Description: Gripping terror! Spellbinding action! Quiver in delight as Maxima and K' discuss their job situation! What will their solution be?!!? Tune in right here, right now, for the answer likely no one has been waiting for! It'll leave you stunned, maybe?!
Not having sustained any significant injury in his Saturday evening SNF-- no broken bones, no severe damage other than a ripped-up shoulder and profuse bruising-- K' had opted to get the hell out of Russia while the getting was good. He'd received some treatment and a shitload of painkillers after the match, a bit of touch-up that didn't take all that long, and then he'd gotten on the first plane he could.
It was a long freaking flight from St. Petersburg back to Japan, a little over half a day's worth of time gone, and by the time he'd got back it was sometime obscenely late on Sunday night. K' had disappeared into his room the instant he got back to the apartment he shared with Maxima: dropping his bag, tossing the complimentary fight tape onto a steadily-growing stack by the little TV, and passing out quite promptly.
He'd organize everything in the morning. Or the afternoon, as the case may be-- whenever the hell he woke up again.
It's late in the afternoon on Monday now, and K' is just starting to rouse out of his literal unconsciousness: much to his grief. It helps that the sun-- on its way down to the horizon already-- is starting to lance through his west-facing window, its red rays shining right on his face. K' responds to this irritation... by flopping over in bed, covers twisting as he plants facefirst in his pillow and tries not to wake up. Five more minutes, sun.
His door is slightly cracked open, revealing the fact that he is indeed home to the other man who shares this living space.
Despite the piercing rays of sunlight, the weather in Southtown is crisp, cool. It borders on cold, in fact. It's a fact that is accentuated by the fact that the apartment building hasn't had a working airconditioner for the past two weeks. Many complained about it to the landlord, but to no avail. When the massive Canadian who had just recently moved in had joined the clambor for heat, though, the landlord quickly had a change of heart. He didn't really need to join in the protests. It's been a long time since he's ever been able to register things like hot and cold in a way that a normal person should.
But Maxima has a bigger heart than even he'd care to admit sometimes.
For the time being, the heat has been long seeped from the apartment. He hardly notices, of course, but he's also not the only one living here. Still, with K' gone for the large part of the weekend thanks to Saturday Night Fight -- an affair the mightiest Canadian opted out of this week -- Maxima had kept himself busy cleaning up the place and helping with angry apartment tennant protests about rights he largely didn't care about. The place, when K' had arrived, was as clean as it could ever be. Maxima was bored.
There had been other things to keep the cyborg busy, however. More important matters that involved things he actually -did- care about. Which brings us to the here and now, with K''s arrival and attempt at peaceful slumber -- however peaceful that peaceful can be for a man like him. Late Sunday afternoon. K' arrogantly attempts to deny the warning wake up calls of the sun. He's successful for five minutes.
And that's when Maxima kicks open the door.
The cracked open door swings open wide with the painfully annoying slam of door against wall. A massive, sandal-clad foot presses against the ground from its lifted position, bringing the Canadian to a short stride towards K''s bed. His attire is something more fitting for summer than winter: a bright red and lime green Hawaiian shirt, khaki shorts, and sunglasses perched at the top of his skull; the absurdity only reinforced by the stern frown he carries. He'd be worried about waking up poor K' too early, except-- "It's two in the afternoon, wakey wakey. Jeeze, you're like a little kid some times! Besides..." The snap of his wrist carries a short stack of papers through the air, to land directly on the back of K''s head.
"We've got work to do."
K' likewise wasn't nearly as concerned about the lack of heat as the Canadian was, though he wasn't half as impervious to extremes of the weather. No, the reason for his indifference is that he is simply... more resilient to the cold than a kid his build has any right to be. It's all the fire beneath his skin. But where Maxima had the heart to look out for others... K', self-absorbed as ever, had barely even registered it. Much less complained to anybody about it. Besides, he's been busy.
