#queensupe

This isn't Hughie's scene. It's probably obvious, but there's no other bar in what he supposed could technically be called a town. If he wants a place to drink and feel sorry for himself, he has to come here. At least it's cheap. Living in New York has spoiled him for place to eat and drink, but there's nothing quite like dead beat, midwestern dive bar prices.

It's almost like he's in a sitcom, sans the laughtrack or the jokes. Everyone's faces are familiar to him now, he's seen them enough times and heard their troubles rehashed in more or less the same ways. When someone new walks in, no matter how much they look the part, everyone turns their head and stares. Hughie is now among the masses that turns to gawp at the poor intruder. He doesn't stare because she's knew. He stares because it's her.

"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."

the only difference between queen maeve and any other body she could take was that vought wanted her to be known, plastering her face on any conceivable surface. and that she made no attempt to hide her annoyance at adrienne's every question.

“there's quotas nowadays for everything, doing good included,” @queensupe says, evidently unfazed by this particular absurdity.

adrienne frowned, skeptical of this flippant explanation.

*     THE SUBSTANCE.    ☆ @queensupe ❛ Did you follow me here? ❜

❝  ───Follow  you  ?  ❞   A  scoff  paired  with  a  shake  of  disbelief,  ❝  That's  absurd.  I  mean  really,  what  do  you  take  me  for?  A  jealous  ex  that  won't  give  up?  ❞  The  amusement  flatlines  immediately,  ❝.  .  .do  you  ?  ❞  A  step  closer,  his  head  tilting,  ❝  Cause.  .  .that'd  be  pretty  shitty  of  you  Maeve.  Here  I  am,  just  coming  to  say  'Hello',  and  you're  already  sour.  Life  must  be  pretty  damn  miserable  for  to  be  so.  .  .❞  A  flick  of  his  hand,  subtle  disgust  as  he  looks  her  over,  ❝  Rigid.❞  A  thin  and  polished  smile  returns  to  his  lips.  ❝  It's  a  party  sweetheart,  you  really  should  relax.  .  .and.  .  .maybe  smile  a  little.  Looks  a  lot  better  on  you  than  scowling.❞

" yeah. you have, " alex ceded, from where she'd taken root in one plush corner of maggie's cushion laden couch — softly, but with no shortage of sharp backbone behind that bourbon - warmed statement. no absolution for the things she'd been made privy to. just resolve, no matter how heavily all the hard - to - swallow truths seemed to bear down. " and I am not some... naive sycophant who thinks that vought has anyone's best interests at heart. "

not that she could lay blame on the hordes of hollering fans who filled the movie theaters, who traded in their paychecks for any and every piece of soulless, mass produced merchandise that happened to bear the distinct likeness of their favourite supes, for wanting to buy into the charade. corporate's play, from the apex of the seven's ivory tower, didn't begin and end with commercial greed: it was a shroud.

a mirage.

a plastic, chintzy shield wrapped around reality and more than a hundred dead innocents that may as well have been bulletproof. that maggie had played her part, whether she wanted to or not, would never slip through the cracks of alex's understanding.

snapping off one of her nitrile gloves — a requirement that came with crossing the police - tape boundaries of any crime scene, not excepting the less macabre, less rife with carnage — , alex drew back from the remnants of gore beginning to crust into the tire - marked asphalt, and rose up, without betraying a shred of surprise, from her haunches.

it was hardly the first time they'd crossed paths like this; queen maeve, all bright burnished armor and fresh blowout, and her bearing the emblem of the FBSA printed across her windbreaker. but to have this discussion now, out in the open, when there'd been too many near misses already ( when homelander had been sniffing around, like some psychopathic, yet laser - focused bloodhound ) was a slip - up not worth imagining.

and yet she couldn't just stay away. not with so much clean up left to do — so much evidence still to sort through.

" I have a job to do, " alex proffered, perfectly cordial, yet still cautious not to let anything slip past her outward detachment, given the buzzy presence of vought - sponsored tabloid journalists on the scene, no doubt ready to spin the incident in their midst in the supes' favor; the proximity of cameras, somewhere past the inner - city traffic stoppage. the uneasy, persistently hair - raising presence of the seven's leader, hovering off in the distance.

The cigarette ember flares between his fingers, a small apocalypse, a tiny sun exploding. The little vial of green poison does that, saturates the worldview, tints every thought a shade of fuck it. That must be why he's tolerating the tedtalk. It never fails to catch him off guard, how small @queensupe looks when she's not plastered high and mighty on a billboard. Disavowing the Vought-brand regalia, chin tipped up toward him with that stubborn, fucking pride, she's still a menace beneath all that brooding. But all the flannel shirts and moping in the world couldn't scrub the supe out of her. The breed shows, even when she's pretending to be human, a warm flesh-body occupying the seat next to him. Still, he dangles the whiskey bottle toward her, across the no-man's-land of stained linoleum and shit decisions, the antithesis of an olive branch. Misery, company, and all that. 𝗠𝗮𝗲𝘃𝗲 𝘀𝗮𝘆𝘀, ❛ Fancy moral decisions aren’t my job. ❜

Annie sighs. The puppy eyes she gives Maeve rooted in desperation rather than weak attempt to convince her. Nails tapping on the surface of the counter in Maeve's suite, she pulls her lips into a thin line, thinking. Blinks, then opens her mouth without saying anything for a beat or two. "Remember when you said love is our weakness?" The one thing not even any supe is immune to. Technically, she said people. "I- I think that's bullshit. Well, at least to an extent...?" That same vague uncertainty lacing her voice reflects in her expression, before she gestures at the open space next to them both.

"I mean, whenever you saved people, you didn't do it because it's your job. Because god knows Vought isn't about saving people at all." Annie pauses, shoulders slumping and a subtle shake to her head follows. She's convinced Maeve did it out of love for humanity. A love that made her stronger than ever.

"What I'm saying is, there's another bus running straight to a broken bridge. I guess you have to choose, Maeve." Only that the bus wears the name of a deranged supe with no brakes this time. "So, are you gonna help us stop that bus", she leans forward a bit, absolute certainty wiping away any last vestige of its opposite to harden her eyes: "Or will you just keep fucking lying to yourself?"