mer·cu·ri·al
ˌmərˈkyo͝orēəl/
adjective
(of a person) subject to sudden or unpredictable changes of mood or mind.

[hi this chapter is a lot at once take ur time I rushed it bc I didn't wanna spread it out too far]

Again, we'd decided to check into a hotel. It was probably one of the worst things to do, at that point, after what had happened last time. But Brendon said to trust him, that he'd spent a couple comfortable nights at the place before, and he'd buy me dinner again if anything went wrong.

So of course I gave in and followed him a few blocks from the parking structure to the lobby of the Carmen Rye Hotel.

"Weird ass name for a hotel, don't you think?"

Brendon shrugged, staring up at the sickly pale neon letters flashing above the awning. "Yeah. It's a nice place though, trust me. They even serve free breakfast in the morning that won't give you a stomachache." He said and pushed past me, slipping through the sliding doors, leaving me outside, alone, with my backpack.

I had a bad feeling about staying the night. It felt like I was headed right into a death trap with flickering lights and blood stains hidden to the naked eye. A small part of me was convinced neither of us would make it out alive.

When I walked in, Brendon was sitting on top of the front desk, chatting away with a guy behind the counter. He was short, I assumed he wasn't sitting down like Brendon because he swayed slowly from side to side as if he was shifting his weight around, the top of large framed black glasses bumping lower on his nose each time his hat moved while he nodded along to whatever bullshit Brendon was discussing.

"...but I haven't really kept up on the news lately, all I know about the baseball team is-" Brendon's hand froze in a punch midair when he caught sight of me, "that we'd like one room please. Two beds. Separate bathrooms, maybe." He passed him a card with an alias name on it, and a fake credit card connected to the agency's account.

The guy - his name tag read Patrick Stump - smiled and passed me a key attached on a ring to a plastic card. "Fourth story, room twenty seven. If you need anything, there's a working landline, and we always have someone on duty."

I didn't think much of what he'd said until Brendon and I were walking down the hallway to the room.

First of all, the hotel was completely silent. We hadn't seen anyone other than Patrick down in the lobby. Surely we would've passed a janitor or other residents, we should've heard something other than dead silence.

Second of all, the building was in horrible condition. The purple wallpaper was peeling every ten feet, gold designs faded to the wall. The light fixtures flickered eerily, matching the uneasy feeling of the creaky floorboards and stairs.

"Urie, I don't think we should stay here-" I reached out for Brendon's shoulder to drag him out and back to the car, but he snaked out of reach and snatched the key from my hand.

"Don't be a wuss," he taunted, swinging the key ring on his finger, "it's just one night. Besides, I told you I've been here before, and I'm far from dead."

"There's nobody here!"

"They're all probably sleeping! It's late, it's like... fifteen minutes away from midnight." The door inched open and Brendon pulled me into the hotel room with a wide smile and eager eyes.

The smell of the front room alone was enough to make me hurl. It was like someone had died on the welcome mat and had been left there for years and nobody had bothered to clean up afterwards. The entire space emitted the overwhelming stench of death. Even if the furniture and decor made it feel like a genuinely nice place to spend a night, the unsettling waves in my gut kept me on edge instead of letting loose like Brendon. His shoes were off and his shirt was unbuttoned already, curling up under the covers of the bed closest to the window covered by thick red curtains. I unpacked a few of my things, just to begin to mirror the settling in process I was wary to follow.

Brendon gasped and sat bolt upright in bed, an action out of the ordinary, a reaction I hoped would lead him out the front door and back to the car. Wishful thinking, wishful thinking.

"What's wrong, Urie? No mints on the pillows?" I teased and he stuck his tongue out for a split second.

"No, screw you. I think I left my suitcase downstairs. My tiny backpack with my laptop and books." He glanced around the room, searching for his belongings. He'd probably forgotten them with Patrick in the lobby.

"Well then go downstairs and get it yourself. Or did you want me to call them because you're too lazy to get out of-"

"Yeah, yeah, can you call them?" Brendon smiled, scurrying under the covers and pulling the hem of the top blanket up past his chin. "I'm too comfortable. I'm not getting up."

I knew it would've been useless to fight with him, and I could've bargained for the right to settle into my own bed while he took care of his own business. But I was exhausted and didn't feel like dealing with another one of Brendon's mood swings, especially in a sketchy hotel. The two pools of insanity didn't seem like they would mix well.

So I got up and rolled across my own bed, grabbing the landline phone and dialing the number for the front desk that's been printed on a laminated sheet of paper I didn't dare touch. Someone had probably been murdered with it.

"Lobby of the Carmen Rye Hotel, Patrick speaking."

The voice on the other end was somewhat relieving and unnerving simultaneously. "Hey, this is room twenty seven on the fourth floor. My friend thinks he left his backpack down there, is there anyway someone could bring it up for him?"

The like crackled with silence for a moment. I assumed he was searching for his scarce luggage. "Yes, it's right here. Would you still like someone to bring it up?"

