theroadwarrior | Source and Powered Meme PSL

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Source and Powered Meme PSL

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?

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

It'd been by chance. Sanji always makes his rounds before closing up in the late evening, taking inventory and stowing away the easily spoiled shit. He could keep the Baratie open longer, sure - once upon a time, that old' fart of a geezer had done just that, welcoming all sorts of shitheads cast out by society well after midnight. Drunks, prostitutes, the occasional madman swearing he was an escaped Powered or Source. They'd flock for the promise of a hot meal. Then'd just as quickly flee without paying the tab.

But times have changed. It's not good business, Sanji reasons. That, and Zeff's recent death has marked a sullen period the chef is better off not thinking about. The moment it hits 9, he briskly ushers his employees out the door, swearing up and down he'll ship them to the government if they aren't here by 8 AM tomorrow (Shit, he would never. Could never.)

And it's then that he hears the ungodly noise coming from his storage room. The one leading to the back alleys, where the homeless always come to form a hungry conglomerate of mouths. Another one of Zeff's policies that have outlived him; someone's got to keep the shitty poor well fed. Sanji would agree except for the moment he hears a bottle shatter on the floor. Wasted food.

Light suddenly floods the room, followed by the purposeful, angry click of dress shoes on floor tile. Without his calling, he swears he feels his Power brimming - it always does that, especially when he's pissed off. Strength and speed, and the oddity of flames that would definitely fetch a high price for his head.

Caution - years of it - is all that holds him back. He coils his power like a length of rope, stowing it in the corner as he spies the man laying waste to his goods, drinking out of the water tap like a deranged dog. The muzzle is new; no, actually, it's weird as shit, but that's a small detail lost beneath the growl in his throat.

"The fuck do you think you're doing?"

Max jerks to the side like he's burned by Sanji's bitten back fire; his gray-blue eyes are wild and alert when he looks at the figure, he's too freaked out to put a finger on the weird churn of his stomach; a familiarity, though he knows for a fact he's never met this man. And Sanji's certainly never met this man, spackled with blood, swaying slightly where he stands, sopping wet and barefoot. He grits his teeth, bares them, and reaches out to pluck up the neck of the bottle where that champaigne used to be. It's sharp and long enough to hurt, and he aims it at Sanji but doesn't leap to attack.

He's weaker than he'd like to be, right now. He grunts, prodding it towards the chef like a warning. He senses... something. what, he's not sure, but it's making it harder to think. The voices crowd in and feast on any logic he tries to usher forward. Natural instinct pushes him where the sounds don't, can't.

"You — get out. Go."

A sore threat lies in the words, not easy to uphold. He wants to skitter out like a tail-bent cat, hissing and scratching. He's not going back. He's free, he can't do that anymore, can't fight them tooth and nail for all this time — have his blood taken because he refuses to use his source power — he can't. He won't. Survival is all he can think of, even if he has nothing left. He blinks quickly, trying to dispel the ghostly afterimages that plague his senses.

That this unwarranted mutt has the nerve to grab at the jagged bottle neck only sets Sanji's eyebrows twitching. Wasted food is strewn all over his floor, and now he's being threatened? Sanji might not take a step forward or fall into a threatening stance, but there's no indication he's about to retreat. The only gesture Max is honored with is Sanji stubbornly folding his arms, not moving an inch.

"This is my restaurant and you want me to get out." Shit, he'd laugh if he had a sense of humor tonight. But it's pretty clear this man knows enough about a brawl that the chef decides to be careful.

Except Max is clearly unsteady, like he might drop to his feet. Blue eyes flicker up and down the form - and what a malnourished bastard he finds. If the chef breaks for the right, blocks a swipe and knocks the man to the floor with a well-timed kick, then maybe... Zeff did teach him to hold his own in a fight, after all, even if Sanji never had the heart to tell the geezer he was training a Powered.

This bastard doesn't know that. Sanji decides to keep it that way. No need to use his fire and leave a witness. He unfolds his arms and stuffs them in his pockets, posture subtly shifting.

"Customers come through the front door, shithead - and we're closed right now." So leave.

