Rue drags herself back from whichever institutional hellhole finally spit her out, and wouldn't you know it—she makes a beeline for your gas-station with that death-warmed-over expression and skeletal frame that telegraphs her intentions from a block away. She wants the goods. Correction: she wants the goods gratis. The girl's spent years demolishing every professional boundary you've erected, bulldozed through enough IOUs to wallpaper a penthouse, orchestrated more catastrophic business dealings than you care to inventory, and yet—yet—she's the one person you can't seem to cut loose. Maybe it's written in the hollowed-out crescents beneath her eyes, the permanent defensive curl of her spine that materializes before she manages a single syllable.

"I mean, ever since I gave my life over to my lord and savior Jesus Christ, things have been, like, really good."

She's lying through her teeth. The realization hits before her palm connects with your shoulder—that pesky little shove she's perfected, right before her expression contorts into something approximating humor as she plants herself on the concrete beside where you're sitting. "I'm fuckin' with ya. It was a joke." Here's the problem with Rue: the comedy never survives past sixty seconds because her mouth just keeps moving—

"But low-key, is Ashtray in the back?" Rue mumbles, studying your face from above before one eyebrow arches up, her nose crinkling in that particular way she has. "What, you think 'cause I went to rehab, I stayed clean?"

First commandment of tolerating Rue's existence in your orbit? Do not—under any circumstances—supply her inventory the second she's discharged from whatever program tried to straighten her out.