maxmarroquin-blog

[maxmarroquin-blog]

📞

✔  CONTACT PHOTO: [No Picture]✔  CONTACT NAME: Neighbour (Logan)✔  RINGTONE: mmmbop – hanson✔  HOW OFTEN OUR MUSES TEXT: i don’t think they text much and 90% of it is just “So, my cats got out again.” on an almost biweekly basis✔  WHAT OUR MUSES NORMALLY TEXT ABOUT: normal neighbourly stuff and the cats probably tbh

⇀  OUR MUSES’ LAST FEW TEXTS:

[ 7:32am ] to Neighbour (Logan): I want to offer my profuse apology for last night.[ 7:32am ] to Neighbour (Logan): I am... so sorry about all the slamming against your wall. And the loud, depressing music. And the wine bottle I tossed into your yard.[ 7:33am ] to Neighbour (Logan): I don’t even have an adequate explanation. I am just so sorry.

[maxmarroquin-blog]

📞

✔  CONTACT PHOTO: x (soren definitely took that picture himself and forcibly put it as his contact picture)✔  CONTACT NAME: Soren (Columbia??) (added after soren broke into max’s office for the first time)✔  RINGTONE: everybody (backstreet’s back) - backstreet boys✔  HOW OFTEN OUR MUSES TEXT: i feel like it’s kind of sporadic but when they do text it’s like 3000 fragmented messages from soren and like 3 texts in full sentences from max✔  WHAT OUR MUSES NORMALLY TEXT ABOUT: literally anything and everything? it’s like 90% a stream of consciousness from soren and max responding with 10% max scolding soren for ... something

⇀  OUR MUSES’ LAST FEW TEXTS:

[ 3:32pm ] to Soren (Columbia??): I know you broke into my office.[ 3:32pm ] to Soren (Columbia??): Do you know how I know you broke into my office?[ 3:32pm ] to Soren (Columbia??): All my fucking granola bars are gone. Three whole boxes. Nature Valley. Crumbs all over my carpet. The janitor is going to kill me.[ 3:33pm ] to Soren (Columbia??): Next time I’ll have security escort you out on sight. I don’t know how you even get into my building. You don’t even go here.[ 3:33pm ] to Soren (Columbia??): And you don’t need to steal my granola bars? If you wanted some, you could’ve told me. I’ll get you some next time I’m grocery shopping.

[maxmarroquin-blog]

I HAD MY HANDS IN THE RIVER, MY FEET BACK UP ON THE BANKS / LOOKED UP TO THE LORD AND SAID “HEY MAN THANKS” ;    MAX + THE DEATH OF ERIC ROUSSEAU.

[maxmarroquin-blog]

◤ ✕ ・。* send me 📞 and a ship and i’ll tell you…

your muse’s contact photo in mine’s phone

your muse’s name in mine’s phone

your muse’s ringtone in mine’s phone

how often our muses text

what our muses normally text about

our muses’ last few texts

[maxmarroquin-blog]

i am afraid that if i open myself i will not stop pouring. (why do i fear becoming a river. what mountain gave me such shame.) — Jamie Oliveira.

► GENERAL INFORMATION

FULL NAME: Maximiliano R. Marroquín.

NICKNAME(S): Max.

AGE: 40.

DATE OF BIRTH:  March 19th.

GENDER: Cis man.

NATIONALITY: American.

HERITAGE: Cuban/Guatemalan/French.

OCCUPATION: Professor/Columnist.

SEXUALITY: Gay.

► APPEARANCE

FACE CLAIM: Oscar Isaac.

HEIGHT: 5'8½".

BUILD: Lean/defined.

DOMINANT HAND: Left.

HAIR COLOR: Black.

EYE COLOR: Brown.

SCARS: None worth noting — some minor scars from his time in boot camp.

► BACKGROUND

HOMETOWN: Fable City, New York.

CURRENT RESIDENCE: Fable City, New York.

FINANCIAL STATUS: Upper-middle class/Woodlander.

EDUCATION LEVEL: PhD in Computer Science.

