TIME: 8:30. LOCATION: Town Hall. STATUS: Open.
“This? Is a complete waste of time. I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, Mr. Park, but this isn’t a whodunnit — someone was actually murdered, and, believe it or not, trying to intimidate the killer out of the shadows isn’t going to do anything but up the already rampant paranoia. Save the pitchforks for when we actually know who murdered Eric Rousseau, and, for God’s sake, let the police do their damn jobs.”
His own outburst remained at the top of his mind as the meeting drew to a close, his own anxiety at an all-time high. At the very least, Max was grateful he remained poised, despite shouting down one of the most important men still alive in the city. Accusations were being slung back and forth like mud, and he never wanted to dirty himself in the crossfire — though he’d be hard-pressed to admit it, Max certainly saw himself above the rest of the city’s squabbles. He wished he had never been obligated to attend, wanting to separate himself from the tragedy as much as possible. He was well-aware of the implications of his heel-faced turn, Eric’s body not even cold before Max had begun his criticisms, tearing apart his supposed friend’s legacy in written form, piece by piece. Despite his own personal feelings towards the man, they had maintained a facade of friendship for several years, so his apparent turn in loyalties would be, as he well knew, suspicious enough.
He needed to play it cool, but that was easier said than done. His rant had betrayed more of his feelings than he would’ve liked, and that put him in a more vulnerable position than if he had remained silent and sucked it up, tolerating the nonsense. Max wasn’t a politician like Eric Rousseau was, but he wasn’t an idiot, either. He knew he had a reputation to maintain, some degree of professionalism so he could keep this identity he’d so carefully constructed — and be able to discard it when enough time had passed. Life wasn’t a game to him so much as it was a program — and that outburst, like any other decision he’d made before, was a questionable command in a long string of writings. It didn’t have any particular inherent value, positive or negative; it was the mistakes he’d make later that would make it disastrous. To ward that off, he’d have to correct. And that meant he’d have to do the thing he dreaded most in this world: Max would have to schmooze.
A subtle swig from his flask in the coatroom later, and Max had re-appeared in the crowds to mingle. Wine on his breath and a sense of ease falling over him, and he was as ready as he’d ever be for the uncomfortable interactions to follow. Without further procrastination, Max jumped in, sidling up to the person closest, wearing a carefully neutral expression. “This whole thing is so performative – leaves a bad taste in my mouth."