2007-02-18: Coffee Digits Stab

Starring:

Max_icon.gif Identity_icon.gif

Summary: 18 February: Over coffee at the spawn of an evil corporate empire (Starbucks), Identity meets Max. Knives and sketches. Sketches and coffee. Coffee and belt buckles. Kinda like a blind date featuring death threats and sharp objects. Oh, wait. That's like a regular blind date. Nevermind.

Date It Happened: February 18th, 2007

Log Title: Coffee, Digits, Stab


Starbucks, NYC

This late in the evening, Starbucks boasts few patrons. Many tables are clear, leaving Max room to take one of the largest for his coffee, sketchbook, and wide array of pencils. For the moment he seems to be taking a break from drawing, as the top sheet of the book is blank. Instead he savors a cup of rich, black coffee, a near-miracle to find in a Starbucks these days. Luckily, one of tonight's baristas is a former bartender and understands the need for java without chemically enhanced fruit or confection flavoring.

Tall, fair, and leanly muscled, there is little to distinguish Max from any other man on the street. His light brown hair is short and neat, his vividly blue eyes are insightful and full of life, and his smile is wide and friendly. There is a scar at the corner of his mouth that gives him a slight, perpetually smug cast, and his nose appears to have been broken and reset just a touch improperly.

Identity Woods is a lightly toned 5'6" black haired woman with dark brown eyes. She wears her straight dark hair in a layered cut, usually with overlong bangs in her eyes. She wears a pair of low rise black jeans, which show off just a hint of tattooed flesh under her naval, and a black silk tank top. Her jacket is leather, worn open, expensive, and of an Italian designer cut. Her boots are three inch heels, with chunky, heavy soles. She wears just a touch of makeup, and her only visible accessories are a pair of understated diamond studs in her ears.

The door to Starbucks opens, as it does thousands of times a night, and admits a young woman in her early twenties. She makes her way into the short line, and casts a glance toward the large board, scanning the fare. She does not seem pleased, and dark eyes find the perky barista as she steps to the front of the line. "The largest coffee you have. Black. I don't care what flavor. Surprise me." She slides cash over the counter, and moves off down the way without change. To wait. Give us coffee, precious.

Max takes one more long sip from his cup, then sets it down and begins to scan the crowd for another face to sketch, another person to study, another life story to deduce. Absently, he picks up one of the pencils, produces a short folding razor from his pocket, and begins to sharpen it.

Identity slides a hand into the pocket of her jacket, and does her level best not to stare at the back of the coffee prep girl's head as she pumps some sort of coffee thing into a cup, taking forever and a day just to hand it over. When the coffee arrives, it's taken without a word. The brunette, turns from the counter, and sharp eyes scan the room. She looks as if she's looking for someone to injure—it's the lack of smile while she studies people that does it. And then there's that general air of aggression just under the surface.

Max's eyes widen appreciatively when he spots the dark, attractive young woman with feral eyes and and a predatory demeanor. This one is worthy. His fingers take up a second pencil and work furiously over the paper, capturing the woman's anger and her feline grace.

You know that feeling you have when you're being watched? Identity has that now. Her eyes eventually pass over the bored businessmen talking on their bluetooth earpieces, the NYU students annoying each other with stories of drunken conquests and postmodern art, pass Max, note the position of his hands, and finish the circuit. An unfortunate child, with wide blue eyes, gets a full three seconds of eye contact before the brunette makes her way deeper into the setting of tables. It is only when she's about ten feet away that her eyes return to Max, and she stares at him as she passes those last few feet.

Max makes no attempt to be coy as he watches the woman approach. Oh, how he loves it when they come to him. Casually, he flips the sketchbook closed, sets down his pencil, and folds his hands neatly in front of himself. He can't conceal a small, satisfied smile as his blue eyes meet her rich, brown ones.

It is good. The man with the sketchbook is aware of her, then, as she approaches. Her eyes drop to follow his hands, then rise again as she reaches for the chair across from him, pulls it back, and slides into the seat. Identity kicks her legs crossed, and looks over as she sips her coffee.

Max matches the woman stare for stare. His smile widens, but he remains silent. Slowly, he reaches over to scoop up his cup and take another sip. Slowly, deliberately, he sets it down. He blinks, and the scar on his lip twitches briefly.