FAMILIAL CONNECTIONS:

MOTHER: Marian Marroquín (missing/presumed deceased).

FATHER: Francisco Marroquín (estranged/presumed deceased).

GRANDFATHER: Maximiliano Marroquín (deceased).

GRANDMOTHER: Louisa Marroquín (deceased).

EXTRA INFORMATION

JUNG TYPE: INTP.

ENNEAGRAM: 3W4 SP/SO. TEMPERAMENT: Choleric.

MORAL ALIGNMENT: Neutral good/lawful neutral.

SIN: Envy.

VIRTUE: Diligence.

ELEMENT: Fire.

TROPES: X.

► THINGS DONE:

Broken a bone | Gotten stitches | Had a near-death experience | Invented something | Been hungover | Kissed someone | Slow danced | Been in a long-term relationship | Had sex | Had sex and regretted it | Had a one-night stand | Had a threesome | Experimented with their sexuality | Had a kid | Gotten married | Self-harmed | Been in a play | Received an inheritance | Been in a ship wreck | Lost a loved one | Been dumped | Dumped someone | Smoked | Gotten high | Been slipped something in their food/drink | Won a contest | Won an election | Joined a sports team | Gone skydiving | Gone hunting | Been in a band | Had a job | Been fired | Been in a wedding party | Owned a pet | Seen a ghost | Skipped class/work | Learned an instrument | Gotten a noticeable scar | Sued someone | Been robbed | Been mugged | Been kidnapped | Been sexually assaulted | Been brainwashed/hypnotized | Gone more than one day without eating | Had a recurring nightmare | Been bullied | Bullied someone | Seen someone die | Attempted suicide | Been tied/chained up | Shot someone | Stabbed someone | Saved someone’s life | Cheated on someone | Been cheated on | Had a stalker | Been betrayed | Been in a fight | Been arrested | Been to a funeral | Had surgery | Broken someone’s trust | Gotten a tattoo | Used a fake name | Been tortured | Been abused | Been blackmailed | Had an attempt on their life | Gotten away with a crime | Gone on a road trip | Been in love

► HABITS:

nail biting | throat clearing | lying | interrupting | chewing the ends of pens | smoking | swearing | knuckle cracking | thumb sucking | muttering under their breath | talking to themselves | nose picking | binge drinking | oversleeping | snacking between meals | skipping meals | picking at skin | impulse buying | talking with their mouth full | humming/singing to themselves | chewing gum | leg jiggling | foot tapping | hair twirling | whistling | eye rolling | licking lips | sniffing | squinting | rubbing hands together | jaw clenching | gesturing while talking | putting feet up on tables | tucking hair behind ears | chewing lips | crossing arms over chest | putting hands on hips | rubbing the back or their neck | being late | procrastinating | doodling | shredding paper | peeling off bottle labels | forgetfulness | running hands through hair | overreacting | teeth grinding | nostril flaring | slouching | pacing | drumming fingers | fist clenching | pinching bridge of nose | rubbing temples | rolling shoulders

[maxmarroquin-blog]

TIME: 9:34. LOCATION: Outside the Town Hall. STATUS: with @huntsmanwalker.

“Care to share an Uber?”

What a stupid question, on Max’s part. In his view, Logan was equally stupid, for saying yes — the man didn’t even seem drunk, so Max wasn’t sure why he’d bother. He himself didn’t dare step in his car; he had no desire to get himself killed on the way home from the meeting, despite how many feelings of mortal dread it produced in him. He was uncomfortably drunk for coming home from such a serious public event, a mix of Roland Park’s nice, fancy, free wine and his own shitty variety (that had long been deemed flask-only) really doing him in.

He stood on the curb beside the sheriff, eyes peeled for a silver sedan. This car ride would be undoubtedly awkward — the pair weren’t friends by any stretch of the imagination, only brought together by proximity. To Logan’s credit, he took the idiosyncracies of being Max’s neighbour in stride — his depressing music, how loudly he talked to himself, his habit of accidentally letting his cats loose at least twice a month and roping Logan into the searches — he was a sport. He just wasn’t... a friend. Still, small talk was an unfortunate result of such awkward silences, and words came spilling from Max’s too-drunk lips before he could stop himself.

