Author's Note: I swear I am writing for my main story, just taking a little break.

Seymano/Romasey. Inspired by Bonnie and Clyde.

This story takes place in the 1930s in the United States, during the Great Depression, so there is some racism references, but it's pretty minor. Lots of language. I apologize for any inaccuracies.

In this story, Chell is pronounced like "shell".

1935

This wasn't exactly Hell, not even close, and no matter how many times those damned officers told him that, he wouldn't believe it. The fools, the lot of em.

He'd been at gunpoint and imprisoned before, so this time, he was in a better state of mind. He even smiled, though he wasn't sure if he was more amused or pissed off.

Either way, his fate was so clearly mapped out as if they had drawn it in the sand with a stick.

They wouldn't just put him down like a dog. Shooting was too common for someone of his bounty and worth. Nah, he was too infamous for something so lowly, the newspaper and their readers just wouldn't buy into all that. It would be like an anti-climatic end to a wondrous play. Stars were supposed to flicker out in style, right? That's what Michelle always said anyway.

Of course, if he did get too out of control, they'd have a bit of shoot out, and his lovely figure would look more like a target practice dummy than a criminal with a thirteen thousand dollar bounty on his head. But, he didn't worry about how he would be killed, it was apparent enough without any of the officers spelling it out for him.

The electric chair was the special seat in the house with his name on it.

He chuckled aloud, it would be one hell of a rush, and Michelle wouldn't have to worry about wondering if he would walk away from something like that. At a shooting, you could fake your death, but the electric chair...ha, no way in hell.

His giggling had caught the attention of one of the officers on patrol of the jail halls, and he peered through the grime-encrusted and gritty bars to see the man quivering in his fit of angry and frightened laughter.

"Mad man," the cop snorted, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it. He prowled around his cell for a good thirty minutes, just to be sure that there wasn't anything significantly "broken" about the prisoner.

But Lovino Vargas wasn't broken, he was perfectly sane, and yet perfectly scared as well.

"Gilbert! Open it up," a voice sounded from down the hall.

"This one 'ere?"

"Yeah, we're taking him somewhere else," at once, another officer, one with a slightly more tan complexion stepped forward towards the cell, waiting for the other to unlock the door. Despite his nice appearance, the Italian could tell he was harsher and far more dangerous than the guard outside his cell. The officer who was originally outside his cell pulled out a key, shoving it into the lock and twisting it until it clicked.

He pondered getting up and trying to escape, but he figured that escape was pointless with two encroaching cops, and with so many officers on duty as well...it could be tricky without a clear escape path. So, instead, he remained where he was, seated in the dirt and hay of the nasty cell, until the two officers scooped him up, one under each arm. If it wasn't for their tight grips, he could have easily knocked them over and attempted escape; but, considering this sketchy ass prison, he wasn't sure that would be the best course of action.

Dragged along to another portion of the jail, he was thrown to a group of officers in a barn like room. Odd for a jail. He observed that the room had a wall with a pair of shackles for both the wrists and ankles on one side and a platform with an electric chair over on the opposite side. Lovino smirked in dread, this was the place he'd be breathing his last breath.

However, instead of going straight to the chair, he was pulled over to the other wall to be shackled up.

"Heh, the lot of you bastards wanna fight me like men? Or do you just wanna spit in my face before I'm kissing the dirt?" the criminal remarked bitterly, earning several grunts of indifference in return. The smirk on his face grew somewhat more real, finding their reactions amusing.

He was chained to the wall, blackened by former bloodstains that speckled the wood, and left to stand like a piece of meat on display in a butcher shop.

Eyeing their pistols, he figured that he'd be bloody like a slab of meat in a minute as well.

"Lovino Vargas," one of the officers began, the taller and yet wider man with glasses spat out his name condescendingly.

The criminal nearly growled, if he wanted to talk down to him he should talk down about his actions - the murders, the robberies, the whatever the hell else - but he should be petrified at speaking his full name. The cocky bastard.

The officer stayed cool and collected, not in any way afraid of this man (at least he wasn't showing it if he was), "At over three hundred and seventy-five acts of crime, did you expect to find yourself anywhere else?"

"Blow me, fuckin' bastard."

