnie. Just gotta deal with something first.”

You got up, your wooden leg almost giving out under you, before you focused again. Trench crawling towards Dock and Billy, you yanked the cult leader off the old man, before socking him in the face (Billy, not Dock). You heard Rose screaming behind you, but at this point, you didn’t care. Girl was too far gone. You knocked Billy to the floor, as you and Dock beat him up. You even took your leg off, beginning to bludgeon Billy (your speciality) with the wooden limb, while Dock used a flaming log. Billy was trying to get up, but you two weren’t letting him.

Rose screamed. She tackled you, and the two of you were rolling around on the floor, tearing into each other, as Billy finally got the upper hand again and was brawling with Dock again. You caught sight of Miles and Darlene talking, before Rose punched you in the nose. You were already half blind, and one-legged, so you played dirty, and dug your nails into her face, drawing blood, and throwing her off. “Brat!”

You stumbled up to stand, grabbing your leg and putting it on, before throwing a bottle of whiskey on Rose. Glass went everywhere, as well as alcohol, slicing her skin, before she picked up the bottle’s neck.

Shit.

She lunged at you, knocking you down, before she dug it into your side, deep, and you screamed in pain as she twisted it in, deeper. You struggle, but she’s got you pinned down, a wild look in her eyes, and she’s ripped off your wooden leg. That naive girl swinging from the chandelier earlier was gone, it seemed. You sock her in the face, trying to push her away from you, but she was relentless. Meanwhile, Dock and Billy were fighting, and the latter had the upper hand, so you pushed Rose off, stood, and hurled the young girl at Billy, knocking him down.

You staggered forward, panting, a huge chunk of flesh ripped out of your side, and you were blind in your right eye, so you couldn’t see right. Literally. You hopped to Dock, trying to get your wooden leg back from Rose, who glared at you, then threw it in the fire.

That fucking brat!

You’re about to lunge at her before you and Dock get knocked down by Annabell and another cultist called Wade, who started beating you up. Your face was so screwed up by this point. But you have fight in you. Unfortunately, not enough.

Wade and Annabell pull the two of you up, as Billy staggers to stand, face bloody, nose obliterated, and reloads his gun. Your eyes widen at the barrel, as you glance at Dock. He didn’t have a plan. Billy shoves the shotgun right under Dock’s chin.

“See if you can’t remember this–” A revolver from behind cocked. You glanced over, relief spreading across your face.

Miles.

Billy held his hands up, seemingly realising the position he’s in. “Hey, take it easy, altar-boy–” BANG. Miles didn’t take a second. He shot the cult leader, straight between the eyes. A cry came from Rose, but who even cared, man? She’s awful. The cult leader collapsed on the floor, knocking down a brazier. You only just realised how much this hotel was burning now. It was completely up in flames.

Wade and Annabell go to shoot. They’re dead too, BANG BANG, as Miles shoots them down. You kick Billy’s shotgun towards Miles, who simultaneously tosses you the revolver. You hand this to Dock, nodding your head. One bullet left. Use it wisely.

You pick up Annabell’s shotgun, going with Miles to shoot cultists. BANG BANG BANG, they went down. It didn’t occur to you that these people were your age, maybe a little older. Right now, you were back in Khe Sanh, and so was Miles, and you were fighting to protect those you cared about.

Miles went to the window, shooting the two cultists Billy sent out to loot Dwight’s body. You watched as they dropped like flies. The soldier was back, his eyes focused, cold, hard.

And god, did he look hot doing it. The muscles poked from under his shirt, and the blood, ooh, he looked utterly delectable right there. And badass. You didn’t know if you should be terrified for your life because of the situation, or pinning Miles to the wall– no, having him pin YOU to the wall, kissing you senseless. Because… ugh. Nobody can be THIS hot and cute at the same time.

Darlene was crawling around, and you sliced the ropes off her wrists. “You okay, Miss Sweet?” “All okay, love. You okay?” “...never better, Miss Sweet. Stay behind the roulette table, let me and Miles deal with all these buggars, and come out when it’s safe.” You smiled kindly, before glancing around, and handing her the pistol at your side, the one you kept hidden from the cultists. It had enough bullets in it. “For protection, Miss Sweet. Stay safe.” “Thanks, hon.” You nodded in response, and you went off to go help Miles.

