Jessica has always been very good at playing nice. Some soft skills weren’t as needed in a time of war, with fists and threats making more of a statement in Famine, but the gangs had instituted peace. Peace of a sort, anyway, for now—fraught with tension, perhaps, but ultimately calm. So Jessica made her rounds today, showing a measured magnanimity despite everything that Pestilence had done to Famine since exactly two months ago—ending the truce, threatening them at Ravi’s party, betraying the arrangement that had done all of them good. Today, she stood in front of a hurting Horseman and a wounded Seraphim and showed—with a fresh face, tousled brown hair falling in waves down her back, and a small smile on her face, replaced by a somber look when needed—that she was at her best. That though they were faltering, she, and Famine, hadn’t missed a night of sleep.

But it wasn’t only the Horseman she noticed at Ricardo’s funeral. When she saw an old friend, familiar from visits to the Hippodrome for Famine, she couldn’t help slowing as she passed him, idly asking as she glanced at her watch, “I think we’re overdue for a catch-up, aren’t we?” The details came later via text, Milo’s name listed simply as Milo P. (not yet blessed with emojis) on Jessica’s phone: an underground cocktail bar owned by a friend of a friend in Soho. Directions, in case he couldn’t find it. And the message, because pest is closed :( x Boo-hoo.

It didn’t take long for Jessica to find a spot she wanted, far enough away from the very small crowd of VIPs, and to settle in with a gooseberry chaat margarita as her security waited, eyeing her from the main bar. Then she heard a sound and glanced up, her smile widening as she saw the newcomer. “Milo Pierce,” she greeted, standing and holding her hand out to shake his. Her Panthère de Cartier bracelet glinted in the light, stark against the black of her Versace dress. “You and Pestilence. I never thought I’d see the day.” She grinned, motioning for him to sit. “It’s nice to see you for the first time in... four months, maybe?” Back when life had been easier, and he’d just been yet another man trying his luck at the blackjack tables. “And congratulations. Seraphim looks good on you.”

For many, being sober means finding yourself. Winnie is no different. Alcohol turned her into some sort of mangled creature - a version of herself completely unrecognizable to those who might've known her at her youngest and purest. Unfortunately, alcohol did all of that changing at a very, very young age; her brain never had the chance to form without influences, which meant that when she did finally let go of the bottle, she had to do a whole new kind of soul-searching. She had to completely reinvent herself - starting over without any of the freedom or levity of youth.

Doing that in a small town where every corner turned meant more opportunities to run into the ghosts of her past? Torturous, to say the least.

It isn't embarrassing to be sober. This is something Winnie tells herself every day, still, even after a decade of recovery. Unfortunately she'll have to keep telling herself this, likely forever, because as of now she still doesn't believe it. It is something she tells herself right now, here in the boxed soup and canned bean aisle, because standing in front of the various broths (and looking incredibly confused) is a ghost she's been avoiding for... well. A very, very long time.

"Milo," Winnie says - unthinking. An impulse she couldn't swallow even if she tried. She's seen him around, of course, though always at a distance where she could dip into the throng of people and disappear. Now, though, it's just them, and the broths, and the muzak that plays through the tinny speakers at 8:30pm on a Tuesday.