Max's eyes shift from Sanji to the door, quick, a wary glance. The broken bottle is held firmly in his hands, but the other reaches to use the counter as leverage to rest against. On second glance, the man is likely pale, gray smudges beneath his eyes. He hasn't had an easy day, to be sure; an easy life, really. And of course, there's that concerning patch of blood on his hands and shirt, when he doesn't look injured. Or at the very least cut open anywhere.

His stomach demands more, flops and gurgles and complains, and he ignores it like he always does. It's become second-nature.

Regardless, he's well capable of fighting tooth and nail if he has to.

Desperation gives you an edge you don't usually have.

"Not a customer."

So yes, he'll leave.

He hugs the counter, pointing the glass at Sanji even still. One step at a time. He'll make his way around the chef if the man'll let him, his cautious stare boring into Sanji's. The soggy fella appears to not want to actually get into a fight if he can help it; he's in no condition. He nearly trips on his own feet, though, because he feels disconnected, legs so heavy they feel like lead.

He grunts, motions Sanji to move aside with his occupied hand. The door is over there.

Max is allowed to circumvent Sanji; he's allowed more freedom than the chef usually gives, frankly. The reluctance to fight hangs between them like an fragile compromise. Max can't afford another brawl, and for all his confidence, Sanji can't afford testing a powerless battle when his opponent's got a broken bottle in his hand.

Even still, his stance remains slightly bowed forward, muscles coiled and ready to spring the second Max makes an unwelcome move. Blue eyes, even the one hidden behind a curtain of blond hair, continuously asses and scan, picking the other clean. The dabs of blood are noted, filed away - same as the man's ugly condition. This bastard has already seen his share of fights for the day, and Sanji would bet money most of them were with the shits who put that muzzle on him.

When Max nearly trips, only saving himself the fall by gripping harder on the counter, Sanji suddenly shifts back into a taller stance: chin lifted, head inclined to the side, and tongue nearly clucking like a displeased mother. The other's three feet in the grave, will likely pass out like a drunkard 10 paces away from the restaurant. And that would be firmly under the header of Not His Problem, if not for that shitty hunk of metal surrounding the guy's mouth, still stained with his desperate attempts to eat.

(Because the shithead's probably starving like that, wouldn't have bothered trying to shove anything between those bars if he weren't already desperate, what a goddamn pain in the--)

"You want that shit off your face?"

He can feel Zeff smirking at him from beyond the grave.

Max's distrust has hardly faded from the entirety of his person, but his eyes twitch. Does he want this off his face? Of course he does. For too long, he's had this thing forcefully pulled over his mouth and nose -- a means to keep him from struggling, which he's never stopped doing, not for all the years he's been trapped up in their little world. The barcode on his neck, it means he's a certified Source, means that the government will pull up his record and see him as a criminal, a dangerous man with powers. Even if he hadn't fallen into the hands of illegal blood sales, the government would have their own hell for him. Can never have a real home again. Can't really be free. Someone will always have a place to put him.

He's just sick of small cells.

But this man doesn't seem ready to do that, to send him to the officials. Then again, he doesn't know that Max has powers they'll reward Sanji for, if he throws him back into those waiting arms.

Sanji swims in his exhausted vision, two chefs standing sternly.

His stomach clenches and practically roars, a pang of pain that makes his eyelids flutter. Beneath the clothes, he's lost a lot of his muscle from days past. Not quite a skeleton -- not quite so bad that his blood won't do any good when they pump out amounts that would kill a normal human being. But enough.

He reaches up and jangles the strong lock on the back.

If this man helps, he may see the barcode and connect dots. So despite the obvious desire to say yes, the obvious glimmer of want for such a thing, he continues trying to back away towards the back door. He'll have to work around it. Sanji is three people now, all spinning around a swarm of buzzing, angry voices.

He pushes open the back door and slips out clumsily, leaving a mess behind him.

.....

Suffice to say, he only gets as far as around the corner of the back alley before he flat-out collapses from a bone-deep exhaustion. Out like a light. Good predictions, Sanji.

Only a desperate man with his back against the world would waver after an offer like that. Sanji recognizes it; he's seen and maybe lived it once upon a time. Hoping to make his point clear, the chef relaxes his posture and takes a step away from Max, just like the other asked him to, but by then it doesn't matter - Max jangles the lock on his muzzle like a challenge, then stumbles out the backdoor. Sanji lets him leave.