Identity studies as she is studied. Her eyes make a casual, slow circuit of the man's face. It hesitates the longest on his lips, that scar, briefly passes over his chin, and then returns to his eyes. "You." She says, "Are staring."

"That I am." Max's voice is a low, melodious tenor. He studies the woman in turn, but there is no recognition in his eyes. He reaches up to finger the collar of his casual, pale grey suit. Sometime in the evening he's given up wearing a tie and unbuttoned the top two fastens of his simple, white shirt.

The woman across the table nods slightly. If she recognizes him from somewhere, it is not obvious. She's doing enough staring to suggest she's committing his face to memory, every plane, every imperfection. Perhaps she's an artist, too? The woman dresses like it, and has certainly broken enough of the rules in the polite handbook of social interaction. "Is there a reason?"

Max smirks, his expression self-satisfied. "Does there need to be?" he queries innocently. However, it's obvious that he's anything but innocent. The tip of his tongue slips out and traces a slow, languid line along the curve of his upper lip.

A brief nod. Identity's dark hair slips over one eye. She does not bother to brush it away. There is a certain economy of movement as she lifts her cup to sip from it. "Yes." Her eyes go to the scar again, or, more accurately, his lips. Her eyes narrow ever so slightly.

"Pity." But Max's eyes don't leave the woman, and he doesn't offer the requested explanation. He just stares, and smiles. This one has potential, indeed. Today may be the night Max finally acertains the mathematics of fear.

Fear? Possibly. Pain? Probably. Identity Woods points toward the sketchbook. "May I?"

Max's answer is succint. "No, you may not." He makes no move to cover the book, nor does he offer a reason. He just stares.

Identity reaches over anyway. Rules? He just made a rule. And we all know what rules are for, don't we? Her reaches is slow enough that it would not be an issue for him to intercept. Dark painted nails touch the cover. And then?

"Now, now…" Max murmurs. "That's not very polite." He reaches out at well, laying one fingertip on the pad's spiral-bound sidebinding. "We don't want to get off on the wrong foot, do we?" His playful, complacent tone and demeanor are gone. Now he too, is predatory, and his tone is low and quietly confidant.

Posture shifted forward just a bit, Identity's eyes go from the book to Max. Her fingertips remain on the book. Her lips part slightly, and it almost seems, for a moment, as if she might smile. She does not. "Don't we?"

Max leans forward and clacks his teeth together sharply. Now his playful tone is back. "We can if you like. I'd find it a great deal more fun." He draws out the last word, turning it into a slow, lazy purr.

Pale fingers slip back as she sits up, sliding over the cover with a whisper. Her hand curls loosely closed, nails ticking against the table softly before she draws her hand back, and slides it out of view, presumably onto her lap. She sets her coffee down, dead center of her side of the table. Her other hands slides out of view.

"I wouldn't do anything too hasty if I were you," Max cautions. Seemingly sincere, yet unconcerned, he lifts his coffee cup and takes a drink. "Mmm," he moans in satisfaction as the rich, bitter brew hits his palate.

"Hasty." It really isn't a question, but then it is. She tips her head slightly, and her eyes roam again. She glances down his body, that which shows above the table, and breathes out a slow breath. "We are well beyond hasty. I would venture to say this is premeditated territory." She moves to rise, her left hand rising to touch the edge of the table. She stands, and she moves toward him, fingers lightly dragging the smooth surface. One, two steps and she's beside him. She pauses. Could just be going to the ladies. "Watch my coffee?"

Max nods agreeably. "Of course," he replies. "I wouldn't be a gentleman in I didn't." He drains the last of his coffee, then picks up one of the pencils and weaves it in and out of his fingers nimbly.

Her hand slips from the table, and progresses in a seemingly natural path over his upper arm. The fingers trail over his shoulder, and briefly touch the bare skin at his collar. "Be back." Identity continues on her way. Yes, she's headed for the ladies. Hey, Evil Corporate Henchmen have to pee, too.

Max lets out a long, satisfied rumble as the woman ambles off. When she's out of sight he flips his sketchbook open once again and adds cold, defiant lines around her mouth and eyes.