“So... fun meeting? Any new leads? Or was I right in thinking all that inane finger-pointing was a waste of time?” That wasn’t small talk. He really needed to sort his conversation topics out — the weather, the wine they’d served, literally anything would’ve been better, and yet. “Also, would you mind if I had a cigarette? I understand if you have an aversion to it, it’s a nasty habit.”

[maxmarroquin-blog]

sorenxsong:

the tension slips from soren’s shoulders as they speak, falling back to the easy back and forth of the conversation he’s used to with the elder - simple, familiar - but the last traces of uncertainty still ebbs at soren, still that touch of caution he thinks he has to get in the habit of wearing around whoever, really. 

“first of all, sir - i believe it was your assignments that induced said vodka-gatorade phase.” soren says defensively, a familiar pout on his lips. “secondly, it was great. you’d think so too, if you weren’t too prehistoric to have too many electrolytes and keel over.” 

“the coatroom, huh? is that where you used to go during the lecture breaks?” he teases. he doesn’t blame max, really - it’s no surprise that the bar has been having booming business as of late, soren not one to exclude himself from the influx of patrons on late nights - hardly responsible or progressive to the situation at hand, but a good excuse for having no answers - blame it on the alcohol, indeed. 

soren hums thoughtfully, pausing at his professor’s words. “maybe it is a show - who knows, really. but i can’t blame them for trying - i mean, there were definitely people in there who wanted to know what was going on, to know something - “ a hesitation. “ - myself included. and maybe it wasn’t the best way, and maybe it could’ve gone better, but…” soren trails off, finding his thoughts wandering too far for his liking, quick to snap back to a lightened tone. “it’s something. we all showed up, didn’t we?”

Despite himself, Max snorted. Some offhand crack about his teaching habits — was it really that funny? No, but it was exactly what he needed in that moment. A brief respite from the evening’s tension, the kind of stress relief that only Soren — one of the few, few people in Fable City that didn’t take themselves too seriously — could provide. “Don’t blame me for college drinking culture. You know, my students here don’t drink like that; one girl broke down in tears in a lecture last week, but I’ve yet to catch anyone with a flask.” His own drink was resting heavy in his jacket’s inner pocket, not allowing him to forget his own indiscretions. “Just wait and see, kid. Soon you’ll be thirty-five, drinking a screwdriver and having a good time — and next thing you know, your hangover’s hung around for three days and you have to get back to the office and you swear to God you’ll kill yourself before you read another line of broken freshman code. Just as a... general example.”

He was all over the place tonight — did he spike his own drink, or was the pressure getting to his head? “I’m a little more professional than that. I don’t drink during my lectures — I wait until after to get plastered. Is that how little you think of me?” His voice took on a faux-hurt quality, eyes scanning the room, not being able to help his distraction; he was too goddamn sober to deal with any of this. Still, he turned his attention back to his former student as soon as he spoke, and couldn’t help but feel a twang of pity in his stomach. He was just a kid. Of course he’d be scared. “I...” he trailed off into a sigh, glancing back at Soren, “that’s fair. These people just — they don’t know anything more than you. I fear this is just making matters worse.” Pausing, Max removed his flask from his pocket, and took as subtle a swig as he could manage. He stopped before he returned his flask to his breast pocket — did he offer a drink to the kid? No, of course not, what the hell was he thinking? “We did indeed.”