It'll be another five minutes before the blond goes to fetch his visitor from the cold.

Max is not a light man. Malnourished, but even weakened muscle adds up. The chef has to grit and struggle to get the bastard on his back, Max's arms haphazardly tossed over Sanji's shoulders, his legs tucked underneath Sanji's hands. When the other's head lulls as nothing but dead weight, bits of wet vegetable slip against his neck, underneath his shirt collar. Sanji swears loud enough to wake the dead and nearly aborts the mission right there.

Not worth it. Not fuckin worth it. Sanji marches back through the backdoor with his inconvenient prize, slamming the door shut with a backswing of his foot. There's an angry pulse in his chest he's having a hard time placing, one that sets his heart running. He thought it was anger; at the very least frustration for this damned convict interrupting a quiet night. It takes a moment to realize it's his power instead, unfolding and expanding before abruptly tensing back in on itself.

He puts the thought out of his mind; Max isn't getting any lighter, he smells of sweat and death, and while the shithead deserves it, Sanji isn't so crass as to leave him piled on top of that mess he made. Instead he heads for the hall, past the bathrooms and toward an unassuming placement of stairs. The restaurant is a two-level building, standard for family businesses. He takes Max to one of the guest rooms Zeff once reserved for those with no food and no homes.

It's a very small affair: twin-sized bed, gray sheets, cream walls and a dresser, and to the left hangs a window that hasn't been opened in years. Sanji glances at it, suddenly glad there's no one who'd bother looking through the window, and then tosses Max onto the bed like he's the world's most unwelcome sack of potatoes. He hisses as he smacks a hand to his neck and wipes up the residue of the other's mess. Shit, they both need a shower. Max probably needs three.

"I'm putting this all on your shitty tab," he snaps, simply because it makes him feel better. And once that's done, he vanishes from the room altogether.

When he comes back, it's with a bolt cutter he fetched from one of the storage rooms. Big enough to cut through an iron lock, if need be. Never thought he'd be using it for this. Sanji sends Max another scowl before approaching.

For a short while, Max floats. And it feels... good. It feels better than he's gotten to feel since the day his world fell completely and utterly apart. It's been lifetimes, as far as he's concerned. It's... strange. Like a heartbeat, almost, a rhythm. But not the same as the one he gets in his ears, in his temples, when the blood's taken. No, this time it's in his chest, and every beat bleeds warmth. It's how it felt when... when he healed his son. It's how it felt when he healed the small cut on his wife's hand. Or when he fixed his dog's broken leg.

Good.

...

And then he flops unceremoniously onto the bed, and that stops.

And all that's left in its wake is the shadows creeping in, twisted lullabies from a heart monitor betraying him. Not a real one. 'Just think of all the lives you're gonna save, buddy ol' pal. Just think,' someone says. A thousand needles pinch the vein in his arm. Another hooks through his neck like a fish's line, when the vein shrivels. 'Don't worry, Max, we all die sooner or later. But you and me and these people here, they're gonna go on and on and on...'

The sound of metal fills his ears. He smells blood. The muzzle scratches his fuzzy chin.

Someone looms over him, and his eyes flash open.

"No!!"

It's a feral sound born from panic and hate, and he throws punches wildly toward the figure -- the one trying to take his blood. He'll gouge his eyes out again. He'll find some kind of strength for it, because right now, he feels like he's barely able to cling to consciousness. The world spins and spins.

"Don't touch me -- it's mine--!!"

Edited 2016-03-06 02:21 (UTC)

Sanji's poised over him, the bolt cutter held loose in his hand as he mulls over the best way to go about this. It would be a lot easier with a willing, conscious, and less smelly partner, but eh. As it stands, Sanji will have to get Max on his back in order to cut the lock holding the contraption together.

It's his mistake to lean forward in that moment - when the silence is suddenly eaten by screams, and there are punches being thrown. Sanji jerks back to avoid the first one, can't help but bring the bolt cutter up like a shield, but Max is fast and delirious. The second punch connects with side of the chef's jaw, bruising muscle and igniting pain he feels down to his feet.