There is a full sketchy filled five minutes in which Identity is gone from the table, her coffee left cooling on the table across from the artist.

Max gives the brows of his sketch an elegant, incredulous arc. He smiles at his own handiwork and begins to rough in the hair, humming tunelessly under his breath all the while.

When Identity returns, she approaches Max from behind, one hand in her pocket. Will she catch a glimpse of the sketch as she moves up behind him?

In a word, no. Not because of any strong desire for secrecy, but because she wishes it. When the woman's shadow falls over him he closes the pad, leaving only enough time to glimpse that there's a person on the paper who's definately female. Max's eyes twinkle mischeviously as he peers up at his tablemate. "I hope you washed your hands, dirty girl."

The brunette's boots make a soft sound on the flooring, a gentle tap between the shuffling of papers at tables nearby, the soft slurps of discourteous coffee drinkers, and the sound of some over-loud hip-hop thumming out of the earbuds of an iPod user destined for deafness. Identity's hands fall onto his shoulders, the left open, palm flat. The right is closed, and slips lower, toward his neck. "I have a question," she informs him, a casual lightness to her tone.

"I have an answer, but you won't get it until you sit down like a proper lady. Not that I don't love a good rubdown." With a humorless smile, Max points imperiously toward the chair at the opposite side of the table.

Identity mms and shakes her head slightly, leaning over enough that it looks as if she's about to hug him. Several patrons probably mistake them for old friends at the very same time, assuming anyone's looking their way. Her lips pause approximately two inches from his left ear. Something slim and hard lightly brushes his throat, though it's covered from view of anyone else by her hand. "How do you feel about ceramic knives?"

"How would you feel if I used my belt buckle to carve out your liver without touching you?" Max doesn't even look at the woman. His tone indicates that he's bored, now. He flips his sketchbook open, revealing the four-fifths finished drawing of his assailant. "You're on of /them/, aren't you?" The way he uses the word 'them' leaves little to the imagination. So, she's a Company girl. Few others would know not to arm themselves with metallics in Max's presence.

Identity pauses, as she considers that visual in full. "Though there is a certain poetry to your… mmm. Example." She leans in a little to look at the drawing. "I think that to live I might prefer it if you did not—" That's when she really looks at the drawing. She leans in closer, just to be sure, absolutely sure, he doesn't have much room to maneuver. The right hand stays there it is, but she slides her other arm down to reach as if to touch the drawing. But she doesn't. This isn't the ideal throat slitting posture, but if she intended it, it would have happened by now. She makes no demands of him, no orders. She does not answer his question. It seems to be a theme. "There is something about you… I feel it requires me to be clear." In the eyes of the bystanders, they've gone from old friends to lovers. Too much prolonged contact. Her words are soft so as not to carry. "I am here for coffee." Pause. She straightens, hand sliding over his chest, and up off of his shoulder. If he does nothing, she moves around him, the item at his throat carefully drawn away. Such drama for no outcome other than to sit across from him?

For the first time, a Company member has aroused Max's interest, eliciting an emotion other than anger or disgust. He pauses, considering for a moment, then nods and gestures magnanimously to the other side of the table. "Please, sit. It seems a shame to torture one so young and pretty on such a lovely evening. We'll save that for our second date, I think." He trails the tip of his tounge along his upper lip once again.

"You must like me," Identity replies, as she takes her seat, sliding her hand back into her pocket. It comes out a moment later, empty. She kicks her legs crossed, and reaches for her coffee with her left hand. "You chose the liver." She smiles. She smiles very slightly. "The liver is the only organ that regenerates." She nods to the sketchbook. "Would you finish it for me?"

"I have a soft spot for brunettes," Max purrs. With quick, deft strokes he begins to add the final details to the sketch. He doesn't leave out the knife that was in the woman's hands moments ago. "I'm still going to kill you, you know. You and all your friends. But I think I'll kill you last." Max's voice is friendly, even flirtatious as he adds the last few pencilstrokes, then tears the sheet free.

A smile teases her lips, and Identity regards the artist over the table. The man so very wanted by the Company, her most recent employers. "Do you promise to do it slowly?" There is no mistaking that tone. That's the tone that opens all kinds of little doors.