[maxmarroquin-blog]

Conformist     ★★★★★☆☆☆     Rebel      Naive     ★★★★★★★☆     Cynical Indecisive     ★★★★★★★☆     Inflexible    Selfish     ★★★★★★☆☆     Self-sacrificing  Apathetic     ★★★☆☆☆☆☆     Emotional    Fearful     ★★★☆☆☆☆☆     Reckless   Childish     ★★★★★★☆☆     Humorless  Dependent     ★★★★★★★☆     Loner     Passive     ★★★☆☆☆☆☆     Aggressive 

balancing personality flaws

[maxmarroquin-blog]

fauxbelles:

She’s grateful to him, even though she knows it wasn’t for her benefit, wasn’t intentional. His words saved her anyway. Grateful to him, but when doesn’t she have saccharine platitudes on the tip of her tongue, ready as offerings to press forward and form vaguely pleasant thoughts of her. Whisps of impressions she doesn’t really need to put effort into. Somehow it doesn’t seem the time to abuse it, so she thinks better of laying one at his feet. “Thank you.” Does it anyway because it seems more polite on the off chance he remembers. “For speaking up. It’s uncomfortable being the centre of attention.” There are many would disagree she’s sure, but in her case it’s a statement. 

Her lips quirk and drop. for she only has a fleeting excuse to present anything close to a smile, softness in gratitude. 

“And you’re right. It’s not a charade”, she glances away, more because she has a habit of letting her gaze linger on a face too long than because she is surveying the rest, “but I suppose it makes it easier for some to actually imagine it’s more theatrical than real. Cover up whatever they’re scared of revealing by placing the spotlight on someone else.” 

“Fear seems to be the motivation for most things right now and that’s not really helpful in this situation.” She can smell the hint of alcohol from him, or perhaps she is making too many assumptions just like everyone else. It’s a reasonable guess only because she’s so familiar with it from work, from Eric. Wonders if it’s fear that’s had him reaching for the bottle. That bad taste he mentioned. 

If he was being frank, his rant wasn’t out of any goodwill towards the accused parties. Max had always been a man with little patience for stupidity, for nonsense, for spinning in circles — and those were the defining experiences of that evening. It wasn’t so much indignation on behalf of this girl so much as it was the poorly-hidden frustration of a man tired of shenanigans. Still, looking back after the fact, he did feel badly for her — and he would’ve felt a lot better about himself had he stepped in on her behalf. He couldn’t imagine someone like her killing someone — and while he’d watched enough crime shows to know better than to underestimate the ingenuous ones, he still couldn’t help but dismiss her as a suspect.

“No need to thank me, really.” Really. I didn’t do a damn thing for you. Max was smart enough to try and maintain a certain kind of reputation, but he didn’t play at politics like other wealthy, upper-class citizens of Fable. He didn’t need the kind of ego-stroking that only came with praise from the less fortunate — he was bad enough, thinking in those terms at all. “Mob mentality is a… terrifying thing.” He shook his head, words rolling in his mouth — there were a number of things he’d’ve liked to say, none of which would’ve been appropriate to say to a stranger.

“I suppose, if nothing else, my strength is that I have nothing to be afraid of.” It wasn’t necessarily true — there were many concerns that he could’ve been dwelling on, that would’ve been well-worth his time. The deputy sheriff on him like a bloodhound, the deputy mayor out for blood in general (all these fucking deputies, like Max wasn’t even worth the harassment from the real thing), but he’d spent so long living in fear of Eric Rousseau’s whims that now, it all seemed inconsequential, somehow. “I wonder how much more of this is necessary until these people have had their fill. If nothing else, it’s a waste of time. But, moreover, it’s stirring a toxic kind of mistrust that’s really the last thing we need right now — sorry, I don’t mean to ramble.” he quirked a small smile at her, half-apologetic. These tangents would be the death of him.

[maxmarroquin-blog]

dragonscaledrake:

TIME: 9:01PM LOCATION: Outside the Town Hall STARTER TYPE: closed @maxmarroquin

He was unmissable, even in dimness. Slightly hunched over and wearing the expression of someone caked in dread and weariness, Valerie called out to him - unapologetically brash. It wasn’t like there were any witnesses.  “And where, oh where, is Mr. Morality walking off too?” To polish your halo? From the lips of anyone else, her words might have seemed like a friendly jest, but hers were lined with deadly intent - something she knew he saw straight through. Those academics with their boffin brains of theirs.