Busy enough that now he figures he really, really deserves to sleep in. Even until two in the afternoon... and perhaps later! But it seems Maxima has different ideas. Battle-trained reflexes snap K' from 'verge of unconsciousness' to 'wide awake' the instant Maxima crashes down the door, the boy's hands-- one bare, the other locked up in red metal-- tensing abruptly before he gets a grip and remembers where he is and who's talking to him. A long groan kicks out of him, the boy slumping again into his sheets and abused pillow face-down. The papers hit his unresisting bedhead dead-on.
"'m fucking tired," he complains articulately, stubbornly failing to move a few minutes. But eventually, warily, he figures it's better he rouse himself under his own power than risk Maxima doing it -for- him. Twisting onto his back with an irritable flop, he eventually sits up amidst his tangled sheets with a squinting blink at Maxima's... unusual attire. Shirtless and scowling, he adjusts the necklace about his throat-- the cross of which had migrated over his shoulder while he'd been asleep-- and mumbles something incoherent, dragging his ungloved hand across his face in an attempt to wake up.
Maxima certainly seems in a busy mood, however. K', unfortunately, is starting to evince some signs of teenaged lazy. He twists reluctantly, scooting to sit on the edge of his bed, black pajama pants rumpling as he settles his elbows on his knees: head dipping as he shakes off sleep. Interestingly, he hadn't even bothered to take off his socks. Perhaps he -was- feeling the cold. "Work? What work..." Other than the obvious, he means. Remembering the projectile Maxima just hit him with, his left hand paws blindly to one side looking for them, hitting the papers eventually. He picks them up, squinting at them tiredly.
"You really shouldn't wear that thing when you sleep," Maxima notes chidingly as he gestures a thick index finger towards the chord of K''s necklace. "You could choke on it." Could he? Maxima can't remember exactly.
But knowing K', it's likely better safe than sorry.
As soon as the silver-haired flame-wielding kid forces himself up and awake, Maxima relaxes easily; leaning back against the nearby wall, he crosses massive hands and interlaces fingers against the back of his skull, thick brows knitting as K' complains. "You don't think I'm tired?" He's not, he doesn't really need sleep anymore, that's not the point. "But we can't all just laze about because we're tired. There's things to be done! --By the way, how'd your fight go? Did you pick out a nice suit?" Maxima pauses.
"You didn't burn it, did you?"
Irresponsible K'. The cyborg heaves a sigh as his gaze rotates to the window, squinting through the rays of sunlight. He waits patiently for K' to remember the papers he'd only just been hit with. Waking up can be a difficult process sometimes. Maxima remembers. "Important work. If we're going to keep on doing televised fights like this, we're gonna need a good cover -- people to support us, and means to move around if NESTS decides to take any action. Right?" Of course he's right. "So, while we're doing this..." A hand pulls away, gestures towards the papers. On the front? 'YOUNG FIGHTERS COMMUNITY CENTER --'
"... we're gonna get a job."
'APPLICATION FORM'
"Wh..." K''s fingers stray to the double-looped cord of his necklace as Maxima indicates it accusingly. His hand falls short, however-- it drops back into his lap as K' huffs out the typical exasperated breath of an affronted teenager. "...forgot to take it off. Pfff. It's not like it's gonna catch on anything, anyway." Famous last words, perhaps.
The kid looks largely unimpressed with Maxima's rebuttal of his complaint. He -knows- already that the cyborg doesn't get tired in the physical sense. The only reason he doesn't sardonically point this out is because he knows not all tiredness is of the corporeal sort. He's all too familiar with the sort of tiredness that comes of being hunted-- constantly stressed, constantly looking over your shoulder. Constantly under pressure. As the more responsible of the duo, Maxima likely feels that kind of exhaustion more keenly than K', whose own tiredness arises mostly from his personal issues.