The weight on my chest had lifted, strange enough. I found comfort in knowing his bag was safe, even if it was simple thing to be relaxed by. I guess it was reassurance they weren't holding our things hostage so we'd never be able to leave. "Yes, please. Thank you."

"No problem, Mister Weekes."

The heavy static over the phone dropped to a low hum, and I could feel my heart sinking.

I hadn't told him my name.

"Hey, Urie?"

"What do you want? I want to sleep." Brendon huffed quietly, his voice a low whisper. The sheets rustled and I turned to face him. The glare on his face dropped immediately. "What's wrong? This place isn't haunted, is it?"

"Did you tell the guy in the lobby our names?"

He sat up and shook his head slowly in hesitant denial. "He asked me if I'd seen the Angels and Dodgers game yet. Did you tell him our names?"

"I was hoping you did."

Brendon's cheeks flushed, and in an instant he was throwing anything he could get his hands on into my backpack, shoving my laptop into the front pocket and scrambling to fit the charging cord into the medium slot. I would've laughed at him if we weren't stuck in a possible death situation. "I can not believe this place, damn it I spend one night here like three months ago and whoop de doo, now this joint is most likely run by a stalker slash serial killer out to dismember us and use our bones for witchcraft and word domination-"

"Our bones are not going to be used for witchcraft and world domination-"

"How do you know? For all we know-"

Two short knocks echoed through the room and we both fell silent. My heart was racing in my chest a mile a minute. I grabbed Brendon's arm and slung my backpack over my shoulder, leaning back to whisper closer to his ear. "Stay as calm as possible. Let me do the talking."

He swatted my hand away and pushed in front of me, lunging for the door and putting his hand on the knob. He held a finger to his lips, taking charge of the situation when I told him not to.

Agonizingly slow, he inched open the door, wincing with the low creak echoing in the silence.

"There's nobody here?" I opened my eyes to see Brendon leaning out the door, glancing down the hall before grabbing the strap to his backpack and slamming the entrance shut. "I really think you're hallucinating-"

No, no, something was wrong. "I am not, we need to get out of here-"

"Dude," he sighed and patted my shoulder once before heading back to his bed and setting out his things, "I think you're still on edge from the last hotel. Take a break, relax!"

To hell if I relaxed. I knew something was off and I wasn't going to quit until I found out why.

⋘⋙

Carmen Rye Hotel. The only advertisement was the faulty sign on the front of the building. Other than that, nothing else was branded with the name.

The fact that the Mercenary Lovers were after us too, that they knew who we were , didn't add to the whole 'you need to calm down' speech from Brendon.

Carmen Rye.

The guy down in the lobby knew who we were.

Nobody else was in the hotel.

"Urie, do you have a pencil and some paper?"

Brendon lifted his laptop off his legs and dug around in his backpack for half of a torn photograph and a tiny pencil from a golf course. "What do you need it for?"

"It's an anagram." I said, and he tossed the covers aside to crawl beside me and watch what I was doing.

C a r m e n R y e

M e r c e n a r y

Brendon snorted and grabbed the picture, twisting it upside down and tilting his head as if it would change the rearranged letters. "This is stupid. It's a coincidence. There's no way this is-"

"Think about it, Urie. They know who we are. The guy down at the front desk knew who we were and we didn't tell him. We're the only people staying in this hotel. There isn't another place to stay for miles."

He paused, taking the time to process it all before scrambling for his things and grabbing his backpack. He was out of breath by the time everything we'd brought was packed up and ready to go, a small handgun tucked into the waistband of his pants. "How're we going to do this?"

I felt sick to my stomach. Our options were heavily limited, and approaching the situation at hand the wrong way could get us killed, or even worse, sent directly to Animosity and Virulent. "We don't fight unless we have to. Worst comes to worst, we shoot ourselves before they get us."

Brendon's mouth dropped open, hands falling slack at his sides. "You're suggesting we off ourselves if we can't make it?"

It was a horrible thing to do, I knew that, definitely a worst case scenario. "This person downstairs works for Animosity and Virulent. A couple shots to the head would be nothing compared to what they'd do if they got ahold of us."

He wasn't too enthusiastic about our options, but they were the only ones I had for the time being, and time was the one thing we didn't have. Brendon whined about it for a second before sulking over to the door and waiting until I was behind him to open it.

"Y'know, er, if we do die, I want to thank you," he whispered, "I think you're the only person I've known that hadn't treated me like I'm a complete homicidal freak, even though I kinda am."

It was at that exact moment I remembered his file and the multiple warning to not allow him to be around firearms. I still didn't know his full story - maybe he was capable of more than I thought and I just hadn't realized it. Maybe I'd never realize it. What if he turned on me? "Is that a good thing or a bad thing? The whole homicidal thing, I mean."

Brendon shrugged, fingers brushing against the butt of the gun sticking out from under his shirt. "It's good when I need it to be."

[i kinda wanna zoom through & publish all this tbh]