Your shotgun ran out of bullets soon enough, and there wasn’t enough time to loot Annabell’s body for ammo, so you grabbed a hunting knife from a random dead body, using it to fight. Rose had been sobbing because of Billy, had been crying over his corpse, but now came after Miles while he was distracted. Oh hell naw.

You fought Rose, keeping her down for the most part, both of you slick with blood. You grabbed a lamp, sitting over her, straddling her. Bludgeon her, you thought. Bludgeon her to death. Bludgeon her until blood poured out and made these purple carpets red.

But then you remembered. This was an 18 year old girl. She– she was too young for this, way too young. She barely knew what she was doing, did she? And when she looked up at you with such sorrowful eyes, you were so distracted that you didn’t notice her headbutting you, knocking you down, before taking the hunting knife and jamming it into your shoulder. You screamed in pain, throwing her off, unable to pull the knife out of your shoulder. Eventually Rose ripped it out, and someone was crying of pain, and you realised the sound was coming from your own mouth. She pinned you to the floor by pushing an unlit (thank god) brazier on you, crushing your good leg, left, and went to Billy Lee, sobbing and holding the corpse.

Miles’ guard dropped. The sweet boy you knew and loved was back. But he was walking towards Rose. No– no, no no– “Miles, please, don’t–” You gasped, unable to walk with both legs now, and your arm basically falling off. You grabbed his leg with your free arm, still on the floor, trapped. “Miles, no, please, she’s clinically insane–” Miles didn’t listen. It was almost like he was in a trance. He walked up to her, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I’m so sorry–”

The next few moments went by so fast, you barely processed it before you started screaming again. Rose took the knife she stabbed you with, jamming it into Miles torso. You screamed, begging her to stop, before she sliced across his stomach. Miles toppled backwards, landing on the line in between Nevada and California. Dock shot Rose in the chest, the latter collapsing on top of Billy Lee.

You cry, again, for the second time tonight, trying to get out from under the table. Darlene rushed to Miles, while Dock pushed the brazier off you. You crawled to Miles, dragging yourself with your one good arm, sobbing. Miles was covered in blood, his hands bloody, red blooming down his white shirt.

“No, no, no, you can’t die, no no, please, please–” You were trying to hold his guts in, your tears falling on him and creating clear rivulets in the blood. Miles cupped your face, smearing blood on your cheek. He was trying to comfort you, but it was clear he was as scared as you. Darlene was speaking to Dock, but you just clung to Miles. “Bonnie, please, I can’t live without you, please–” Your lip was trembling, and you were shaking again, sobbing. “Please, stay strong, we’ll get you to a hospital–” “You’re gonna be alright without me–” He was also crying, but trying to stay strong for you. You shook your head in response to him, another fit of tears overcoming you.

You couldn’t lose Miles. He was the only one who made your miserable existence worth it. He was the only reason you woke up in the morning, only reason you even wanted to sleep, only reason you stopped trying to kill yourself with drugs and rooftops. Only reason you bothered to take care of yourself, only reason you still wanted to breathe. He made you smile, he made you laugh, he made you angry, but he always made it right, and now he sure was making you cry. You couldn’t lose him.

You curled up next to him, trying to convince yourself his heart wasn’t slowing down. It was, and your own heart raced at that. He was slipping away. Too fast. You teased off his cardigan, before using it to bandage him up, at least to stay conscious until help arrived. Until the cops came.

And when the cops come, they’ll arrest you, for murder, for murder 10 years ago, and you’d be tried and executed. But, as you looked down at Miles, you realised you didn’t care. As long as he lived, you didn’t care what happened.

Dock’s voice rang over you like the Lord’s. You and Miles looked up. “Confess.” Confess? Dock scooped Miles up, holding him gently. “My son, confess.” Miles stared at Dock, confused, blood pouring from his lips. He shook his head. “You’re not– you’re not a–” “Miles Miller. My name is Father Daniel Flynn. And I am here to absolve you of your sins.” You looked up at Darlene, confused. She just nodded in reassurance, calm.