Rubbing a hand across his face again, heaving a sigh, K' forces himself to think back on the events of the weekend as Maxima asks about his fight. He remembers... losing by a hair. And then, /Cherise/. K' grimaces with a sudden and inexplicable fervor. "I lost," he replies flatly. "But only just barely. I think I'm getting better." He is quiet a moment, thinking about his encounters with Krizalid-- so intently that he almost misses Maxima's accusatory followup. K' pauses visibly, and then rolls a shoulder awkwardly in an evasive shrug which betrays the fact that the answer to whether he burnt the suit... is an emphatic yes. "They wouldn't let me wear leather... of course it got burnt." It's not HIS fault!
He lets his gaze fall to the papers in his hand then, not really reading the words printed there as he focuses on listening to Maxima instead. What he hears... causes a feeling of dread to settle heavily in his chest. All of a sudden, those words on the sheet resolve quite clearly. "R...ight. But-- a job?" Of course, all that Maxima is saying -makes sense- to K'... but K' is also, in effect, watching his free time disappear down the drain.
Admittedly, he has been going a bit crazy from having -too much- free time, but this will need some adjusting to. He is silent a moment as the reality sinks in. "S...so what's this 'community center' thing?" he eventually thinks to ask, dropping the papers on his bed-- so negligent-- and pushing to his feet to wander off in the direction of the kitchen.
Not going to catch on anything, K' says. Maxima is largely silent after this. He won't protest it.
He just prepares for the inevitability of having to save K' from choking on his own necklace.
Despite the lax manner that the Canadian utilizes to deal with his problems, there is quite a bit still plaguing him. Maxima is just blessed with being able to take it in stride. It's how he manages to deal with K', a young man who most would dismiss as being abrasive and unkind. He takes the wait for the slow-moving and sluggish young experiment to get up with an easy-going grin. As abrasive as K' might be, Maxima is the exact opposite, and that is exactly why he can so easily deal with his fellow rogue agent and work so effectively with him. He can see past what others garner at a cursory glance.
That doesn't stop him from teasing the poor white-haired fighter, though. His right brow lifts in a scrutinizing fashion, lips pursing in thought. "The rules are there for a reason, they can't help it if you don't like to wear nice things," he scolds, his voice still light and teasing as ever. "We better not be getting a bill for the suit because you had to burn it up." They probably won't.
That doesn't stop Maxima from giving him a hard time over it, though.
"When you start controlling that stuff more, than you'll really know you're getting better." A cursory glance is offered to K''s glove; Maxima's lips twist into a thoughtful frown, his head lulling to the side as the other rogue agent shuffles his way to the kitchen like the living dead. A job, he asks, as if he'd been stabbed in the heart. "Yeah," is Maxima's response.
"Think about the positive side of it. It'll help teach you about responsibility!"
The titan of a man follows after K''s wake as he drags himself out, only stopping to pick up the papers K' had so conveniently forgotten. The Canadian's head ducks a little just before the doorframe, brown eyes twisting towards the direction of the fridge. "Could you whip me up a sandwich?" He doesn't need it, K' knows that. Old habits. "The -Young Fighting- Community Center is a place some kid called Alma Towazu founded a few months back. Apparently he's pretty famous. Model and a fighter, or something. You'd like him." No he wouldn't. "It's a place where fighters teach kids the basics of self-defense, moral values, stuff like that. It'll be a good learning experience for you." He doesn't explain which part would be. "There's a couple interesting people who work there, too. Most of 'em are around your age. I met one a while back -- Hotaru Futaba. She's pretty skilled."
At the end of his words, those papers fall against the kitchen counter once more, their embolded and promising words blazing outward for K' to see. 'APPLICATION FORM.' "They've got fighters who could help us, and it might be a good time. Gotta start somewhere." He pauses.
"You'll never learn how to apply for a job, otherwise."
"Hnnnnf." That long noise of derisive disgust is all the opinion K' has to offer concerning SNF's silly rules and quirks. There is a long pause, after which he adds, "...what I usually wear's nice enough." It's delivered in a tone of mild, almost affronted protest, the boy yanking irritably at his necklace in a gesture of habit as he pushes to a stand, stomping irritably out to the kitchen. Abrasive indeed... it's a wonder Maxima puts up with it. Then again, the cyborg-- if anyone-- should be well aware by now that the boy's poor attitude is rarely actually malignant. K' is just nearly perpetually grumpy, having to put up with the near-constant buzz of his glove's suppression current... as well as with the tingle of flame in his blood, and the events that put it there.
