Max makes it down to the deck just in time to realize that his crew is hazing whatever poor bastard Seb sent him. He is about to call it off, not to spare the guy but to spare the bait, when he pushes into the circle and sees who it is. Charles. It’s Charles. He’s soaked, hair plastered to his head and bright red life suit, but Charles’s eyes are sharp and radiant when they slice up to him. He rips the squid from his mouth, teeth bared, blue blood dripping down his face like a feral animal, and something flips inside Max’s gut. Charles spits out the mantle and bites into the rubbery flesh again, upturning it to drink down it’s coppery blood to the cheers of his men. He watches Charles’ adams apple bob as he swallows, his men growing more and more raucous as he proves himself for them like a gladiator. Fuck.

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