As he paused, no doubt to size her up or ponder his chances of fleeing, she took the opportunity to catch up with him, marching to his side. The night air pressed on either side of them, somehow binding them closer together. Narrowing her eyes, she watched for anything - and everything, whether it be discontent or something far more malicious. 

“That was quite the speech in there. I think you almost had the crowd.” In the end, they - as far as a collective group they could be - had decided against his motion and huddled shoulders to protect one and other. Admirable - but doomed to fail. “Very presidential of you.” When seizing up her opponents, Valerie liked to recall anything and everything she knew about the competition. Max was a bit of a blank slate. And she despised that. “Of course, I was a little surprised to see you there. Did you use your books as a murder weapon?”

At the sound of her voice, Max stiffened. Valerie fucking Drake. Out of all the people at the meeting, she might’ve harboured the most intensity towards him of any of them — which was a feat, considering the cast they’d assembled. The kind of ferocity with which she approached him was beyond Max’s understanding — he doubted it was for any of the typical reasons. He couldn’t imagine her caring much for Eric; being his friend was bad enough, working for him must’ve been a whole other, far worse, beast, so he didn’t think she suspected him of killing the man, or cared much about the whole ordeal. He also didn’t think that it was for the more pedestrian reasons he was a controversial figure — she never attended any of his classes, nor did she seem the type too invested in anti-war activism.

He wasn’t a particular fan of Drake himself, of course. She was Eric’s right hand, and the kind of politics they engaged in made him sick to his stomach. He loathed the idea of her following Eric as mayor — years more of economic mismanagement and social neglect for Fable’s less fortunate surely to come — and now, he could speak freely about his reservations. No op-eds had been published yet, though, so he couldn’t understand why she was coming for the throat.

“Close indeed — unfortunately, people remain to be... well, people.” He narrowed his eyes at her, struggling to keep his expression neutral. He wanted to get out of there quickly — half an hour of lingering was more than enough, but it seemed as though he was caught in her trap, for no real reason he could ascertain. “I wouldn’t say presidential so much as I’d say rational — or exasperated, even.” She was at his side before he’d realized, and he wanted nothing more to step away. Max had half a mind to say — ‘You know I’m gay, right?’ if only to throw her off balance enough for him to escape. The lack of space between them made him deeply uncomfortable, equal parts his dislike for her and his dislike for close proximity in general. “No — you know, I’ve digitized nearly my whole collections. Which really worked out, because laptops are sharper than books, and just as sturdy now-a-days. Blood stains are hell to scrub off aluminum once they’ve set in. I’m kidding, of course.”

[maxmarroquin-blog]

wolfesque:

The world’s a stage, Carter had heard during one of those obligatory Shakespeare essays in highschool, that he was never fond of. But no matter how much he would wrinkle his nose at such prose, it was still true. The drama still, indeed, rang true for a place like Fable City. People like Max, it seemed, who were good at pretending. But who’s to say he wasn’t wearing a mask either – that is, one of the relentless antagonist with teeth and claws to match? “Friends. Interesting, didn’t think he was capable of making one of those,” he mused, mockery lacing his tone, though it was towards the mayor rather than Max this time.

“OK. Fine.” Carter smiled. A wide, uncomfortable smile that seemed to suggest that he wasn’t quite finished here. “So how is that you two met? Was he ever - I can’t imagine it but - decent?” Cue an arched brow and a sideways glance, before he took a sip of the champagne Roland so kindly provided ( niceties clearly didn’t seem to work well around here, though ). “Colour me curious, because honestly, I’ve only ever interacted with him through work. The lapdog who has to watch over his little birds for him, while making sure not to step on the guy’s toes.” 

Perhaps he was too obvious in his bitterness, but he really didn’t care. Carter was always one to prefer jarring honesty, over words carefully pieced together.