"I'm still surprised that you can hold up such a tough front without your little blackbird around. She's the only real reason you're so damn famous, right?"

"Go fuck yourself."

The officer only laughed, "I wouldn't be so rude to me, young man, I am the one who decides to shove your ass in that chair on the other side of the room."

"You'll do it anyway so shut the fuck up and get it done already, you damn bastard."

"Did I mention I'm also the one who gets to decide how your little blackbird's wings get pulled?"

"Wait...what?!" Lovino's eyes shot open. They had Michelle? He thought she escaped with Emma and Lars! "Where is she? Where are you keeping you, you son of a bitch?!"

"Not so far away, but who cares really?" The officer said with faux charm.

"Bottom line is," another spoke up, with a gruffer and harsher tone of voice, "let's just say that she's stuck in a room with two officers and has no way to defend herself from whatever they choose to do."

"The fuck-?! You'll rot in hell, you motherfuckers! Let her go!"

"The only way we'll do that is for you to give up the location of your hideout," the other officer retorted.

Lovino blinked, "The hideout...? What are you even talking abo-!"

The harsher officer struck him over the head with his nightstick, causing his head to throb painfully against the bone of his skull. He snarled, "Don't bother lying, because there's no way in hell you carry around over a hundred a fifty thousand dollars and all of your weapons on you."

"So I tell you where the hideout is, you run us dry of our cash and weapons, and she goes free?"

"And you die here."

"You bastards..."

"That's your deal, you talk, we put you in the chair, and she walks without a hair on her head harmed."

"What'll it be, Mr. Vargas? You or her?"

His mouth went dry, he couldn't bear the thought of his Michelle being defiled, but what was worth telling the officers where the hideout was? She'd travel back there, along with the others, and they'd be shot and killed without them even knowing what hit em. Shit...

What would she do without him?

How would he bear death without her by his side?

Letting out a sigh through his teeth, that sounded similar to that of a whistle, he shut his weary eyes and thought of her, his memories of her.

Four and a half years of partnership was far too short...

1930

He was at a fresh ripe age of twenty two, seated in a bar in a nameless town in Texas. His business was his own; and, with his flashy clothes, fedora, and clean-cut look, he looked out of place amongst the rugged westerners. It also seemed like a man from a city-famous Italian mafia was easy to pick out, considering that the men who lived out here were mixes of pinks and reds of speckled American white. They lacked the lovely olive shading that was more obvious in a pureblood Italian immigrant.

Wary eyes were cast his way, and soon were dismissed. He supposed that the men preferred to dwell on the native drink than the newfound dealings.

The Italian was just making himself somewhat comfortable in his seat when a pretty little sight made him jolt in his shoes. Amidst the pale peach - and quite plain - waitresses, a lithe dark beauty that appeared behind the counter caught his attention. Her skin was coppery like the pennies in his pocket, her hair was a dark coffee brown and held up in a tight bun, and her eyes were like the richest maple syrup on a pile of pancakes. Despite her lighter skin tone, it was more than given that she was an African American of some sort. Odd in this part of the country, most were getting the hell away from the south and the west to find haven in the northeast. He ought to ask, but he warned himself of the repulsiveness of the question.

Instead, she was the one to speak first...though what she said was customary of her job, "Is there anything I can get you, sir?"

Noticing that most of the men were filing out of the little bar, for whatever reason, he smiled to her with a stroke of confidence. He was an Italian, and it wasn't right to be suffering from bouts of doubt, especially with these matters.

"Just a word, if you don't mind."

The girl, barely a woman she seemed like - but still enough to capture his attention, blinked her eyes a few times, shocked and confused by the request. Most men would merely bark demands for alcohol or make rude comments and gestures. The man who was seated at the bar, though, appeared to look friendly, she guessed.

Hesitant, and somewhat skittish, she approached him closer with a soft, "Yes, sir?" She grasped the counter tightly, worried that he may reach out and try to grab her without warning. Others had tried to before, a few of them had succeeded.

"Do you like your job?" he asked with a smooth tone. A simple question with a complex answer.