Miles looked at you for support. You nodded, your eyes softening. You watched in fascination as a wave of calm washed over him. He looked back at Dock. “Bless me Father, for I have sinned.” He grabbed your hand now, tight, but strength leaving him. “I’ve sinned– I’ve sinned more times than I can count. I’ve killed– I’ve killed so many people… in war, and here, I know it was wrong, they told me to do it and I know it was wrong and I did it anyway… I’m so sorry, Father.” “It’s all right–” “It’s not!” He burst into a coughing fit, and you stabilised him. “It’s not. I did so much bad. I lied. I stole. I hurt people– I-I killed people, I did it all even though I knew it was wrong… I’m so sorry, Father...” Miles was shaking, and you were trying to hug him, trying to support him in his last moments. Dock held Miles’ other hand.

“Do you seek absolution for your sins?” “I-I do. Yes.” “Do you give yourself to the mercy of the Lord?” “Yes.” “Will you give to Him the time you have left?” “It’s too late–” Miles looked pained. “–It’s never too late, my son.” Dock smiled weakly, trying to calm Miles down. Darlene had placed a hand on your shoulder, and you were leaning against her legs like a child. “Yes. I will try. I will try to be better– I will try to be a better man.” A pause, then he weakly coughed blood, and continued. “I repent, Father Flynn, I repent. Lord, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

Dock shushes him gently, placing a hand on Miles’ chest, eyes kind. “You are forgiven.” You watched Miles relax at that, and held his hand tighter. “Miles Miller, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit… you are forgiven.”

Miles collapsed with relief in your arms, and you looked down at him. A pure, sweet, kind boy, the only man you’ve ever loved, it's true. You bent down, pressing a kiss to his lips, not even noticing the blood, tears pouring down your cheeks, onto him. When you broke the kiss, he pulled out back down, hugging you tight. You weren’t just losing a lover, you were losing your best friend. Your soulmate. Your other half. And god, it hurt.

“Please, enjoy the new Bond film.” “No– no, I ain’t gonna watch it without you–” “Clyde.” “...I don’t wanna watch it without you. You’re the only reason I like Bond.” He chuckled weakly, looking back at you. “..that’s okay. You were always better than Bond, to me.” You pulled him closer, closing your eyes tight, hearing his heartbeat fade away.

You felt Miles slip away in your arms, and a wave of sobs overcame you. You closed his eyes with your fingers, as Darlene hugged you from behind and Dock patted your head. You didn’t wanna go. You didn’t wanna leave him. You wanted to stay here and die, die alongside him. Even if you’d never be in Heaven with him, you wanted to be with him.

You closed your eyes, laying next to him, pulling his hand across you, as if he was still alive, still holding you like he always did. You watched as Darlene and Dock shoved the money in the red bag, and threw the film can into the fire. They looked back at you.

“Come on, kid.” Dock held his arm out, but you didn’t take it. “I don’t wanna leave him–” “He’s dead, kid–” “Don’t say that–” You didn’t want to believe it. “Kid–” “No–” “Be realistic, filly–” “NO!” You wailed, eyes red from crying so much, voice hoarse from sobbing and screaming. “No! I’ve seen men in Vietnam get their heads blown off and still keep shootin’! Miles is strong! Please! Just– just lemme take him to a hospital, get him healed, please, I’m begging you. Please.” You looked pathetic there, unable to walk, talk, covered in blood, looking like a child in this mess. “...please, Father Flynn, Miss Sweet. I don’t care if it doesn’t work. But I don’t wanna lose him so easy. Not after I just got him back.” Your bottom lip trembled.

The two people took pity on your plight. Dock scooped Miles’ body up, and Darlene held you up, helping you to the car outside, where the cultists had come in from. Out in the carpark, you stepped over the bodies on the floor, looking back at the El Royale. The four of you decided to also drag Dwight and Emily too. Give them a proper burial. Y’all put them in the boot, and then Darlene drove, Dock took shotgun, and you held Miles up in the backseats.

10 years, you spent, slaving away here. 10 years you suffered, in this gilded cage of lies, secrets, pain and torture. You thought about Emily, about Rose, Laramie, Billy, Management. You thought about your freedom, your life. You thought about your possible incarceration. Your execution. Being hated by everyone. These three would judge you. Miles would hate you. You thought about the life you had failed to live, the 10 years you wasted. But as you watched it go up in flames, stared at the flickering neon sign die out, as Darlene helped you into the car, you couldn’t help but just…

smile.