The trouble with a facade, Max found, was that people were often looking for something that wasn’t really there. It was only two-facedness that they spoke of — people concealing dark inner selves, hiding terrible things. They never considered that there was nothing to be seen behind the mask. Too many people tried to look into Max and saw straight through him, because there was little beyond what he presented. He concealed because there was nothing to be seen beneath. It was a sentiment he wished he could express to Carter, who searched so desperately for whatever evils he assumed lurked within. Turn back, he thought. There’s nothing more here for you. There’s nothing else to look for.

That wasn’t necessarily true — beyond his cool exterior lay a lifetime of insecurities. But a person can’t be built of anxieties no more than they can be of bravado, and Max remained more of a suggestion of a man than a real one.

He wouldn’t stop going for the kill. The predatory smile that Carter wore made Max’s skin crawl, narrowed eyes revealing none of the sentiment. He’d lived the lie of an actual friendship for so long, managed to pass it off as real to Eric himself; he wouldn’t be caught out now. Little changed, now that Eric was dead, because he’d been dead to Max for a long, long time. “I know,” he began, a sigh already on his lips, “that Eric was a controversial figure. I’m not oblivious. But he isn’t – wasn’t – this cartoon villain you’re making him out to be. He was one of my students, when I was first working on my PhD here. Only one with half a brain and anything interesting to say. You only knew him at his worst.”

[maxmarroquin-blog]

miinahan:

Everyone was mingling and Mina isn’t sure why she’s still here. No, she know why she’s still here. She’s watching people, trying to figure out who’s the most suspicious. The words of everyone still hanging around in her head, she’s trying to figure it all out. So far, nothing. Everyone is just as suspicious as the person next to them. It’s driving her insane and she’s nowhere near close to figuring out who killed Eric. She can only imagine what it must be like for the police. Not knowing is killing her.

She’s lost in her thoughts and she startles when someone speaks up. Eyes wide, she’s looking at the man who spoke, placing him as Max Marroquín. She’s seen him around before. It takes Mina a moment to process what was said, and once she does, she’s nodding. “Yeah…” she’s agreeing, turning to look at everyone else. “It’s the… way things go around here. I’ve just gotten used to it.” Being rich is all a show, and it was something that she noticed pretty quickly. It was something Eric guided her through. He always coached her on what she needed to say and do before they hit any event. But he’s not here anymore and she’s on her own. Which… is probably better, but for the situation she’s in? She’s not so sure anymore. 

She’s pausing for a moment, before looking up at him. “How are you doing?” Mina might as well see how he’s fairing. Besides, it’s only polite to ask. 

A flash of red hair and a demure voice, it took Max a beat too long to identify her — Mina... something. Han? That had to be it — her name aside, it only took a glance for Max to recognize her as Eric’s latest piece of arm candy. Despite certainly having seen her before, he couldn’t remember speaking to her a single time. Though their relationship had frayed badly in the years leading up to his death, they had continued to run in similar circles, and every lavish party Eric threw through his time as mayor, Max had been obligated to attend. He must’ve brushed past her a million times, dismissing her as nothing more than Eric’s girlfriend.

He knew, of course, that she likely had lots of merit, skills and value outside of how nice she looked on Eric’s arm — it wasn’t Mina he was suspicious of so much as it was Eric. He knew a man like that had no business being with a girl he assumed Mina was, and that it was the natural outcome all at once. And in a similarly competing fashion, he was shocked that she’d be considered a suspect, and not surprised at all — it only made sense that his young girlfriend, this ingenue, would be accused of murdering her wealthy, powerful boyfriend.

Max didn’t put much stock into that theory. She probably just got caught up in his mess, like too many other people. He wasn’t good at softening as much as he should’ve, maybe, but his cold tone lacked edge, and there was no frustration in his words towards her. “Ever-charming Fable City. I’m fine, though. I’ve handled far worse — you, my dear, certainly took a pummelling out there. That couldn’t have been fun.” Max paused for a moment, glancing away. “If it means anything at all, I can’t imagine you killing anyone, much less Eric. That shouldn’t be such an act of belief as it seems to have become these days."

