If This Is Tuesday, It Must Be Hell
by realitycek
Disclaimer: Not Mine.
Rated: E
Pairing: Maximillian, Earth Angels
Author's Notes: This snippet deals with the events of 9/11. If you don't want to hear it, don't read it.
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It was, Maximillian reflected, just like home. That was enough to annoy him right there. Like countless others, he had relocated here, trying to do a job, and had -- as much as he could -- fallen in love with the place. Handling change, thriving on chaos, went without question. He was a New Yorker now. But this would not look good on the quarterly report, and the reminder of the home office was unwelcome in the extreme.
Frowning slightly, he watched the racing and weaving of fire trucks, ambulances, police cars, their lights and sirens a counterpoint to the masses of people fleeing and staggering in the opposite direction. Tattered, dishevelled, bleeding and burned, many with tears of dazed disbelief running through the dust and ash which coated them all a uniform shade of grey.
He sighed, looking over his shoulder as a primordial rumble drowned out the discord of claxons, weeping, screaming, and caused the earth to shudder in protest. Fascinated in spite of himself, he saw the tower fall, melting in upon itself in a cloud of dust that rose as if in mockery of the fountain that had graced the plaza it was burying. A cloud which billowed along the channels of adjoining streets, choking and raining debris on all in its path.
Even had anyone bothered to look, no one would have noticed there was suddenly one less observer on the street as the cloud engulfed Broadway and Fulton, his ears ringing with one man's broken-voiced cry of "Oh my god!" as he vanished...
...and was, even in that moment, atop another tower, miles removed. Impeccable, dust-shrouded suit become a silk shirt and perfectly-pressed slacks, he strode into the living room.
Angelo was watching CNN on the widescreen TV, looking up at him questioningly as he downed a scotch and lowered a tumbler already brimming once again. Briefest of eye contact, and the young seraph quickly looked away. "He called," Angelo said carefully. "Gregory."
"Oh, I'm sure he did. He can wait." Pacing, eyes darting periodically to the vistas of carnage on the screen, Max sipped more slowly at his second drink and weighed his options. Damage control, he thought, smiling grimly at the irony.
There were always some gains on the futures balance sheet at times like this, souls given over in moments of misdirected passion. Yet even with the best projections factored in, there was no prettying up the result. No way around that, but it was only basic business sense to try to minimise the losses he was going to have to explain...
He spared a glance at Angelo, rapt before the broadcast flames -- confused, Max knew, but the kid was solid -- before reaching for the phone now beneath his hand. Connection clear and immediate, he listened to distant ringing, then a cautious greeting.
"I'm very disappointed," he said softly. Though his words reached the other end in the syllables of another tongue, their tone remained the same. "I believe we're going to have to reconsider our arrangement." Taking advantage of the sudden silence on the line to have another sip of his scotch, he finally stopped to savour it as he listened to the rapid, nervous outburst that followed.
"Mm. I'm sure you think so, but I'm afraid that merely illustrates that you're as ignorant of our business principles as you are those of our competitor...now, that's uncalled for... True. We've realised consistent, if modest, returns as a result of your operations as a subcontractor. But we have to look at the big picture -- and the picture has gotten a lot bigger, hasn't it."
Angelo snuck a look back over his shoulder, and Max smiled benevolently at him, raising his glass in a reassuring little salute. He waited for the litany of rationalisations to run out of air, then continued. "Politics and ideology are exploitable means to an end, not ends in themselves. Neither concern me, unless their exploitation is so inept as to allow for the significant loss of market share we're looking at here. The simplest cost-benefit analysis makes it glaringly obvious. We've managed to recoup some of the losses incurred since 1993, despite your refusal to follow any sort of guidance, especially in media relations, but..."
Holding the handset away from his ear, Max took another drink. A parchment rustle of unseen wings underscored the irritated expression that crossed his features. "Please. Let's try to stay professional, hm? Look, at the end of the day -- at the end of *this* day -- we're looking at 18 confirmed acquisitions against, what, tens of thousands permanently beyond our reach? Probably millions, before we're going to be able to arrest the slide. As an investment, you've gone south in a big way, and I wanted to let you know personally that as of now, our association is terminated."
Another sip. "That's right. You'll find that none of our resources are available to subsidise your organisation, and I'll be recommending foreclosure on any and all recoverable assets. Yes, I'm sure that's so, but hey -- free will's a bitch. What do you want me to do? I'm only a regional manager, that's not my territory. And, unfortunately, I wouldn't put *too* much faith in that Great Satan hype." Not that you've made good use of your faith so far, he added mentally.
Strolling back toward the couch, Max looked down at Angelo and stroked fondly through the youth's thick brown hair. "This is not a negotiation," he said, a hint of menace suffusing his calm voice. "What it comes down to is this. We can't afford you. You're on your own."
Ending the connection and dispensing with the phone, he watched the unfolding coverage and shook his head. The business of America might be business, but sometimes enough was also enough.
Finis
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