｡𖦹°꩜.ೃ࿔

Dock walks into the Humdinger Lounge, Reno’s sixth-best combination dinner lounge and keno parlour. The emcee’s voice rings in the background. Dock makes his way through the smoke-filled rows of people playing slots. He’s out of his priestly garb, wearing a pretty well-tailored, black suit. He heads to the back lounge, where a group of musicians set up a small corner stage. The booths and tables are packed. Everyone’s light, buzzy, excited. He rubs his hands on his trouser pants, looking around for someone.

He catches sight of you and Miles, sitting near the front, at a table, Table Five, two empty seats reserved next to you. You wave him over, grinning. You’re in a lavish dark blue evening dress, your hair completely different, your right eye replaced with a glass one, purposefully a different colour to your regular eye. You also had a stunning ivory-coloured prosthetic leg, one that wouldn’t burn this time. Miles sat next to you, in a cream suit, a dark blue boutonniere on his lapel, matching your dress. His face had healed, although scarred, and on both your left ring fingers lay a golden band, which looked amazing next to the engagement rings.

It had been 2 years since the fire, since the El Royale. Dock got himself ordained, and officiated your wedding, which you guys had as soon as you and Miles got healed up. He got A LOT of organ transplants, which you paid for with your cut of the money, and you even donated half your liver to him. Then Darlene and Dock chipped in to pay for your wedding and your prosthetics. Miles and you were clean from drugs now, 2 years, and were both real proud. And Miles wore the EXACT same suit for your wedding, the one he was wearing now. He always wore that suit for fancy parties because he didn’t have anything else fancy. You had borrowed your dress from Darlene, who had become a HUGE deal in clubs. Climbing the ranks, she was. She only got better. Not one bad show.

The police never came a’knockin’ for you. You had friends in high places, from all the celebrities and politicians you met at the El Royale, and you strategically linked the murders to Billy and his cult, with their help. Meaning you got off free. Free to live with Miles. But the guilt still plagued you, so you told Dock. And Darlene, and especially Miles, of the murders, of the abuse of the hotel, of all the things you've seen, the sleepless nights you’ve spent, the drugs and the thefts. At first, all of them were shocked, because you had seemed so sweet. But if Miles could be a sharpshooter and run a pervert hotel, it wasn’t surprising that his best friend/fiancée/WIFE could be a murderer. And Dock absolved you of your sins anyway. And hope came over you. Because you finally got to be free. Kinda. Like, emotionally. And none of them judged you. That was even better. Darlene even said she’d do the same, in your place. So you appreciated that. The support was better than the absolution of sin, to be quite honest.

You moved up, letting Dock sit down. “Ah! You made it! Good, the show’s almost starting!” Miles rested his head on your shoulder, as the emcee began his announcement. You held Miles’ hand tight, looking down at the wedding bands on your fingers. The wedding had been in a churchyard, white roses and lilies. You hadn't had a flowergirl or anything, because honestly, you didn’t know enough people. It was a sweet, simple wedding, but the guest list was all celebrities and rich, famous people, who you hadn’t even invited, but since the news about the El Royale got out, about the tapes and the tunnels, they all realised that you and Miles had kept detrimental secrets of theirs safe, so they all came to thank you. Either that or make sure you didn’t spill anything.

You didn’t really need them, though. You just needed Miles, Dock and Darlene there, and you were happy for the wedding.

Dwight and Emily’s funerals had been nice enough. You managed to get a hold of his family, and, from what you heard, he was a much nicer guy than you thought. Loads of people came for Dwight. Loads. Lots of cop buddies, coworkers. And he had a kid, which was a shock, and it was hell to explain to her that her daddy was dead. His wife was the hardest to talk to, to break the news to. It pained all four of you to break the news to her. But at least he got his comforting ceremony, because nobody came for Emily. You still held a nice and fancy funeral. You later found out that Rose had killed most of their relatives, so that’s why. Still, you tried to make it special enough.

“Now, we’ve got a special treat for you tonight.” You got brought back to the present. “Coming to you all the way from beautiful Los Angeles, California. You’ve heard her sing on records such as the Crystals, Martha Reeves, The Marvelettes, Wilson Pickett and The Miracles.” An unanimous cheer came from the crowd, but none more enthusiastic than Table Five. “Ladies and gentlemen, let’s give a warm, Reno welcome to… Darlene Sweet!”