The room erupts into fire.

Max leaps back with a startled sound in the back of his throat; fire spits near him, the flame burning a wide spot on his fore arm, trying to eat up his sleeve. He pats it out with a hiss of pain and scrambles toward anywhere the fire isn't blocking him off -- the door isn't going to work. He moves toward the window, but there's fire blocking there, so he curls up into a tight ball into the corner of the room like a frantic animal, putting out his hands, trying to block his face.

This is a Powered. His mouth is dry, pupils pinpricks in the firelight. His arm throbs miserably, but the adrenaline dims it. "Stop--"

He remembers his old partner, long time ago. Burning up in a crashed cop car, nearly dead, a sad husk of a man bathed in burns. He knows better than to play with fire. He knows better than to be any more violent and instead try and look small and not at all intimidating in the wake of a Powered's anger; this one's strong, too. He breathes fast, waiting to see what happens. If he wants him dead, he'll be dead. At least maybe burn quick.

Edited 2016-03-06 03:11 (UTC)

Shithead calm down calm down calm--

Even after a punch like that, Sanji manages to stay on his feet - the left side of his face quickly swollen, pain dimming into a sharp, uncomfortable ache as he tries to orient himself - but standing. Heat licks at the chef's heels, a kinder burn than whatever Max is experiencing. His fire doesn't hurt him. But it demands a constant fury to keep it running, and this wasn't supposed to happen.

"You shitty--"

The fire pulses with the demand for bloody compensation. It's a damn good thing Max has kept still. Sanji rights himself and there's nothing but a cold, blue fury reflected in his eye. He doesn't stop to think that this is more fire than he might normally produce; minor details, he doesn't give a shit. One hand stays cupped to his cheek while the other adjusts the grip on the bolt cutter like he plans to gouge out Max's eyes.

-- And then Sanji closes his eyes with a deep, deep breath through his nose, hissing it out between his gritted teeth. The fire flickers slowly, first at Max and then toward Sanji, until finally they seep down against the floor, losing form until they're extinguished all together. All that's left is smokey tension. Sanji marches straight up to Max.

And proceeds to kick him in the head.

"The hell is your problem?!" One smack is all he's aiming for. Even if it misses, Sanji doesn't stop shouting, or shaking, or looking two seconds away from murder. "I try to get that shitty piece of junk off your face and you throw a tantrum!" With a flick of his wrist, he tosses - throws - the bolt cutter at Max, holding back the effort it would take to give the man a concussion. It will bounce uncomfortably on the floor or in Max's lap, but it's a harmless gesture compared to what Sanji could do, and they both know it.

-- They both know it. Shit shit shit.

"Just-- take if off your damn self now!" he yells again, because Sanji isn't going to help, oh no. Something like hysteria is bubbling in his chest; he runs a hand through his hair, turns away, swearing at the floor. It's been years since anyone saw his power. The last ones were his family. They tried to sell him.

If he were a smarter man, he'd just kill Max and be done with it.

"You stupid asshole!"

Max is too unsure of what the retaliation is to avoid Sanji's kick. It's one thing to fight against captors, but it's another to try and piss off an already pissed off Powered. The kick connects with a dull sound of violence -- Max just ducks his face so it isn't his eye or jaw that gets the abuse. It's familiar enough. When the man turns away, though, that frantic edge in his tone is clueing even Max in on what the guy is thinking...

Well.

First he picks up the bolt cutters, moving so slow he might as well be stalking prey. But it's a fool's game -- from this angle and how much weaker his arms are, it only scratches the heavy lock. He sighs, voice rough, and then turns inward, his nose to the corner and the cutters dropped next to him. He rests there for a moment, neck bowed in defeat; Max figures that it doesn't matter now. This guy is either his help or his newest captor, the guy who'll take him back in, maybe for a deal. He's not sure it'll matter, explaining how frequently he wakes up swinging.

His arm throbs fiercely from the burn.

"Won't tell... Mm. Thought you were someone else."

A pause. He drags himself to stand, and tries to... Play nice. For a moment. Maybe it helps that he feels a compulsion -- just looking at that stupid swollen jaw. With the unburned arm, he holds out a hand, the fingers on the last two digits stiff and not as compliant as the others.

