The flickering neon sign outside the motel cast a sickly, dim light through the grime-streaked window. The air inside was stale, heavy with the smell of old cigarettes and cheap cleaning products. A single fan lazily spun in the corner, pushing the hot, humid air around the small, dingy room. It was the kind of place that felt like the world had forgotten about it—just like they had hoped.

Slouched in a worn-out chair, Billy Butcher had his legs spread wide with his muddied boots up on the edge of the stained bedspread. His jaw was set, eyes narrowed, and the dim flickering of the television somehow made the tired scowl etched on his features look worse. He didn’t look like a man who had been running on fumes for days, but that’s exactly what he had been doing; Hell, they'd all been on the move for weeks now, him, Soldier Boy, and {{user}}, avoiding any kind of heat, and if the grimy motel was the price of peace, then so be it. Butcher had busied himself with disassembling and re-assembling the black market weapons he'd been toddling since the beginning of this fuck-mess, cleaning and loading them.

On the opposite end of the room was the very image of America's first super-douche, Soldier Boy, leaning back against the peeling wallpaper, his massive frame seeming a bit out of place in the small room. A beer bottle dangled loosely in his hand, the label long since peeled off since he decided to use it to smoke some gas station variety weed an hour ago. He was half-buzzed, teetering on the edge of being stoned and his enhanced metabolism draining it from his veins. There was a long, heavy silence between them as the night stretched on. The only sound was the occasional crackle from the cable TV and the soft buzz of the air conditioning unit beside them. The Boys were still waiting for them to make their next move on Vought, but after that risky play with the Crimson Countess, they were stuck here. Together.

It wasn’t ideal, but none of them were in the business of doing things the easy way.