Break down

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The road rolls out far in front of them, as one continuous strip of tarmac for their tyres to speed across. It's a rupture in a wide desert, a dash of grey amidst the golden glow of the surrounding plains. For Juice these are the moments where calmness and exhilaration meet. Where the feeling of peace and belonging riding brings is mixed with the elation of giving mother nature the middle finger and harnessing a speed she didn't gift their fragile bodies.

At their momentum particles of sand are kicked up as they pass by, the last rays of the parting sun light it up before its left swirling to the ground in their wake. They're too many miles from home and yet still far from their destination when Tig's bike starts to lose its roar. Like a hacking cough dying sounds are torn from it for a few moments before Tig eases down on the break, and gestures for them to pull over.

It's just the two of them out here. They were on a courtesy visit to a brother charter in Oregan, Samlin's VP having recently passed and Samcro was expected to show respect. Knowing no help would be coming at this hour Tig crouches down assessing any visible damage. Still listening to Tig's muttered curses Juice glances up, less than half a mile up the road lies a motel. Nudging the sergeant Tig looks up too and Juice can almost hear his train of thought. On the one hand he didn't want to spend the night on the freezing road fending off local wildlife, on the other he didn't want to spend it locked in a questionably unhygienic room with Juice.

''We could get two rooms.'' That line and the promise of a luke warm meal won out. Tig pulls the bike upright and they roll it carefully down the road. Chaining it outside the building Tig doesn't fret over it being stolen, the symbol of the reaper and consequential threat of the Sons tended to keep potential thieves away. Juice mustn't have the same faith, Tig watches him yank at the chain a couple of times before they head inside.

Seeing the interior doesn't give either of them any optimism about the state of their rooms. In the reception the wallpaper has yellowed from years of smokers and a vibrant stain, that looks concerningly like blood, covers a good chunk of the flooring. When Tig walks to the desk he can hear a ripping sound as his boots pull away from the sticky floor.

The receptionist is a guy around Juice's age, tattoos covering his arms and his hair dyed an alarming bright colour. In his head Tig muses that it won't be long till Juice has the same idea. The boy eyes their kuttes nervously before he speaks, ''How can I help you?''

Glancing at the 'cash only' sign on the back wall Tig pulls out his wallet, smacking a few bills on the desk he answers, ''Two rooms.'' Tig gets a bad feeling when the guy looks down at his clip board.

''Sorry only one room left.'' Tig can feel the migraine Juice is going to cause already forming. Apparently trying to help the guy adds on, ''It's a double bed.''

Taking half the cash Tig tries to look on the bright side. ''Your kitchen still open?''

''No it's closed for the week. We've got a vending machine and sandwiches though.''

Tig should have taken his chance with the wildlife.

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Walking in first, Tig dumps his bag on the bed before he reluctantly looks around. The faded wallpaper's torn and peeling at the edges, the carpet is suffering from a range of cigarette burns but Tig will readily admit he's willingly stayed in worse shit holes than this. The bed proves to be the worst feature of the room, the spring jab uncomfortably outward and the cover lays crumpled in the middle undoubtably riddled with strangers' bacteria and bodily fluids.

The only saving grace he can think of was the bar they passed on the way up, a stones throw away, connected to the reception via a short hallway. Tig can see the thought process behind keeping the bar open all night. There's little need to improve the place when you can just pile cheap alcohol on customers until they don't care about the rancid smell hanging in the air or the mold flourishing in every corner.

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