"you know you wanna welcome me into the dead supe society," pleading at @queensupe with big brown eyes from underneath sunglasses. he holds his old teenage kix branded mint case: reliable storage for his rolled blunts & the perfect companion for anyone california sober.
but the signature visor is gone now. restless feet shift in front of an ordinary farmhouse over the grandiose rooms at vought tower. the hood over his head doubles to shroud the discoloration around his neck. he hadn't been back to marie to attempt fading all his bruises, with blood blooming to the surface.
instead, he'd taken a jog at half his top speed to one of his last living friends. ashley let it slip when she got too drunk one night: the deleted video, butcher's crew getting maeve up, out, & away. the air was cleaner than it'd ever been in new york. the tower's highest floors were polluted with smog & a smothering fear for reggie. but with all the subtlety of a blunt weapon, queen maeve was a breath of fresh air. "c'mon, it'll be like old times."
' ugh. fine. '
their silent, passive camraderie became a defined connection through resistance: standing up left them both altered. it leaves a greater potential for freedom, through complete removal from the systems that nearly buried them. but reggie's grin still promises the same fleeting bit of comfort as before. he's all but beaming at her in response. "don't be like that. i brought you breakfast from the coast."
like always, he takes her resigned agreement like a small but tangible victory. reggie lets his hood fall as he shrugs into the house & slips his cleats off at the door. "and i missed you too, mags. you never call ... never write ... hard for a guy not to get offended."











