max is less that impressed with the reaction. this fucking guy, swear to god. there’s always a discomfort around these people, the ‘immortals’, the mental defences like throwing yourself into a pit of lava, but monkey is the one that skeeves him most so far. maybe it’s because the guy operates on a level of logic completely alien to any sort of earthly reason.

“i’d grovel if it weren’t your fucking fault in the first place. you wanted it, i brought it to you, i thought we were done, and now this.” it’s not even worth concealing the feeling of uselessness, the frustration of who he is just suddenly gone. what does he even have now? not enough. not nearly as much as he needs. a hundred grand? two hundred? how much is he even going to have to sacrifice to fix this.

so he stands, trying to fight his fury down to a manageable level, breathing deeply. he’s not very successful. “look. whatever that thing did, i want it undone. whatever bullshit terms you have, just fucking tell me so i can fix myself.”

the worst thing, the worst thing, is how empty the room feels. no sinister looming of formidable mental presence, just some fucking asshole sitting in a chair eating fucking grapes. no dim far-off aura of the people in the city all around them. it’s too goddamn quiet and he won’t let himself dwell on how that feels, because he doesn’t need to feel any more insignificant right now. if he doesn’t hold on to the anger he doesn’t know what he has left.

“... please.”

the word sticks in his throat a little, difficult to say aloud, but it’s sincere.

monkey

it’s a battle to keep from just exploding. a deep breath is all he can do and it doesn’t exactly help, just makes him hyper-aware of the shake in his diaphragm, the stress and tension in every fibre of his body. he desperately wants to do something stupid.

after all, what’s the point any more?

“he’s also fucking dead, so i’ll pass.” not that he knows who the fuck hashr even is, but he really doesn’t have the time or patience to care right now.

max very deliberately fixes his eyes on the floor, clenching his fists, concentrating on the shooting pain in the not-quite-fully-healed wound on his palm. don’t. don’t fucking do it, he’s telling himself. just concentrate on getting through this.

“now? none, unless you’re thinking of getting into cybernetics manufacture.” he’s brutally honest, as much to himself as anything else. “but if you know how to fix me, if you actually help me, then.”

he stops because he really doesn’t want to do it, doesn’t want to admit that he’d be indebted to this lunatic, but what choice does he have? max just lets out a long, shuddering sigh.

“if you help me, then i will have value, and i’ll owe you. information, my services, money, whatever it takes. this is my life.”

he can feel it, feel it with utter certainty.

he’s completely fucked.

monkey

it sort of feels like monkey is talking to him like he’s a child. it’s probably supposed to.

that’s not say he doesn’t fucking hate, but he can sort of see why. how fucking old is this guy again? max doesn’t know. hundreds, thousands of years?

it kind of occurs to him that he can’t think of many people who would still be sane on any normal human level after that long, and the resemblance of the guy’s logic to a bag of cats suddenly makes a little more sense. it doesn’t allay his anger, though, definitely doesn’t make him feel the slightest bit better.

if it weren’t for the bike gloves his nails would be cutting into his hand. he can feel them digging into the leather from the inside, gouging slivers. the mocking offer makes him feel small, shitty, is probably meant to “no, thanks. i’d prefer a straight answer.” there’s a sort of brittle, forced steadiness to his voice. his heart is still hammering the inside of his chest, his breath still jerky as he draws it. “just tell me what i need to do.”

monkey