There is no "HI THIS IS MAX", to be sure.

Just throw your messages into the wind and maybe he'll reply to them.

Godspeed.



BEEP BEEP. 



Leave a comment on how I play Max!
 My name is Max. Once I was a cop — 

Same old song, different dance. Max runs. He runs and bursts out through the crowds, blood weeping out of a spot on his arm where the needle used to be; there's blood on one hand where he gouged out someone's eye, and the chain on his arm clinks and clanks, the iron muzzle scraping uncomfortably on his jaw; a miracle chance, a one-in-a-lifetime moment, a way to survive that isn't complete misery. Most people shriek or gasp and stay out of the way, and the city is so busy, the men don't -- can't -- track him for long, not in the dizzying side streets where the more unsavory characters linger. He finds a place to wedge between a trash dumpster and some cans, and waits. Hours and hours, he waits, even with the rain beginning to drizzle down and the voices in his head making it impossible to concentrate. Voices of other Sources left behind, crying out for him to take them too. And of course, there's a woman with curly brown hair, motioning for him to hurry, to go. A small child with dead blue eyes, looking with contempt one moment and joy the next.

He closes his eyes and shakes his head tiredly. And waits. And waits.

When the darkness falls and nobody finds him (though they try, with utmost secrecy), he doesn't go far. He breaks into the back door of some food place, blinking away rain and trying not to totally get lost in the hours again. He's hungry. He's very hungry and low on blood; weak. The people who work for the hospital, doing dirty deals and saving them money with a cure-all Source or five, they're not ones for ensuring well-balanced diets. Max feels his stomach clenching, it's too empty. So he finds a room where there are unchopped vegetables and fruits... he pulls weakly at the muzzle and sighs.

But he's not one for sensible, civilized eating anyway. So he starts shoving tomatoes against the metal thing on his face. It feels a mess all over the floor, but the mush gets through well enough, and he starts cycling through them noisily as he's crouched low in the corner by the cabinets. He starts to focus his thoughts.

Don't get caught. Eat, take a piss, find somewhere to sleep. Muzzle needs to get off. Can't blend in with a muzzle. Looks bad. Looks obvious. Need a car, a good car, start driving; you remember driving. Loved driving, loved the pedal underfoot, loved it like Jessie loved the saxophone.

He finds a bottle of champagne, quirks his brow, and throws it over his shoulder, letting it shatter all over. Instead he goes straight for the tap water, ducking to drink out of it.

Eat, sleep, drive. Run. Don't look back. 

He runs his hand over the barcode on his neck, where the rest of his tattoo dips into the back of his dirtied but plain sleeved shirt.

... What other foods can he cram passed this muzzle?

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theroadwarrior: (Default)
My name is Max.