There -are- things that will propel that grumpiness straight to actual anger, however. Maxima touches, however, briefly, upon one of those things. K' stops abruptly as the cyborg brings up the subject of his lack of control, his lean figure framed in the doorway, facing away from Maxima. K''s back stiffens noticeably, muscle tightening visibly beneath bared skin, and the boy abruptly slams his gloved fist into the doorframe with a sour growl. A few moments of silence. "It's not that easy..." he replies eventually, managing to getting his temper back under control if only for Maxima's sake. Without once looking back at his partner, he starts moving off again.
Pulling a pair of dishes out of the cabinets and tossing them onto the counter, K' pokes into the refrigerator as Maxima continues talking, his silvery head nearly disappearing into the appliance's depths. One of the side effects of bearing a raging fire within him that he wasn't meant to have... K' gets hungry far more easily than even a normal boy of his age, and he's rather more interested in feeding himself than in politely facing or looking at Maxima when he talks. Mentally glossing over Maxima's talk of responsibility in favor of working open a bag of bread, K' absently shoves the unfortunate first slice in his mouth before flicking the next two onto one of the waiting dishes. Alma Towazu, huh. K' vaguely remembers seeing the name around, though he doesn't remember any specifics and like as not doesn't care to. Hotaru Futaba is another name he recognizes, this time a bit more clearly given how active she's been in SNF lately. K' "hmms" absently around the bread held in his mouth, extracting a package of sliced meat and a tomato before tipping the refrigerator door shut and pulling a knife from the kitchen drawer. Leaning over a bit, he bites through the slice in his mouth, letting the freed half drop onto the free plate so he can actually respond to his talking partner. Teenage boys-- so improvisational.
"So there'll be fighters there." That's really all he's interested in. "Well. I guess it could be -okay-... depending how good these fighters are. Good enough to have a practice area, anyway." K''s brow furrows critically as he slaps a sandwich together, his movements a bit awkward as he's forced to compensate for one of his hands being hobbled by an unwieldy glove. "...I'm not gonna have to -teach- any brats, am I?" It's probably best if he doesn't, there's no telling -what- he might set on fire. As to him actually managing to learn things like moral values, responsibility, or real world skills like job application, well. The humorless chuckle K' lets out at -that- part is probably good enough indication of what he thinks of all that. "Heh... right. Like I fit in -that- good with society..." he comments, not without bitterness, even as he shoves the plate containing the first sandwich across the counter in Maxima's direction. If he wants it, it's there-- otherwise, K' is liable to eat it right along with the one he's now making himself.
There's a brief expanse of silence after K' strikes his fist against the frame beside him with all that fury the boy is possessed with. Maxima doesn't say anything because he knows that it'll likely just encourage more anger, even from him. His response is simple: he leans to the side, crosses his arms over his chest. His brows knit, and he waits.
It's not that easy, K' explains.
About fifteen seconds later, Maxima responds just as simply, "I know."
They move again. Maxima brings himself to a full lean against the counter, eyes resting on that glove for a scant moment. It's not that easy, but he knows -- it can be done. And then that'll be just one more thing from NESTS that K' won't have to rely upon. It'll just take patience, and fortunately -- that's one thing that Maxima has in spades. Even if the same can't be said for his grumpy partner.
Elbows resting with a full lean against the counter, the material creaks ominously beneath his weight. He looks down, giving a stern sort of frown. "Jeez, the tennant's are right. Things are just falling apart here." He fails to note the fact that he's leaning a good chunk of -his- body mass against the counter. It's just another fault of a lousy landlord, and he'll leave it at that. "Can't even afford decent furniture, let alone a working air conditioner."
Maxima has always felt the need to support causes he has no use for, after all.