"Here. Give me your arm."

He sounds tired and annoyed and defeated. His head hurts and his stomach aches and his arm feels like it wants to fall off. But he extends his hand anyway.

He owes a small debt, and he knows it. The guy dragged him in and tried to help. Max honors debts, fucked up as he is.

Hearing Max move behind him only fuels another wave of frustration so raw, Sanji can feel his foot itch with the hope of another well-deserved kick. His brain is stuck on rewind - back to the moment he found the bastard unconscious outside, and why in the hell he didn't leave him there to rot.

He's gonna tell; who in their right mind wouldn't sell out a stranger for enough money to fund their retirement?

So he doesn't believe Max's bold faced lie for a second. A growl erupts from his throat as he turns, sullen and still cradling the side of his jaw. Without an open window, the heat from the flames remains trapped in the room, just a shade below sweltering, and Sanji swears it's making his face throb all the more.

"... The hell would I give you my arm." Matching that annoyance verbatim. With childish triumph, he notes Max can't get that muzzle off without help after all. A small favor to keep his panic in check. He leans away like he expects Max to punch him again.

... You whiny infant.

Fine. Max figures he has nine lives anyway. He reaches out quick and grabs Sanji's arm, immediately leeching from his inner resources to give over to the chef. It's an instantaneous and odd comfort, like waking up from a restful sleep, health seeping in. It restores all -- fixes tired muscles, wiped away the swelling like a magic trick.

Max just waits patiently. He's weak, weak enough that even something as simple as a swollen jaw will take a good twenty seconds or so, especially since he was only just recently bled for bloodbags. The only real evidence that anything is happening visually is a white light that lights up Sanji's arm so much that you can see bone and vein. His jaw glows faintly where the wound is.

Maybe Sanji has seen it before.

Max's fingers quiver when he's almost done, and he backs up, dropping tiredly on the mattress to regain his small supply.

Edited (WOW i thought i picked a different icon oops) 2016-03-07 07:32 (UTC)

Sanji has kicked people for far less than grabbing his arm without permission, and without a doubt, his foot is at the ready, carefully aimed for Max's stomach. It's meant to be a quick lashing, a warning shot to never fuckin touch him again, but the sudden, cool touch he swears he feels in his bones is what keeps his leg still.

And the stirring returns. The one that gives a tiny flip in his stomach and drums up his heartbeat. The one that seems to call at his power, if he weren't so busy repressing the urge to give into flames. Sanji watches dumbstruck, attention tuned into the glowing light and all it represents. Yes, he's seen it before. A long, long time ago.

He doesn't say anything when Max finally retreats. Slowly, Sanji's hand climbs up to touch the side of his jaw where the bruise used to be; all he finds is a day's worth of stubble. The pain is gone and the room feels a little cooler because of it. After a beat, he drops his hand completely, finally staring at Max.

Another beat, and with a dim sigh, he walks to the discarded bolt cutter. His voice is carefully measured when he speaks.

"Turn around." It's no request. Sanji hates debts as much as Max does.

Max looks at him with all the trust of a man who -- well, of a man who was just kicked in the head. His skull throbs painfully at the reminder, but it's just another pain in an ocean of other pains, like the burn on his arm, or the clench of his stomach, or the weariness in his bones that leaves him more and more depleted. Like an animal who has struggled in mud and can't fight its rescuers.

He turns slowly, knowing he's utterly spent, bowing his head slightly. The barcode for a verified Source is there, same as if he were a Powered. Government stamp. There's more there, under the collar -- none that Sanji can clearly see unless he pulls at Max's shirt and looks down into it, which is probably a terrible idea, but he may be able to make it out a "MUZZLED" towards the top button of his spine.

"I won't tell," Max repeats, because it bears repeating. "I'll -- mmn, I'll leave. No trouble, won't linger."

Something makes him talk. Like this guy is someone to use his preciously small well of words on. It's stupid, really, and it's not like he needs to say any of this; guy will probably kick him out soon enough. He slumps tiredly, blinking away creeping blackness.