She bowed her head towards the counter, her mind swimming in the somewhat enigmatic air of the question. It took her several minutes, but she finally clicked her tongue and asked, "Is that a literal or rhetorical question?" A bitter laugh followed.

The rhetorical sense was easy, with the racism that was so heavily branded on the South, and Texas was no exception. However, literally...

"It's both," the Italian chirped, "You must really love your job to not join in with the Great Migration, yes?"

The girl quirked an eyebrow and replied, "And how do you know that's the only reason why I'm still down here?"

"It's not, eh? Why then?"

She huffed, somewhat annoyed that this man was essentially tiptoeing around straight up asking for her life's story, but still decided to oblige him, "I was born in New Orleans, but I moved out here with my family. Money troubles or something, I was too young to remember. My parents moved up to the big cities only about a month ago, with everyone else. My brother wanted to go too, but he had to stay behind to watch over my grandparents and myself, and I guess when I get old enough I can go to the cities to work. So, for now, I stay down here and work as a waitress," she frowned, "But Vicky's pushing for me to stay here permanently, saying that a lady shouldn't worry about a man's world." With another gracious sigh, she drawled, "So, what about you, Mr. Questions, have any story to call your own?"

He grinned, "I've been living in Little Italy of Manhattan for as long as I can remember, not likely that I lived anywhere else. Once third-in-line heir to my family's mafia, sharp with a pistol, once had enough cash to make me comfortable for the rest of my days."

"That so? How'd you lose all your money?"

"Investing badly, cracking down on spending, father finding that unworthy people don't need hands on his money, Great Depression, I guess you get the picture...?"

"Yeah, yeah. But you still have the nice suit?"

"I had nicer ones in the past, but I guess this is nice compared to this side of the country."

"And at this time, with this economy."

"True."

"So, if I may ask, what brings you to some no-named town in Texas? On a road trip?"

"Something like that...I guess."

"You guess?"

"I don't really know what I'm looking for exactly," he crossed his arms, completely honest.

"Why don't you just go home then, what about your family and the city?"

He smirked, "My father and grandfather don't exactly want me there anymore, I've been demoted down the lines of the mafia for my 'disgracefulness', and it's easy to say that I'm not going to gain anything by staying in New York City. Too many of our rival families don't know that I'm just a foot soldier, if anything, by now, so they'd just shoot me without any idea of how worthless I am. Just no point. Nothing keeps me there anymore."

"You don't miss it at all? Anything?"

"Not really, a bunch of starving homeless folks sleeping around in their own trash? Not the best place on earth to live. It was nice in the 20s, but now it's just...a place filled with hopeless and worthless people."

She appeared dispirited, "I always heard stories about how great it was, all the lights and sounds, the parties, the action...they said something was always happening..."

"Well, that may have been true in the 20s, but now...it's like a tumbleweed is more exciting than anything else there," slowly shattering the beautiful picture she had, he grumbled, "it's so dead, that I had to seek refuge out here."

She, surprisingly, was amused, "This is pretty much the deadest place there is in America though...aside from the Dust Bowl itself. Deadest place without all the dust storms."

"Even that's livelier," he remarked, and the two burst into fits of chuckles. By now, the bar was bare.

"Well, thanks for making this shift quite a bit more bearable," she smiled, leaning against the counter.

"Not a problem, thanks for making this part of the country worthwhile."

With a blush, she giggled, "You're welcome," she then asked, "does a name come with all that talking?"

"Certainly, m'lady. Lovino Vargas, at your service. Yours?"

"Michelle Belrose."

"Pleasure to meet you."

"Pleasure's all mine," there was a bit of pause, and he watched as she chewed over some thoughts undoubtedly swirling in her head, "So, you have no idea of what you're gonna do down here?"

Lovino smirked, "Well, not exactly 'no idea'..."

Michelle prodded, "I'm listening."

"I don't mind telling you this because you're...well, you...but, lets just say a man can raise a little hell with a few guns."

"You wanna tear up the town?" she looked shocked.

"Possibly, guns tend to be useful in those situations," he suddenly grew nervous, worried on her judgement, internally kicking himself for just letting it spill like nothing.

After a few minutes of thought, she laughed, "Sounds fun, though if you're gonna pick a fight with the law, can you do it in the next town over? I wouldn't want to be caught in the crossfire, but at least close enough to where I can go see it than read about it in the papers."

