4- Home
They stood shoulder-to-shoulder in the cramped space, facing forward. The silence was heavy between them and the senescent apartment’s elevator moved at a crawl. Each number on the worn button panel illuminated and went out in succession, though the pace left the mute purgatory deafening. Mira only came up to Recon’s shoulder, so her anxious glance up was obvious. She was relieved he didn’t catch it, as his eyes were downward. He was taking off his gloves, folding them unceremoniously in his hand. What looked just like stains on the grey fabric was red--flaking to a dull brown on his light skin. He made an effort to brush off his palms on his pants when he caught her eyes, but she looked away. Not like she looked much better. Might as well have just left a war zone. “No one wanders the halls here this late at night,” he assured her quietly, tucking his mask into the collar of his shirt and zipping up the hoodie nonetheless. The band of color she sported across her eyes had all but smeared off anyway, but she still offered a slight nod in acknowledgement. Neither gave a damn at this point. They had been meticulous not to be followed, something Mira had learned from her time working with Recon. Despite his tough build and soldier-like precision in a fight, the man was cautious--maybe overly so-- and flighty as all hell. Not like she knew that much about him outside of costume, and he didn’t offer much when she did ask. No, she didn’t have the slightest picture of Recon’s life before he was...well...Recon. What she did have to show for months of working with the vigilante was a secondary home, a bed, and a tiny cubicle of a shower to wash off the city’s blood, sweat, and grime.
Perhaps that was all she could ask for in their town these days, but it was somebody watching her back, and somebody willing to keep an eye out so at least one of them could get an hour or two of sleep.