Max looks up into the woman's dark eyes as he slides the sketch across the table. "You have my word, and I never break a promise," he intones. "I've also never given one of these away before. I think I liked it."

Identity regards him for another silent moment. She looks at his scar, and she says, "Enjoy it." While you CAN. Sorry, that brings to mind cartoon villain voices. Forget I typed it in there. She reaches over to take it, fingertips just touching the edge of the paper as she draws it across. "Cherish." She looks up, eyes flicking from his lips to his eyes. "You can call me." She tips forward again, to extend her right hand across the table, palm angled slightly down. Proper introduction dictates it at this point. There were knives and talk of evisceration.

"I can call you Cherish, or I can call you later?" Max reaches out and takes the offered hand in his strong, sure grip, a smile playing about his lips. He's enjoying himself immensely. "I wonder if I'd prefer the former or the latter? I'm going to kill you, of course, but before…" Max cocks a dark eyebrow thoughtfully.

"Oh, please," Id scoffs very slightly, as if he's just name dropped or something equally tactless. "Stop flirting unless you mean it. I've had my heart broken before." The brunette takes his hand, and gives it a single, firm squeeze. She doesn't let go right off, fingernails pressing slightly into his inner wrist. "Don't ask for my number unless you're going to call."

Max grins fiercely at the press of nails against his skin. "I'll call, as long as my hating you isn't a problem. You have to go off-duty sometime." He lingers over the handshake as well, savoring the contact with a mortal enemy. Forbidden. Dangerous. Delicious.

"I prefer to despise the men I sleep with," Identity replies, without missing a beat. "Taking phone calls from a man who wants me dead is almost as good. Lend me a pencil." Just two crazy kids in the city that never sleeps, trading small talk over coffee. These are the things dreams are m—okay, maybe not. "You haven't given me a name."

"I'm sure you'll be able to figure it out with all those Company resources at your disposal. You seem like a sharp girl." As he speaks, Max tears a slip of paper from his sketchpad and passes it over along with a drawing pencil. "A better question is, who will kill you first? Me, when I tire of you? Or your superiors, when they find out what you've done?"

"The next time you say something to me that sounds like it came out of a B movie, I am going to have to shoot you," Identity replies, reaching over to take the pencil, and write ten digits in a neat, tidy row. "I like that you assume you'll be around long enough to lose interest. That's your first mistake." She reaches for the drawing to roll it loosely. "Your second was assuming I have superiors."

Max smirks and shakes his head, the picture of mock-woe. "Because of course, you're above all administration. Higher than the almighty Robert Bishop himself, I'm sure." Humorlessly, he tucks away the phone number. "And if you're half the agent you seem to think you are, you should know better than to try and shoot me."

"They pay me. It's nice. I have a thing for shoes, you see." Identity finishes her coffee, now cold, and rises from the table. "Boy, you're cranky when you stop playing hard to get. This right here?" She smiles. "This must be why you're single."

Max lets out a rich belly laugh, his eyes following his new… aquaintance.. "Leaving so soon?" He inquires guilelessly. "And here I thought we were just about to get to the fun part."

"I don't do that in public restrooms," Identity deadpans, before the reaches down to zip up her jacket, and slide her hands into the pockets. "But I know a few 900 numbers you might like. My liver and I have a date with a masseuse. Unless you have magic hands, you're just going to have to wait."

"Mmmm. Not so much. But I'm a whiz with a claw hammer and a scalpel. No hands required." Max stretches and rolls his broad shoulders, a coy, teasing look on his face. "Or we could step outside and fistfight like civilized folk. You look pretty scrappy." He gathers up his drawing implements with quick, practiced movements and stows them in his heavy, woolen overcoat.

Identity tosses her 10 percent post consumer material cup in the trash (of the evil corporate coffeehouse) and moves over to push open the door (of the evil corporate coffeehouse). "You want to steps outside with me?" She glances around briefly, all all of the oblivious patrons of the 'Bucks (evil corporate coffeehouse). "Really. That's… just so special." She shoots him a look, then pushes out onto into the New York weather, turning the corner. Identity really doesn't expect that he'll follow. That would be… well, that would just be forward. Nevermind the holding a knife to his neck thing. That doesn't count. But, just in case, she cuts down the first alley she comes to, which opens to another street a long way down. No sense in taking a chance in attracting the cops. They break up so many parties.