[maxmarroquin-blog]

sorenxsong:

soren’s eyes widened at the professor’s outburst - to be fair, their relationship had only ever danced on the border of student-teacher playful rivalry and almost-friendship, always that line of age and status between them - but max’s loud words still took him by surprise, the weight of it falling upon everyone in the room that silenced to his voice. 

the meeting was tense to say the least, and quick glances stolen over to his old teacher showed nothing more than the man that soren knew better - composed, almost nonchalant. no traces of the stranger who spoke out earlier, though soren isn’t sure how to define the word anymore, not when everyone seemed to shift, become something or another in light of the situation, making him question even the friendliest of faces. 

soren jumps at the sudden voice next to him, gracelessly fumbling with his bag as he was getting ready to mingle with the crowd, turning instead to face max, a small quirk on his lips upon seeing the familiar face. 

“the aftertaste of - “ soren sniffs the man, eyebrow arched “ - wine, is that? - tends to do that for those who are, ah - what can i say - less appreciative of the more exquisite of delicacies. it’s not for everyone.” 

the smile on his lips fades momentarily, replaced by something that looks like unease before melting back to his easy grin. 

“long meeting, huh? i don’t blame you - i think we all could use a couple drinks. might make us all a little less - what’s the word you used? - ah, performative about this all.”

He hadn’t thought hard enough about the implications of his little outburst before it left his lips — Max had forgotten that, beyond being a public political figure, there were people he felt, to some extent, responsible for, who were sitting in that room. Though he maintained a more casual relationship with Soren than he did with other former students, allowing him much more leeway for impropriety than he did for the other 99.5%, he wanted to maintain some modicum of self-control and dignity. As someone left to rot by the authority figures in his life, he wanted to preserve even the facade of being a good role model — and public outbursts, railing against one of the most powerful men in their city, was not being a good role model.

Despite his embarrassment at his own behaviour, he raised a brow at Soren in mild disapproval. His grandfather would’ve reviled this boy, Max thought to himself as he watched the kid fumble. No sense of propriety, such a maverick, with such little respect for authority — like Max himself. Maybe, though, that’s why Max had taken such a shine to him. “You’re, what, twenty-two? You just moved out of your vodka-gatorade phase. Hush.” Still, he felt adequately shamed that Soren recognized the scent of alcohol on his breath. Responsible adult or borderline alcoholic? “Drinks indeed. I could use a couple more, but I can only hide in the coatroom for so long. Though I more meant — they’re kind of putting on a show about it, aren’t they? Roland Park and the like. I don’t know how anyone could expect anything to come of this. It’s a waste of everyone’s time, and a mockery of the whole situation.”

[maxmarroquin-blog]

ofchvrming:

Roland had anticipated unpleasant company - it was impossible to please everyone and although he had desperately wanted to find the murderer and have them taken off the streets, he also recognized that not everyone felt the same way. What he hadn’t exactly expected, however, was for Max Marroquín of all people to criticize him, especially in such a public manner. He’d bit his own tongue back, managed a polite response instead, ( thank you for your input, Mr. Marroquín, I’m sure the good people of our police department are working as hard as they can, but this is about everyone’s immediate safety, ) then moved onto the next question. 

Not that his effort to keep the meeting civilized had really worked; they were not a step closer to finding the perpetrator and here Roland was, head lightly throbbing and frustrated beyond belief, not that he’d ever let that show on his face. At least not in front of all these people. 

And he should have tried to maintain the same composure and make everyone leave before the situation became even more tense, but he saw a certain someone out of the corners of his eyes and he felt the sudden urge to ask Max just what the hell he’d been thinking earlier. Instead, he simply took his time in grabbing another glass of wine, and quietly made his way over to Max’s side, barely managing to catch the spoken words.

“Hm. Is that so?” Roland asked, more amused than irritated, sly smirk on his face. “Pray tell, Mr. Marroquín - what exactly is your issue, here? All I’m trying to do is allow the good people of Fable City some peace of mind by making sure the killer doesn’t strike twice. Or at the very least, we owe it to Eric, don’t you think?” 