Darlene stepped on stage in a shimmering green dress, with matching eyeshadow. She looked gorgeous. She nods to her band, mouthing ‘hi boys’, before turning back to the audience.

“Thank y’all for comin’ out to listen to me tonight.” She screws her eyes, adjusting to the light, and pauses, a hand coming up to her chest as she stands there, grateful to still be alive. “It means the world.” Her eyes flick over to Table Five, pleasantly surprised to see the three of you there, entirely captivated by her words. She waves at you three, and y’all wave back. It’s an absolute miracle you’re all here today, sitting at this table, sipping red wine, eyes glued to the shimmering angel on stage.

“...Let me tell you all a short story.” The audience went silent. “Two years ago, to the day, I nearly died here, in Nevada, at the El Royale– yeah, you know the place.” The crowd gasped and cheered at her words. “But I lived, I survived, with the help of 3 other people, who are here tonight.” She gestured to you three, and a spotlight shone on Table Five for a moment. Whistles and whoops came from the audience around you as the three of you waved, albeit awkwardly. Back to Darlene.

“So I’d like to sing a song dedicated to them tonight. Here’s to you, Clyde, Bonnie and Father Flynn.” She held up an imaginary toast, before getting into it. The band started, the music smooth, soothing and dulcet. You rested your head on Miles’ shoulder, looking back up at him.

“...whatcha looking at me for, Clyde?” Miles caught your gaze, smirking down. You went quiet, thinking. There was so much you wanted to say, none of it could be put into words. “...just happy you’re still here, Bonnie-boy..” You closed your eyes as Darlene started singing, humming along softly, as Miles placed a hand on your head, playing with your hair. You open your left eye to glance at Dock, who smirked as he watched you newlyweds. You smiled back, before focusing on Darlene’s angelic voice.

“Don’t you ever be sad~ Lean on me when times are bad~ When the day comes and you are down~ In a river of trouble and about to drown~ Just hold on~ I’m coming~”

Ty for reading it! It’s lowkey cringe and I do apologise but idk man, I had fun. I attempted to Chekhov’s gun as many things as I could, and I hope someone appreciated that TvT.

Banner by @diviniyae (ty dude)

[netflixandcheeze]

New art just dropped!

Made a (somewhat ugly) keychain out of a broken keychain and a metal wire.

It's meant to look like a bow (just saw the Odyssey lol) but idk what it's turned into.

Also I did this with rusty ahh pliers, so it will look kinda crappy.

edit: bro it already broke TvT (tbh my sister broke it by swinging it around but still)

[netflixandcheeze]

SVSSS shtuff

Imagine this: (rant below the cut)

What if Liu Mingyang was also a transmigrator? Stay with me here.

Following the Shen Yuan —> Shen Qingqiu thing, his/her/their name in their past life was probably Liu So-and-so.

Their handle? ‘Looking for Friends at the North Pole Every Day’.

Weird handle? Random, right? NO IT’S NOT!

If we remember Volume 4 of the novel, in the extras, in Airplane’s Fortuitous Encounters, specifically part 1, there was a section of the story full of commenters. And a specific commenter who wrote some Binghe/Qingqiu fanfiction, with the lengthy handle above (it actually might be translated differently in other languages, but this is from the English version).

Receipt:

Imagine (stay with me now) Looking here goes looking for some more ships, and seeked (sook? sooked?) death, causing he/she/they to die of heartbreak and whatever, cursing Airplane for not adding enough BL and only focusing on straight ships.

(For the sake of ease and yuri, I’m referring to Looking as a girl now).

She gets Isekai-ed into the novel, receives the ‘you can you up, no can no bb’ protocol, becomes Liu Mingyang, the most beautiful girl in Cang Qiong Mountain Sect (I assume), with Liu Qingge as her brother. Cue sibling shenanigans, and Mingyang getting to sneak off to Bai Zhan Peak to train and bother her brother. This is also fitting because in PIDW, Mingyang and Binghe are supposed to get married. So it would be so funny if, instead, Looking/Mingyang is urging Binghe to follow her yaoi dreams and turning him towards gayness, rewriting the story and fulfilling her fanfic by shipping him with Shen Qingque, who she doesn’t know is also a transmigrator.