K' assembles the necessities for food as the Canadian mulls heavily, lifting a hand to scratch at one of those thick sideburns. Thick fingers stretch through dark hair as he squints at K', almost disbelieving. "You, teach anyone? ..." And there is where he gives a short bark of laughter, his massive hand waving through the air dismissively. "Gaahaahaahaa! N-no, no, you're not gonna have to worry about that. I think you'd end up teaching those poor kids how to outrun a walking flamethrower before you gave them any valuable life lessons." And that's a fact. "We'll see if there's anything you can do that doesn't involve you potentially mangling little kids, okay?"
A large hand swipes downward the moment that plate scrapes across the counter in a swift slide. His palm intercepts, the whole ordeal smacking into him with a deadened thud. He picks up the sandwich, stares at for a long moment -- and then, takes a big bite.
"Sho get dat appricashun done, awright? It'sh gonna be fun, yuh'll shee," the words are slurred between the mouth of a man enjoying a sandwich. Apparently, Maxima isn't a good enough role model to teach not talking when one's mouth is full. With one satisfied gulp, he leans back, and heaves a sigh.
"Aaaaaah. We'll be going tomorrow afternoon to check it out. Try and behave, eh?" He takes another bite of his sandwich.
"We haff to make a gud impreshun."
Moodily, K' simply busies himself at the counter; taking his mind off the brief moment of tension by focusing on something else. Just as Maxima deals with things by waiting them out, K' deals with them by trying to distract himself. He knows already that if he let himself focus on them more than is necessary, he'd drive himself insane obsessing. Ultimately, he knows, Maxima only means well for him-- wants him not to be so reliant on something from out of NESTS. But it still stings that he can't even control that fire without help.
He flicks a yellow eye over at Maxima as the cyborg gripes about the condition of the furnishings. Just as Maxima failed to press the issue of the glove earlier, K' now fails to point out exactly why it is the counter's complaining. He simply rolls his eyes briefly, opting to ask some more relevant questions instead; only to have one of them get -laughed- off in the most brazen of ways. K' looks momentarily offended-- and then, he just looks sly, especially when Maxima gives his opinion on what a K' lesson plan might look like. A sort of dangerous look sparks in his feral yellow eyes, a worrying smile cutting jaggedly across his face to bare white teeth as he asks, "And why not...? If those kids learn to outrun -me-, that's already a pretty valuable life lesson right there. Some nasty shit walking around out there these days." K', K', K'. Are you advocating that you be turned loose on hapless children? For shame. It's a joke, though. -Really-.
Halfway through assembling another sandwich, K' gets distracted by a carton of Pretz sitting out on the counter temptingly in front of him. There is a pause only of a moment before the boy reaches over and cracks the cardboard open, left-handedly extracting a couple sticks. Ahh, for the self-absorption of youth. Incidentally, his focus is on doing so, and not really on listening to Maxima as he talks (with some difficulty). He listens only to the most important parts of what Maxima's saying as he thoughtfully sticks the Pretz in his mouth like an array of thin cigarettes, and eyes the application on the counter beside him.
"I can already tell I'm gonna have to make half this shit up..." he gripes around the thin pretzels in his mouth. 'Full name'? K' is lucky to have two characters to his name at all. Pawing at the top sheet of paper, deftly twirling it so he can look at it more clearly, K''s eyes narrow. Tomorrow, huh. "I... guess I'll take a look at the place," he eventually grouses, as if laboring under the delusion he still has a 'choice' in the matter. "How good do you think the fighters are there...?"
"It's a valuable lesson," the Canadian mulls,
"If it doesn't end up getting you arrested for homicide, anyway."
The words are accompanied by an amused sort of grin that splits Maxima's lips wide, enough to squint his eyes for a moment. His free hand tapping fingertips against the counter in an easy way to pass the time, the Canadian takes another bite out of his sandwich. All of K''s issues -- he knows them well. He also knows that none of them are hurdles that can be jumped over so quickly. Until he does, though -- neither of them are going to be ready to fight NESTS on a serious level. And so, he waits it out. He helps wherever he can.
Because that's what you do for a friend.
