vivreencore (vivreencore) wrote in rooms, @ 2014-09-22 22:42:00 |
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Entry tags: | !marvel comics, *log, jack corvus, max main |
marvel - log: max m/jack c
Who: Max and Jack
What: Catching up with a beer after a failed assassination attempt, aka their usual.
Where: A bar.
When: After this.
Warnings/Rating: None.
'Disappointment' didn't cover it. He prepared himself and planned it all down to a minute. He armed himself and went out prepared for war. But there were no cars, and no Osborn anywhere. He went to the secondary facility with a growing pulse of sickness and found nothing but empty rooms and a hasty packing job. Gone, without a scrap of evidence to even make a token difference with.
By the time he walked into the bar he was such a cloud of should-haves that he had almost forgotten who he had come to meet, and how long it had been since they'd seen each other. He should have been more careful. He should have avoided baiting Osborn openly. He should have kept his head down, stayed anonymous. He should have known better, should have been better.
Ifs. He hated ifs, the way they liked to linger, mistakes that, if avoided, could have saved lives and prevented suffering. Those people in that facility, some of them were dead now. Osborn's people wouldn't have risked moving them all alive. Some of them were being dissected, right now, their tissue cataloged in little bags and tubes, teeth in tiny bottles, and he had to stand outside the bar for a minute and get himself together.
This wasn't the way he had wanted to come see Max, but here they were all the same. It wasn't like they weren't used to meeting up in the midst of one mess or another. She had been in prison, and absent for years, and so brusque in describing it that by her scale he knew it had been hell.
He came into the bar with a coiled rage still in his shoulders that wouldn't go away, not for anyone. He didn't move so smoothly from one gear to another as he had once, and this particular sensation, an itching in his hands to rend bad from good, was the hardest to shake. He slid onto the seat beside her at the bar. He registered that the place was her usual, dark and quiet and full of day drinkers, sticky countertops and a suspicious bartender. He was supposed to take her in, the reoccurence of her, appreciate her presence there after the absence. He couldn't, yet.
"Papers," he said. His voice came more easily than it had six months ago, but it still wasn't the same as it had been before he facility. "Useless papers. That's all they left. About twenty boxes of them. I went through five. Just dead weight, top to bottom."