Reflexive Fix

Participants:

Max.jpg

Date: 2010.08.13
Location: Max's Stall
Synopsis: …Fighting is addictive…
Rating: PG13 for references to violence
Logger: Max


Later the same night after the revelations exchanged with Zen, and having completed his last rounds to check in with the men posted about the Weyr, found Max dragging himself back to his office/sleeping quarters – exhausted and in a somewhat foul mood.

Aggravation at having turned up absolutely nothing so far, had him hurling his boots against the stall siding as he pulled them off. This morphed into a dark seething sense of futility for being unable to do anything about any of it. For having nothing concrete to point his frustration and anger at. No defined sense of direction in which to move.

Hands curled and uncurled into fists as the darkness started to prowl within his chest once again and soon had him pacing back and forth like a caged lion.

Ghosts started to taunt as flashes of the conversation with Zen flickered in and out, dragging him back to another time, another place…

The hard crunch of fist against jawbone and the shock wave sent all the way up to his shoulder then the ensuing coppery taste in his mouth when his opponent’s fist caught him on the side of the head opening his eye and sending a stream of blood down over his lips and chin. His knee slamming into the others ribs and the satisfying yield as they gave then doubling over when an elbow caught him in the kidneys and the mouthful of gritty sand when he went down. The cheering of the crowd as they bayed for more blood spurring the men in the make-shift ring on…

Zen was right. It was an addiction. One he thought he’d left behind for good, one that he’d give his left nut for right now. To give in to his baser, more primal nature and break it all down to something that made sense to him. Something simpler that had a beginning, middle and end, that resulted in a definite conclusion no matter the outcome.

The sound of wood splintering snapped him back to reality, the pain shooting across his knuckles delivering a satisfactory edge as blood oozed darkly down from one or two places. As if torn from a trance, Max stared down at his fist and then at the hole in wooden plank of the siding blankly.

Shit.


Fight Club - Blur - Woo Hoo


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