At this point, Sanji wouldn't consider anything about this situation a matter of trust. His approach is marked without judgment or malice, but there's always one foot waiting, waiting, in case Max turns feral again and attacks. They're simply two men who still stand something to lose, and this time when Max swears not to tell, the chef listens. And believes. Once the other has turned around, Sanji carefully slips the neck of the lock between the cutter's blades.

"Damn right you'll leave." It's spoken in firm agreement. He spares a moment to stare at the barcode, gracing it with a frown - and then he puts all his effort into snapping the legs of the cutter together.

It's hard work. Sanji doesn't cut through on the first try. It's a lock meant to endure through elements and struggle, and struggle Sanji does. The bolt cutter digs into the metal, slowly carving out an indent, while beads of sweat spot and trickle down the blond's neck. Shit, they didn't want this guy to escape, did they? Whoever they is.

Assholes. The government. Does it really matter? Property is property in this world, and an escaped Source is as good as a convict. Max will be on the run his entire life unless he finds a way to erase himself from their files -- that, or he'll die.

Again, chef, doesn't really matter. Not my shitty problem.

The sudden snap of blades meeting startles Sanji into a slight jump. He watches the bent metal slide from its station a slow, triumphant grin. "Heh. And there we are."

Max is usually is a closed off expression of constant distrust and seriousness, but when the muzzle slides off he looks utterly blissful for a moment, eyes fluttering closed as he sighs. Thank bloody christ. His hand moves up quickly to trace the grime and skin rubbed red there, and for a moment -- for the first time since he was taken in many years ago -- he truly feels an ease. A moment to relax.

But then he remembers Sanji, and glances over; the mask slips back over, as he cautiously looks at the chef. Is he free to go? He rises to his feet slowly. "Move. I'm going."

... Orders the man who collapsed, last time he escaped out a door. He's pretty much a walking narcoleptic patient waiting to happen, moving a bit clumsily, knees threatening to buckle every time his brain tries to check out on him. Judging by the state of him, one would think he hasn't slept much; truth is, he's been bled out quite a bit.

Sources. So resilient. That's just another skill -- longevity. Endurance. This man has been running on fumes for over ten years, and now that he's escaped, everything is playing catch-up.

"You're welcome."

Said with some barely hidden disdain for Max's apparent lack of manners. The chef doesn't much care for the tone of voice or the order, but given that it'll benefit them both in the long run, it's an order he'll follow.

... Except even without the muzzle, Max paints a very sad, broken, and starved figure. His desperation to get a convict out of his restaurant aside, Sanji figures Max will manage 20 feet instead of 10 before he passes out. Still within shooting distance of the Baratie. That's bad luck and bad math, so the chef drops his head backward, blowing a swear at the ceiling.

"-- But if you're just gonna faint by the door and cause me trouble--" He points to the bed, making a brief shooing motion. "Listen, this deal goes both ways. I've got nothing to gain by selling you out. Rest up a day, eat something, and then you can get the hell out of my restaurant."

Max is stubborn as hell, but he is a man of opportunity -- especially in the wake of such a long and miserable captivity. He stares at Sanji with a grumpy dryness, and then with no grace whatsoever he plops backward to sit on the mattress. With the haphazardly cut hair, the gruff chin and blood still dry on his clothes and hand -- he looks like someone you'd see talking to a tree in a park. And he isn't about to deny he hasn't talked to things that aren't there.

But there's a pause, and his expression shifts a fraction more toward approachable. This guy, he's a Powered. At the very least, that's a good defense. He could rest. Eat. He nods quietly.

"... One day."

He wants to be on edge and rush to the window, watch for any of the thugs who wanted him caught alive and relatively whole. But he can't find the strength to move suddenly, now that he's sitting. Shit. He crawls backward to sit against the corner of the bed, sitting straight upright as he tucks himself small... And apparently, this is how he plans to sleep. He seems quite used to it. Just one day. He has to make it... Count...

"Umm. I need... Can trade you. Clothes and supplies... A weapon..." He holds out his arm, exposing it upward, where there are already telltale signs of needles used. As much as he hates it, disgusts him, makes him want to curl into a tight defensive ball, he knows it's all he has to trade with. This is all he owns. Himself. He hates every word, but he relents: "Can trade. Blood for -- for supplies."