She also starts publishing fanfiction, the most famous one being ‘Regret of Chunshan’. Her talents are highly appreciated in this universe, so she’s very happy. When she gets kidnapped by Sha Hualing, and the demon sees her face, Sha falls in love, and yuri blossoms. I think that would be very cute. Plus, the two fight somewhat in the novel (SVSSS), and in PIDW, they fight over Binghe. I think it would be cuter if they fell in love, this time around.

She pretty quickly figures out that Airplane and Cucumber are transmigrators, and eventually confesses who she is. They barely even recognise her, or her handle. Cue her pain and embarrassment. But they become close friends. She does not stop her fanfictions.

Imagine her and Cucumber roasting Airplane’s writing. Imagine the fan wars. Imagine Airplane reading her fanfictions, them sharing notes, in Shen Qingqiu’s bamboo house, over maybe a pot of tea or some congee, overlooking the peaks, with Luo Binghe and Ming Fan attending to them.

She lives a very happy life with Sha Hualing, gets killed, and Sha goes crazy ig idk how to end it bro. But just THINK ABOUT HOW ICONIC THIS FANFIC WOULD BE

I may write it one day but anyone else is free to write it too, and change whatever.

Thank you for listening to my rant.

[hyyl18]

TAG GAME GUYS

TAG YOUR MOOTS AND MAKE THEM EXPLAIN THEIR USERNAMES LORE

Starting with me:

Hyyl18 because when i was youngest i had a group in a random app with some friends and i didnt knew qhat username to use so i decided to create one with things i used to read since we were talking abt fanfic in this group so: Hot Yaoi Yuri Lemon +18 stuff (i was in my dirty era dont dare to judge me). Hyyl18 thats it. Now i use it everywhere yay

@patroclus-is-the-bigger-person @b4rty-r0s13r-w1ll-fck-y0ur-m0m @cuntyteardrop @glassesgirlies @leninthestarlight @bardorsomethinglikethat anyone else who wanna join tbh yay

[snooziewashere]

yay umm I’m just eepy.

@toastling @mini-birdy-offical

[mini-birdy-offical]

Well.....the lore behind mine is I like birds, and small things.

@weedleysnumberonefan @myblo0dispurple @myles-aster @hermes-reblogs @hermes-devotee-holy-moly @sacabambaspis-offical

[hermes-xi-reblogs]

I am devoted to Lord Hermes and love EPIC.

@biscotch @theycallmezizi @epichermesholymoly @hawkeyedoodles @rocky-core @loch-nes-dragon @thetypogoddess @chaos-triangle @booknerd2712 @bardorsomethinglikethat @astralfmboi @jupiinova @justcall-me-max @b-does-arts @i-am-trashyy @fandom-hopper-official @subtletwilighteternity @ellie-moonbeam @lacy-isnt-graceful @cosmic-entity-official @crimzndrgn @valdezsimp02 @thegreendragongirl @transmasc-offical @thefoolingreen @azurest4r @nicothehalfblood @nyx-zooble3 @dragontheryuu

[b-does-arts]

Im your moot? Srry if that sounded rude

B is in my nick name and my government name and i do art so...

B-does-arts

[hermes-xi-reblogs]

this is my blog for reblogs... the main one is @hermes-xi (aka @hermes-devotee-holy-moly)

[b-does-arts]

Ohhhhh ok :]

[netflixandcheeze]

not anyone’s moot here but i wish to join I like cheese and I’m relatively asexual but I’m also very immature, so ‘Netflix and chill’ becomes netflixandcheeze.

@elio-darling @martin-blackwood-defender @fishwebp

[titan-god-helios]

Hello my friending, how is life?

it's okay,,,, i'm dragging my feet on uni prep HARD and i'm trying to rectify that so yk

how's your freedom going ?

[netflixandcheeze]

idk dude im barely making it through the day at this point without sleeping or crying idk whats going on lol

[netflixandcheeze]

New art just dropped!

tw: implied SH and Sui and definite death

Based on a ref image of myself i won’t show bc i wanna remain faceless on the internet :3

Yes the ribbons have double meanings.

I hate the hair so goddamn much.

Tried to do duochrome. Failed somewhat.

Dead girl; do not eat, lol.