Grinning like a man ten years younger, Max tosses his coat around his shoulders and follows her out. "I'm glad you appreciate the gesture," he murmurs. "I don't usually find myself so compelled." As he moves, Max's coat hangs heavily in several strange places and there is a faint, metallic grating. The sound of insurance.

Identity makes her way down the alley, eyes scanning the surroundings even as she reaches down to unzip her jacket, boots crunching over gravelly bits of refuse and tiny rusted slivers of metal. The drawing is neatly rolled up and tucked into an inner pocket, so as to protect it.

For the first time, Max's fond smile is entirely genuine as he watches Id and her careful treatment of the sketch. However, his squishy moment is a brief one. He slips out of his long, cumbersome coat and tosses it aside negligently. It clanks as it crumples to the ground heavily. One can always buy another coat, but a good fight is priceless.

She had to go for style over substance. In New York, in this weather, she turns to face Max. Though he still hasn't given her a name. Does she remember it from the file? Who knows. It was rude, not telling her. She'll just have to take it out of his hide. That thought makes her smile. Identity shrugs out of her coat, and gently finds a bit of alley without vomit or other vile smelling puddles. The designer of her jacket probably just got an instant migraine simply from the cosmic ripples of his creation touching ooky New York pavement. Though he cannot see it, she has a gun holstered at the small of her back. No other weapons are visible, and there is a good deal of pale flesh exposed considering she's wearing a thin strapped silk tank top. In New York. In this weather.

"My, that's a bold outfit. You must really like me if you're willing to wear that in February." Grinning, Max steps forward until he's a scant three feet away. Then, almost too fast to see, he lashes out with one open hand, cracking Id across the face with the backs of his knuckles. "We'll make this fast, yes?"

Open handed strike to the face. That's bold. Identity's head snaps to the side, and she uses the momentum to throw herself into a slightly off balance roundhouse. Right out of the gate, she gets serious with the foot action. She's wearing heavy boots, but he's tall enough that it catches him in the ribs instead of the head.

Max lets out a loud, low 'Oof!' as the air is driven from his lungs. Underestimation bad, even for a megalomaniac. Eyes narrowed, he bullies in close and drives a hard right into Id's gut. Tit for tat.

Identity has barely dropped back into a ready stance when the punch to her gut almost takes her off her feet. That's gonna leave a mark, as the grunt attests. She doubles over, trying to breathe. It'll be a moment for that, though. No time to waste. She plans a foot behind his, while he's still close, and shoves his upper body backward. She's pretty strong, but only humanly so.

Still reeling from the last blow, the body-block is enough to send Max tumbling backward. Still, he grabs Id by the waist and the back of her neck, and she crashes down atop him. Slyly, he pulls Id's face close and bites her lower lip, then slams a knee into her side and sends her rolling off his chest.

Identity is grabbed, manhandled, thuds against Max, doesn't even get to enjoy it, and she's tossed unceremoniously across the pavement where she acquires a meaty scrape all up the back of her arm. That stings. And now she smells. And her lip is bleeding. All of these things filter into her brain, and flip that switch that says it's time to hurt people. The smack of her hand as it makes contact with the pavement is sharp. She pushes herself up, even though it hurts, and rolls back over onto Max. It's really more of a straddle, and it scrapes the toe of her boot, and her knee. But the left hook to his jaw is so worth it. She's a peppy little fighter, this one.

Already half-propped, the blow sends Max's head crashing back against the pavement with a meaty thud. He turns his head to the side, spits a mouthful of blood, then grins up at his sparring partner. "I think I'm in love," he murmurs. Then he uses his superior reach to box her fiercely in the right kidney. No gentleman, this one.

Dammet! Not the kidney! We need those to live! Identity falls half over him as the pain rolls through her body, and makes her hiss out a very bad word, which can't be uttered here, because the sensors would cut it out anyway! Of course this gives her just the right posture for reaching down and sliding a thin, short blade out of the top of her boot. It's terribly piratical to carry one there, but it works. And STAB! Right in the shoulder. Max, meet ceramic blade number two.

