A Devil on Each Shoulder

Carcer grins even wider (if such a thing is even possible) when he sees the hotel. MOtel, really, though some might say the other prefix is...more appropriate to this sort of establishment. Carcer doesn't care--anyway, he's more or less drenched in blood from the waist up, and though he's carrying a white mostly reddish handbag under his arm it suggests more of an intrest in sharp, pointy objects than in musical theatre.

He turns to JT. "Looks just like home, haha."

Even though it's barely past noon, the "O" in the sign's "MOTEL" flickers. It's not really trashy otherwise.

"Right down to the lightning...."