Lovino raised in eyebrows, "Really now? You like a little danger?"

"Beats having to serve nasty midwestern whites in a bar, the danger I get in this place isn't the danger I like. It's disgusting. My kinda danger is more of the cowboy types in the silent pictures, traveling across the country and having some fun."

"Well, if you can shoot, you're welcome to join," he extended an invitation.

"...Why don't you stick around? Have some drinks. Tell me more."

As time went on, and the two continued to meet, the formalities between them dwindled. Lovino told Michelle about how America made him sick at times.

"All these damn 'Americans' talk about is freedom, freedom, fucking freedom, and there is no freedom in this country, really. Unless, you're a white American-born man with money. That's not you, and that's not really even me, since I'd be classified as an Italian immigrant. I'd have to work in the factories if it wasn't for the mafia. And you," he looked over to his companion and a wave of sadness washed over both of them. He took her chin under a gentle index finger and sighed, "and you, my darling, I don't think America has any chance for you to be free. Was it even so long ago that you could have been a slave?"

"My grandparents were when they were younger. It's kind of amazing when you put it into perspective..."

"Exactly, and I'm tired of everyone blessing a land of the free when there really is no 'free'."

"Things change, Lov, things will get better. My brother and papa always told me that."

"Yeah, but when? Things haven't really changed a whole lot, and it's been 65 years since the Civil War ended. How long does a change have to take?"

"Wow...when you say it like that."

"Like I said, exactly. I think we need to take matters into our own hands."

"How so?"

"Almost everyone's poor as mites, right? Then we ought to help them, while we help ourselves."

"By shooting up towns and stealing?"

"How else can we steal in this day in age? Think about it Chell, we'll rob from the rich to give to the poor, just like Robin Hood and Maid Marian."

"Maid Marian wasn't a thief, though, just Robin Hood," Michelle giggled.

He bowed and extended a hand to her and smirked, "Well then, mio caro, why don't we rewrite the story?"

She hadn't accepted right away, but he respected her wishes and gave her the time to think upon his offer.

Weeks went by and the two grew closer.

Lovino had ditched his fancy suits for more rugged wear, though Michelle claimed that he shouldn't drop everything. She admitted to like a sharp-looking man.

Michelle, on the other hand, had easily dropped her hair from the bun into two pigtails. She had looked young before, but she only looked younger and more radiant with the change, according to Lovino. He even gave her red ribbons to adorn her pigtails to persuade her to immortalize the look.

It was easy to see that the pair were smitten, despite the looks that they drew from the people who knew of them. They simply didn't care, and it wouldn't matter sooner or later. They had been sharing Coca-Colas on the hood of his truck when Lovino first dared to kiss her. It had been two days later that Michelle finally claimed of wanting to join him on his expedition.

Just as long as he taught her how to shoot.

"The key is accuracy. You'll have to be able to aim fast and towards a place that'll do the right amount of damage," Lovino watched from his truck.

"You make it sound easy when I'm holding a rifle," Michelle fired back. She was standing about 20 feet away, holding up a older rifle that she was to use for target practice. Her targets were a few pans they had strung up on a wire rig, stolen from the once-excessive collection at the bar she worked at.

"We'll have different guns for different scenarios, I'm not going to expect you to rob a bank with a rifle."

"Then why do I have to learn how to fire correctly with this damn thing?! Can't I just practice with the shotgun again?"

"You'll never get better if you just use the shotgun. C'mon, Chell, you can do this."

"No I can't," she muttered.

"Imagine the pan is a serial killer who's already shot your grandmother and is about to shoot your grandfather!"

"What?!" she shot it at a pan, but from the lack of an impact sound, it was apparent she missed. She rounded on him, dropping the rifle on the ground and snapping, "What the hell was that?!"

"You let your shock and anger get the better of you. You gotta stay calm or else you won't shoot straight."

Groaning in defeat, she yelled, "You do the damn rifle shots, I can't work with this fucking gun!"

"And I probably can't either, since you slammed it on the ground."

"Go to hell!"

Part One of Five. Thanks for Reading!