Max roars in agony as he is quite literally skewered. Acting on instinct, he slams his forehead into Id's, then latches his unpinned hand around her throat as her head rocks back. Then, quite deliberately, he begins to squeeze. Despite the pain and the blood, the gleam in Max's eyes betray how much he's enjoying himself.

Being choked by the man you've just stabbed? Not high on the priority list. Dazed by the headbutt, Identity is too slow to stop him getting a grip on her neck. The fingernails of her left hand dig into his flesh, ripping furrowed scratches down the back of his hand while she pops him right in the nose with her right. To do this, however, she has to lean into the squeeze, which helps him cut off her blood just a little more. Things start to go a little funny around the edges of her vision.

Max lets out an involuntary groan as yet more blood begins to fountain from his face. Knowing that his grip on Id's throat is the only chance of winning this fight fairly, he clings tenaciously. Unfortunately, the combined thrashing also tears the wound in his shoulder wider.

Identity scrambles with her right hand for the knife. She misses it twice, and only gets hold of it when the world starts to really grey out. She gives it a desperate wrench, and pulls it free of the meat of Max's shoulder. Her grip loosens, however, and it falls to the alley floor, slick with blood, even as she starts to pass out.

Max screams in a most un-manly fashion when Id wrenches her weapon from his shoulder. Still, he releases her throat, allowing her to collapse atop his chest. He buries his fingers in her hair and gives it a sharp, affectionate tug. "Hey. Don't pass out," Max rasps. At the moment, it seems none to easy for him to take his own advice, however.

Identity drops, thud, over Max's chest. Blood flow is restored, which means she's just very dizzy for a few moments—a few moments in which she takes stock of the situation, while he bleeds into her hair. The cold helps her stay focused, more than the pain. "Give me your name."

"Max Swan." It seems that Max has finally got something he wanted, as his earlier reticent nature is now gone. He leans back against the fithy alley pavement and gives his shoulder an experimental shimmy. This sends fresh blood dribbling out. "You cheated," he murmurs.

"This isn't Monopoly. There is no cheating," Identity replies, grimacing as she shoves off of his chest to sit up, knees to either side of his waist. She leans over to rip his shirt open at the shoulder and have a look. "Don't be such a pussy. That isn't even twelve stitches."

Max frowns up at Id. "You /stabbed/ me, wench. I'd hardly call that sportsmanlike conduct." However, his displeasure is brief and faint. When he speaks again, there's a faint note of admiration in his voice. "You're scrappy. I might let you live, yet."

Id shivers in the cold, because it's really effing cold, and reaches for her fallen knife. She wipes it across Max's ruined shirt (hey, it's already trashed), cleaning the blade. But that's when he calls her wench. By all reports, she doesn't like it. And by all, I mean the one filed by the knife in his arm. Stab. "Don't. Call me that." At least it's the same arm as the shoulder wound. She could have been a bitch about it and gone for the other.

Max grits his teeth and grinds them, the sound clearly audible in the quiet, narrow alley. "Big mistake," he growls. With one finger, he makes a subtle 'come hither' gesture. A length of light chain tears free from the pocked of his discared coat, wings across the alley, and wraps itself stiflingly around Id's throat. "I can cheat, too."

Dark hair falls into her eyes as she leans over him, putting some weight behind that blade. A smear of his blood stains her cheek. Identity should quit. It's not the smartest to fuck around with people who have these kinds of powers. You put then down, you move on. You don't play with your food. "You should have—" There's a soft hurk sort of choke noise as the chain cinches around her neck. She gives the knife a twist, but that's as far as it goes, because consciousness is becoming an issue again.

Far past caring about the wound at this point, Max raises his good hand in a clenching gesture. As he does, Id is dragged off of his torso, and her knife along with it. He flicks his hand negligent, pinning her to the wall by the chain around her throat as he picks himself up. Then he points his fingertips to the ground, releasing her from both chain and magnetic bond.

The chain releases, and Identity falls to the ground, going down to one knee first, hands out to catch her as she hits the ground. Unfortunately her limbs don't respond quite like they should, and she drops to her side on the alley floor. Grimy. She concentrates on breathing. One, two, three breaths. And then she rolls onto her back and begins to laugh.