"Eh, I'll help you fudge the small stuff. It's not that hard, really, and none of them seem the type to pry." Except for the ones that don't have to try to pry. Psychics. Just another concept Maxima probably won't be ever able to fully grasp. The drum of his fingers comes to a stop, his eyes giving a lazy roll towards K''s general location. "Huh," he begins thoughtfully, "just stick to the basics. Simple lies are easier to remember." And that's Maxima's pearl of role model wisdom for the day.
He would make a good father.
"They all have great spirit and potential, from what I've seen. A lot of 'em will be great fighters, some day," Maxima says the words with a serious and thoughtful tone, his mind -- and subsequently the comprehensive databanks that now comprise it -- mulling over those he knows of that work there. "None of them are on our level yet, I'd say, but you shouldn't underestimate them. They could give you a run for your money. One of them, though..." he pauses here, and thinks... before his shoulders lift in a roll. "Aaah, you'll find out." And he leaves it at that. "Just don't take them lightly. Lot of them are developing, but they're still skilled."
At Maxima's mulling words, K' grins carelessly around the last pretzel that's escaped being eaten: apparently-- like a typical kid-- having turned away from proper food in favor of snacks first. Also, like a typical kid, his idea of jokes are sometimes... somewhat suspect. Case in point. "Che, like I'd kill any of them." A long, sly pause, before he adds in an offhand manner, "...it'd be too easy. Boring. What's the point?" Deftly, he bites the one remaining stick in half, flicking his head back to catch the severed bit before it drops.
K' has his playful moments. Rarely seen, hardly ever glimpsed by anyone he isn't decently comfortable around (meaning rarely seen by anyone but Maxima)... but nonetheless extant. They're largely overshadowed, however, by the manifold issues that trouble him: countless worries and fears that more often than not kill whatever humor K' possesses. The momentary lightheartedness is evanescent, a shadow crossing K''s eyes again as his head dips.
Largely, he's thinking about the same sort of things Maxima is. He himself is wondering when he'll ever be ready-- /feel/ ready. Regardless of not feeling prepared, though... he's rash enough to want to get started -now-, to want to -do things- now. Such is the reckless restlessness of youth.
K' is a bit disappointed upon hearing that nobody there's really 'on their level,' but for the moment he seems to accept whatever else Maxima has to say about the fighters that frequent the YFCC. Perhaps he'll just get several of them to attack him at once, he's good at pissing off people like that. "Hnn. I guess if you think it's a good idea," he eventually shrugs, reaching across the counter for a pen and scowling at the sheet of paper. Maxima, the only person capable of convincing K' to do things.
A lighter kind of smile draws upon Maxima's lips when K' goes so far as to make that joke. It's not the joke that causes it, so much -- it's an odd sort of joke you'd find from someone who probably hasn't spent too much time interacting with others -- it's just the sheer fact that it -is- a joke that elicits the response. They're rare things from the 'Beast of Flame.' So -- they're moments to remember.
A chuckle slips past the burly Canadian's lips as he releases the poor counter from his weighted lean, straightening his back with a slight crack. His hands once more interlock behind the back of his head. "Glad to see you think so, I don't think they'd hire us if you were avidly burning kids alive."
Issues and concerns are forgotten for the moment. He has more than enough time to ponder over them later; for now, he just twists, maneuvering towards the main room of the shoddy apartment. K''s words draw him to pause. The big Canadian looks over his shoulder, flashing a grin for his partner's assurance. "Of course I do. Trust me; it's gonna be interesting." He pauses. "I'm sure you'll have fun."
Words that don't -always- bode well.
Those words offered, the cyborg relaxes against a simple, aged rocking chair that groans beneath him, but like any old faithful, does not give out. His right hand curls around the remote, turns the power to the TV on. He flicks through the channels, and offers one last bit of wisdom:
"... Maan, we don't even get decent -cable-? I'm going to have to write an angry letter about -this-."
Log created on 19:03:31 11/23/2007 by Maxima, and last modified on 12:56:11 11/24/2007.