[the-sweaty-toothed-mad-woman]

today’s the only day you can reblog this

“There Will Come Soft Rains”, Ray Bradbury

[marvelfilmtv]

Congressman Bucky Barnes

THUNDERBOLTS (2025)

[netflixandcheeze]

Yes babe, be the performative malewife you are👏👏👏👏

[pukicho]

I’d honestly be scared as fuck if a bunch of basic shapes came floating towards me. Yellow Prism. Red Sphere? Fuck that.

[javascript-official]

You are really gonna freak out when I tell you about the sun

[pukicho]

The Sun's fine as long as it stays over there

[netflixandcheeze]

Is there context or am I to suppose he's been kidnapped by Lovecraft?

[thenumber1superspecialguy]

One hundred likes, and I will start somt 11 immediately.

[crow-keys]

hello my humble followers if you get this post to 100 likes i will draw suggestive funnybunny art ;)

[netflixandcheeze]

Seems to me that it has reached over 100 likes, crow keys.

[netflixandcheeze]

Questions I ask myself everyday (this contributes to my shitty sleeping habits):

Am I trans for REALLY BADLY wanting to be a guy because of all the benefits they have (eg, the patriarchy, no period cramps, no periods in general (I have TERRIBLE ones), LOVELY hair, lovely skin, MUSCLES, cool ass voice, sick clothes, less societal expectations, etc) or do I just hate being a woman in general?

And am I really bisexual if I'm attracted to both genders, and can freely read smut, but throw up at the thought of even kissing someone romantically?

And can I really consider myself as an Indian if I can't speak any of the languages anymore because I've lived in the West so long, but I still have the same experiences, remember the same things, deal with the same racism and expectations my fellow Indian girls do?

And am I really actually good at anything I do, or are people being nice to not insult me?

And am I actually a good person, or have I convinced myself I'm good, just because I 'could be worse'?

Do I deserve anything I have? How can I earn my privileges, and when will I stop being in debt to my loved ones?

Am I a bad person for relating with controversial fictional characters?

Am I a bad person for thinking that I may have mental issues? That I need therapy?

Will I ever be a good person?

Will I be enough?

When?

Why not now?

Sorry for all that shit. I'm so tired.

[official-buckybarnes]

Against bullies since ‘30

[guccifloralsuits]

If THE modern translator of the OG Odyssey text wrote this about my film adaptation I’d kill myself

Emily Wilson you’re goated

[netflixandcheeze]

I think Christopher Nolan was trying to open up the text to a wider audience. I mean, I got freaking IDed to enter the damn cinema, so there's already that restriction. And ik alot of teens love the Odyssey (the myth) and it would be pretty shitty for them to have to miss out.

But I agree with the food, wtf were they eating.

WHAT'S HER OPINION ON EPIC THE MUSICAL

[netflixandcheeze]

I made a VERY CUTE GIRL out of playdoh and I would like to do a photo dump of it

Also made some paper flowers for a party (10 more to make)

C'est beau, non?

Edit: here's all the flowers:

[bisexualcreature-deactivated202]

lvl 1: the plural of octopus is octopuses because the plural version of a word is the word with an s at the end

lvl 2: the plural version of octopus is octopi because if a word ends with "us" the plural version replaces the "us" with "i" e.g. cactus -> cacti and fungus -> fungi

lvl 3: actually, that rule is only for latin words. octopus is a greek word and the correct plural is octopuses or octopodes

lvl 4: actually, language is descriptive not prescriptive. since enough people over time have used octopi as the plural for octopus, it's a valid plural

lvl 5: the plural of octopus is octopeese, like geese

[asteroidtroglodyte]

Lvl 6: My Marine Biology professor told me it was technically “Octopods” to bring it in line with “Cephalopod,” but that if the class is falling asleep you can call them “Octopussies”

[netflixandcheeze]

Lvl 7: Calamari

[aru]

Tumblr Code.

[geekishchic]

If I ever see any of you in public, the code is “I like your shoelaces”

that way we know we’re from tumblr without revealing anything

I’m just going to say this to strangers until i find a tumblr person

must keep reblogering!! Im going to be so suspicious if any one tells me this now!

Remember the answer is: I stole them from the president.

always reblog tumblr identification

[princessnymphae]

my friend has a tumblr account but DOESNT know this… life is so empty

[bye-bye-sanity]

I FOUND THE ORIGINAL

[renderofbears]

@hellsite-hall-of-fame