Section 4 (instalment 5, Done)
Word count: 2 072

Max Parker was eighteen when he took the trial to attempt to earn his stole and his place on the White Council. It wasn't an age unheard-of (actually, it was more or less typical, although there were exceptions both ways), and yet about half of those gathered to examine him seriously doubted that he would make it.

Not that he really cared. He was ready and he knew it.

The other half weren't believers in him, really. Just undecided.

He didn't care about that either.

He didn't really care what most people thought about him anymore. He wasn't the whorehouse primp-boy, made to look pretty and attractive and perfect all the time. Made so by himself.

He wasn't Katashi Kubo's apprentice anymore, the strict order of his Sensei's life filtering into his own daily routines, making him stick to good order and neat looks too.

None of that meant that Max lost his capacity for learning. Quite on the contrary, he had mastered things faster than his mentor had planned, and knew he'd mastered them well, his feeling of self-balance was well developed enough that he was aware of that much. He knew when he would be up to a spell and for which he needed something more; he knew theories and histories and potions and what not.
Nor did it mean that he'd lost his capacity for passion or his appreciation of the senses. Of course, now he got to choose his partners, and had to find a way of getting those he wanted, making sure that they were aware no bonds would be developed, and staying away from those he didn't want to get close to. But those were skills that were barely a stretch for him. He never left anybody disappointed, or was disappointed; and extremely rarely left anybody unhappy. Except that in very few cases, the occasion occurred more than, say, twice. With the same person.

But it all meant that his appearance was very different from what either Katashi or Helena would really have recognized at first glance.

For one thing, there were his clothes. They were always clean, of course, but were just a bit mismatched, or too large, or too tight, or too revealing, or too bright, and gave the impression of slight sloppiness. Talking about bright, there was also his hair, on a Mohawk (not a mullet, mind you. Genuine Mohawk, always made up and away, hard, visible, protruding and undeniable, from forehead to the neck) and colored, well, brightly. Generally depending on the clothes he was wearing. Electric blue? Check. Orange red? Check. Lime green with pink stripes? Check. Really, usually those were matched with the shirt or t-shirt or sweater he was wearing. Because the trousers were too far, visually.
Then there was the facial hair. Too much, and erratically styled. Of course.
And the piercings. Tongue, ears, nose, eyebrow... at one point, he could honestly claim to have more artificial holes in his head than natural ones.

It all made sense to him. It was, overall, outrageous.

But then, he was outrageous. His behavior was flamboyant, except when he was actually working, or studying. His joke were extravagant, outrageous, and still worked their way to make people laugh, sometimes despite themselves. And he felt, sensed, lived as thickly, as intensely as ever before. He just couldn't proclaim to the world how lost he felt.

So he didn't.

That was all right, too. It had people mostly leave him alone about the really important stuff. And even though he had friends - the girl from work; the guy he met in a bar and became his pal for almost all the time between his new image and the day that he left on his first job. Ah. Sascha. Playful, interesting, knowledgeable and young-minded, free-spirited. And, like him, really more than met the eye. One of the reasons he could remember that time without complete sadness and loss. One of the most decent persons he knew, too, even if the one time he'd Looked at him, the Sight had startled the bejeepers out of him. And yet another reason for Max to skip around discriminating. Not all dragons, definitely, were bastards. And he knew there'd be wizards who'd scoff at that and call him a youthful fool.

That was fine.

He didn't care what they thought.

Just that when he did things, he was fairly judged.

The trial itself wasn't exactly easy, but it also wasn't so difficult as to have had him panicked, back before his mentor had been killed. (Destroyed with no body to bury. That was worse than even most Wardens could look forward to, alas. But he didn't think about that during the trial; he'd been taught well enough about things that broke one's concentration. That way, really, he was way ahead than most apprentices his age. He didn't hold it against them.) It was a fair assessment of his skills and abilities, and he had plenty of both. His training, physical, emotional, mental, and magical, was complete in more ways than many who lived sheltered lives with families or mentors could hope for, and he was as much in control of his capacities as he could be expected to. (He kept that so later in life too. Keeping himself at the edge of his abilities was one of his personal goals, and through thick and thin - and he had it all, all - he diligently stuck to it. Which was also a requirement to survive, in some cases. Many cases.)

It was no wonder that those evaluating him were neutral at best and expecting him to fail at worst, considering his apparent behavior, the way he looked, how he spoke. The entire attitude of carelessness that he exuded. But the all ended up fair to him in their evaluation. And he was grateful. Grateful to those who helped him, grateful to those who didn't short-change him. Grateful to those who welcomed him into the White Council, though those weren't that numerous, seeing as he was a stranger to most of them. And each of them had more or less their own agenda, and keeping to it was important to him or her.