He is desperate enough for bartering his body, that much is sure. What's one more top-off? Another IV drip? He is barely human at this point and almost a walking medical kit.

...

"Keep your blood." He snipes out every word, as if Max has insulted him. The chef turns on his heel.

"We'll talk after you stop looking like shitty death warmed over." His hand dives into one of his side pockets, quickly fishing out a cigarette to pluck into his mouth. "So long as it gets you out of here faster, take what you want."

... What? He looks genuinely confused by the dismissal. With a huff, he leans back against the headboard and corner wall, tucked into a neat little ball of defensiveness.

"It's Source blood. Fetches high. Returns the debt."

Dear Lord in heaven, he's still going on about it. It's at that point Sanji's temper snaps back into action; the chef throws a hiss over his shoulder with some choice words.

"I don't give a damn what it fetches! I'm not like those--" He makes a gesture at Max's arm, stained with needle marks. His eye twitches like he's got a tick. "Those shits who thought you were their bloodbag, got it?!"

As if he hadn't connected the dots already. That Max thinks it's fair payment to offer himself up like that makes the man's stomach roll in protest. No, Sanji won't have it, and if that means Max has to get creative with repaying a debt, that's the man's problem.

"... Besides, I sell Source blood and that might trace it back here." If he had the mind for it, Sanji could find a good place to sell it. You don't run a business like the Baratie without brushing elbows with the black market - but that's not his style, and he has employees to take care of. "You wanna save your own skin? Leave as little of yourself here when you leave. That includes your insides."

He leans back, exasperated. Not because he so intensely wants to give blood that he's already clawed and fought for, but because of the fact that he's so unused to this sort of normal human response that he thinks Sanji's a weird anomaly. He supposes that's true, though. This guy probably wants no trace of a runaway Source being here. The hassle would be too much.

After another long stare -- an assessment that bores uncomfortably deep -- he pulls the blanket up and over him. Apparently, he's more than ready to sleep in his own filth, injuries be damned; his mind has a hard time going back to the old Max. The normal one. The one that actually had a spoken name, a name people used to say, many, many cities away.

"Fine."

That's all he stands to offer. Short, quiet, to the point.

It's hard to tell if it's genuine rudeness or just how he speaks now, really. He sags into the wall and feels an unnatural comfort in the sharp angles and harsh, solid surface of the walls to his back.

Brisk and to the point is fine. Sanji actually prefers the bluntness; it means he won't waste any time hovering once Max pulls the blanket around him, curled up like a broken, paranoid dog on the bed's corner. Not the most comfortable way to sleep, but there's nothing to be done about a rough past. After a satisfied nod, the chef leaves. Apparently there's work to be done.

First, the shitty mess Max left in the storage room. It hasn't been that long since this entire fiasco started, yet the strewn vegetables have begun to stink up the place. Armed with a mop and a fresh pack of nicotine, he wipes up the floor in record time. Within the span of 10 minutes it's clean enough to eat off of.

Second task: fetch some clothes. In the room across the guest room is an unused closet stuffed to the brim with Zeff's old shit - memories that need sorting, but he's been... busy. Thankfully a righteous cause gives him the steel to push the door open, kick open the first cardboard box he sees, and start organizing anything that might be useful. Pants, shirts, socks, shoes - Sanji hadn't bothered calculating Max's height, so it's all guesswork, but he also figures it's nothing a little sewing won't fix. A half hour passes, and there's enough clothes to last the bastard at least a few days. Longer if he forgoes washing.

Which reminds him... Sanji glances about the jeans and t-shirts with a frown, imagining the layers of dirt and grime they'll be subjected to if Max puts them on without a shower. Shit, and no way Sanji's letting him use his. He'll need a battle plan for that. At least a hose. Whatever, that can wait until tomorrow.

And all the while he's moving like a storm through his home, only barely remembering to be careful not to wake the guest, the chef thinks. And compromises. And scowls through his own shitty principles that have already planned a meal regimen for the idiot. It will do them little good if Max is too weak to set out on his own. Even a Source needs a firmer base of endurance.

Tomorrow. Wait for tomorrow. After a meal and a shower, some new clothes and a night's worth of sleep... they'll decide what to do, then.

Edited 2016-03-09 03:25 (UTC)

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