It was bizarre to think that he could’ve had a similar dynamic with Roland that he had with Eric; the men, while completely different in personality and priority, came from similar enough backgrounds and had similar potential. If Roland had put an ounce of effort in as a student, things could’ve different. Max couldn’t imagine where they’d be if he managed a breakthrough — managed to inspire some kind of effort in him. He wasn’t surprised at the man Roland ended up becoming, but he was disappointed, nevertheless.

Either way, he wasn’t afraid to dance. This kind of posh parlay, sugarcoated sneers, criticisms wrapped in concern, was a language he knew intimately. For all of his audacity, his presence, there was an immature quality that lingered in Roland, and Max knew he could exploit it. It wasn’t that he thought he was better than the other man, though he did — he didn’t feel fully grown most days either, even when his knees stiffened and his back ached, but the recklessness of an easy life made people sloppy, and Max was better than that.

He held his tongue at the mister. Roland Park knew damn well that he was a Professor — Doctor, even, but that kind of snipe wasn’t worth picking a fight over. He blinked, slowly, wishing the wine in his flask had been something a little more substantial, and turned to face Roland properly. “You aren’t suggesting that there could be a repeat of this kind of tragedy? Personal bias aside, you and I know the kind of presence Eric had in this community. There are a good many people who hate him, and for good reason. This isn’t a serial killer, and, that aside, we aren’t the police. I’m hardly Sherlock Holmes, and you’re no Hardy Boy either.”

[maxmarroquin-blog]

wolfesque:

TIME: 8:00PM LOCATION: Town Hall STARTER TYPE: OPEN

Although the room had simmered to a drone of agitated murmurs, the noise, the accusations made beforehand still left a bad aftertaste. Especially for the Deputy Sheriff who, quite frankly, clung to his anger like a lifeline. After all, one couldn’t miss the way they all glared at him and Eden for something as simple as arriving late. “Honestly, there’s no point to this meeting if we’re just going to fucking point fingers,” Carter seethed. 

He wasn’t even addressing a specific person, necessarily. But rather, he was fuming to himself as per usual. Like an animal pacing around for prey that hadn’t even arrived yet.

Nevertheless, he caught another’s eyes landing on him, and so he slid his gaze their way. A sardonic smile crept along his lips, voice dripping with false saccharine. “I came here for a genuine discussion. I’m here to talk about how - hey - the majority of us hated Mr Rousseau, so we may as well sort out who doesn’t. How about you?” His final words were spaced out deliberately, eyes narrowed. A test, this was. After all, if he had anymore people on his case, they might as well be sorted out now.   

Though the whole meeting had set Max on edge, there was nothing to create tension and anxiety like Carter’s eyes boring into his back. Though he didn’t harbour any particular respect for police, he at least held a modicum for Sheriff Walker on a personal level, at the very least. The same couldn’t be said for Carter Wolf. Wolf — no, he was a jackal. Some kind carnivorous beast, waiting to tear people like Max to shreds at even a whiff of weakness. It was the kind of intimidation that, twenty years ago, would’ve sent him spiralling. But he wasn’t that person anymore, and the demons that shared his bed were far worse than any kid with a mean stare and a badge. No, he met Carter in the eye, and bared his teeth.

It was a testament to the foolishness of machismo, every interaction the pair shared. Max knew, logically, rationally, that it would be best to steer clear of the deputy that so clearly had it out for him. It wasn’t his logical, rational mind talking, though, whenever Carter turned his way. It was his lizard brain, primal, defensive, angry. He took in a breath, calming himself in the face of the deputy’s accusatory tone, and adopted a mournful expression. “Eric and I were friends — we used to be close. Politically, I disagree with many of the choices he made, but —” his eyes narrowed back, breaking the facade of mournful friend for just a moment, a challenge, “— I would never say I hated him. The opposite. I’m going to miss him dearly.”

[maxmarroquin-blog]

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."

[maxmarroquin-blog]

🍸 which of your cats do you love more

“Would you ask a father to choose between his children? Heartless. Heartless. I mean, it’s Jaina, of course — Cady is my darling baby, but he’s so… hard to love.”