Standing over Id now, Max spits another mouthful of blood on the ground and wiggles his jaw experimentally. Then he begins to laugh as well. He's a bit wobbly as he leans down and extends a hand to help her up. "Smashin' good time," he rasps, his own wounds and contusions no small matter, either.

Identity grimaces, reaching up to take the offered hand. She sits up stiffly, and moves to get to her feet. She raises a hand to her throat, and rubs lightly. Yup. That's going to leave a mark. It'll be a discovery—just what sort of bruises do chains leave on the throat? "Pleasure to meet you, Max."

"Likewise." Max rolls his injured shoulder stiffly and gives a small, sly smile. "I'm definately going to kill you last," he informs Id pleasantly. "I'd say you earned it." Pausing, he pushes his tounge against his teeth to check for looseness.

"Right, well you can buy me a new pair of boots first," Identity glances down at her thrashed footwear. Talk about scuffed. Damn it. She shakes her head, and picks up her knife, wiping it on the thigh of her jeans before sliding it back into its hiding place in her boot. She's wearing black. It doesn't show blood. Id remains hunched over for a moment. Just to breathe. Ow.

Max stretches widely and begins to slowly work fight-induced kinks from his muscles and urge protesting joints back into place. "Sorry, I never buy on the first date." The end of his statement rises to a soft hiss as he shrugs one side of his shirt down over the punctures in his arm, freeing them for inspection.

Id smirks as Max makes pain sounds. "It's too cold out here for this." Numbing, even. Probably, she can't even feel all the injuries she has. She moves to fetch her jacket before something important freezes off, sliding it on with only a slight wince. Once the jacket's on, the evidence of the fight is minimal--just some blood in her hair and on her cheek, and the swelling of her lip--a trickle of blood at the corner. "I never buy. I'm an old fashioned girl."

Max lets out a short snort of laughter at Id's comments. "What's wrong? Company wages go down in the past decade?" He grins cheekily and nudges his own coat with one foot. Thoroughly soiled, he shrugs and leaves it where it lies. "I always new he was a cheap ol' bastard."

"Haven't been working there that long," comes Id's reply. She stands for a moment more, hands on her knees, slightly hunched over, then straightens with a soft grunt. "It's about values, asshole. The guy buys. It's a rule."

"Fine, you whiny little trollop. Here." More amused than irritated, Max puls a roll of bills from his suit pocket, peels off a few, then tosses them at Id. "But next time we do this, I'm getting my money's worth."

"You have an ex-wife, don't you?" Identity smirks as she bends to retrieve the cash. A quick count. "That's insulting." The money is nonetheless folded and shoved into her back pocket. "Next time we do this, I'm on the clock, you're going down." Apparently she takes no issue with the term trollop, because there is no stabbing forthcoming.

Max lifts a hand, eliciting a metallic rattle from the contents of his coat. "No need for threats, I think. You'll get your turn soon enough." He winks roguishly at his Company counterpart. "Unless you feel like another round already?" Max's tone is boyishly flirtatious as he cocks his head inquisitively.

"Sorry, honey," Identity slides a cellular phone out of her jacket pocket. "I have a headache." She dials a number, lifts the phone to her ear. "Shoo."

"Ahh, 'tis so bitter, the scorn of the fairer sex." Max turns up his collar to ward off the chill and shoots a glace in Id's direction. "Wench." The words comes out quietly, but forcefully, each consonant painstakingly enunciated. That said, he turns to leave, a jaunty whistle on his lips.

"I need a pick up at Starbucks." Identity shakes her head slightly at the reply, and rattles off the cross street. A pause. Into the phone she says, "Tell you what." She pauses, looks toward Max, and briefly considers chucking her cell phone at the back of his head. "You save that for later, then say it to my face." There's a slight smile at the reply. "That's what I thought. Now, please." She hangs up, click, dials another number. "I have to cancel. Work issue. Tomorrow? … Good." Click. Her gun? Her gun stays in its holster. Goddamn magnetic manipulators. She turns, and heads the opposite way down the alley, pondering all manner of nasty bodily injury.

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