After what had happened to his Sensei, Max wasn't all that willing to play too much into the hands of the Council either. He was sure he could figure out the politics if he put his mind to it - it was the kind of thing that came to him, but then most things did, if he decided to pursue them. But he didn't want to bother. They decided on the rules that he had to follow. Sure, great. He could follow the rules, they did leave quite an ample area of possibilities allowed, or even shady, that he could work inside of without getting into trouble. He could stay out of their way unless it was a general assembly and he was needed... well, requested and required to show up. Otherwise, the interest would be merely informational.

He was more than certain that they could live with that. Especially if he could, not meddling in their affairs much.

But then there was the bit where he was to decide what to do. It was very easy to pick what not to do. Wizarding politics and Wardening obviously being two of those areas. (He wouldn't, he couldn't end up in the situation where Katashi Sensei had lost his life to. If he risked his ass, it had to be because he chose. Every single time. Anything else was betrayal to all the road he'd walked thus fur. His mentor might be disappointed, somewhat, even though he had said that bit about his thinking being mostly defensive, and that was fine. There had been also opening from the Wardens after word of his demonstration at the trial spread. But it wasn't... he wasn't going to give himself to a chain of command that left him no choice. Not as a child, not as a youth, not as a grown-up. And while he would still be technically a teenager after earning his stole, he would be an adult for all intents and purpose, and he meant to behave as one. More or less. He didn't change his appearance for his trial; he didn't right after either.) He could keep on working stuff for food and rent and researching, but that was too... stationary. Between the physical training, the weapons training he'd doggedly work on since after he'd left Helena's, and the slight bias his Sensei had given him towards fighting or dueling magic - not really a bias, more of a slight inclination, really - he figured best would be some kind of combat, field work.

That... appealed to him, somehow. Struggling with jobs that were low-level because of lack of mundane education for pennies, barely enough for food and board, let alone for magical stuff, didn't fit well.

But ... there were rich wizards. Or creatures. Or magic-savvy mundanes. Who might occasionally need security hired.

Which also fit with his defensive inclination. And the idea to keep things and people safe when they were in danger? Definitely worked well for him.

It would be dangerous, and he well knew that. Dangerous enough to require of him to be at top shape, which appealed to him, quite. Live, live to the fullest. And that was one way. Besides, the high-risk jobs could be better-paid too. And he could use that.

Not to mention things like seeing a bit more of the world, first-hand. He loved the city, he did. But nothing said he could love nothing else, right?

Max threw a good party after he earned his stole. For most who showed up, no real explanation was needed; a very few questioned more, and one got the truth out of him, but that was because by then the host was pretty much certain there would not be a terribly shocked reaction. The party was suitably loud, suitably crowded (not THAT difficult to achive, in his cramped little flat), suitably colorful, and suitably crazy to be something he'd remember fondly. But then, the things that he didn't remember fondly, overall, were few and far between. The advantages to choosing his own way and all.

It took him months after that to be satisfied with his level of skills needed for that particular course of job he'd chosen. And to research thoroughly where he might apply, especially as young and beginner as he was. Getting hired was part one of the job, he found out. Surviving a run was the next one.

But he'd deal with that when he came to it.

With much regret, he got rid of the mohawk and the piercings and even the facial hair. (Sascha's reaction to that was none too happy, but at least he recognized him more or less without a glitch, and that made his friend just a bit less disturbed about it than he had been.) He replaced his ragged clothes with 'decent' ones. And he went on trying to get hired.

And he did.

And he went around and said good-bye to his friends, and became the best damn person for that job. Because that was the only way he could make sure that the brush-ups with death, the risk that enhanced the life after, living on time he had earned, literally, he had to be better than those who'd attack.

Of course, he could look more presentable, but his speech was still as outrageous, mostly. His behavior was as obvious, too easy, too loud for many. That got him not to get a few jobs to begin with. But then he got a couple. And word started to get out, here and there, about him. He could use those jobs as reference, and he did.

Mercenary, gun - literal and magical, even if normal guns of more modern make tended to be short-lived around him, obviously, so he tended to always have good-olds nearby - for hire, and a fighter that got the job done, especially if people listened to him, here and there. That's how he meant to be, after he became a wizard. And for years, that was all.

He kept the part about being damn good and a fighter throughout his life, though. And for a long life such as his, that was... something formidable.

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