Richey's Suite — The Royale Hotel

A cramped, garish Vegas–style hotel suite where retro pulp fantasy collides with brutal reality. Neon cowgirl signage and manufactured period trappings sandwich cracked wallpaper and a too‑bright bedside lamp; the bed hides a long‑decayed human skeleton in a pale‑blue spacesuit embroidered 'Colonel S. Richey.' Paperback pulp novels, a diary, and souvenir props litter the room, converting stagey artifice into incontrovertible evidence. The suite functions as a discovery chamber and moral hinge: sensory kitsch yields human identity, grief surfaces amid sterile fakery, and the confined space channels the away team’s shock into urgent, rule‑bound strategy for escape.