<strong>Maximillian Guntherstadt</strong>--<strong>Furnace Room</strong>--<strong>Replacing a faulty heating coil</strong><br/><br/>The wrench slipped from Max's (http://www.ghostofaflea.com/archives/EveninGentsbyVladislausDantes.jpg) hand as he tried to tighten the last bolt into place, and his knuckles clanged against the heavy casing. He bit back a groan of exasperation and fumbled for the tool in the shallow blackness, relying on the sensation from his shoulder more than anything to tell him when he was close. The brass of his fingers knocked stupidly against the wrench and he heard it skitter away another inch or so, making the task that much harder. After a few more seconds he gave up and switched to his organic arm, rolling his eyes at the lecture he'd probably receive later from Bloom. '<em>Now Max, you know you have to use the arm as much as possible if you're ever going to get used to it. It's the only way you'll regain full functionality and blah blah blah...</em>'<br/><br/>He didn't give a damn what that scalpel-happy harpy said, anyway. He didn't want full functionality, he wanted his left arm back, damn it. He sighed, recalling the morning he'd woken up with the new limb attached. If only he hadn't passed out so soon from the blood loss when he'd slit his wrist. If only he'd managed to open the veins in both arms. If only he could have been killed in that miserable blast that day instead of surviving and being consigned by his new 'owner' to this hell hole. '<em>If only, if only, the woodpecker sighs,</em>' Max thought, wryly remembering the old nursery rhyme his governess used to sing to him.<br/><br/>The telltale '<strong>whump-whump-whump</strong>' of propeller blades overhead, along with the sputtering roars of more terrestrial vehicles, told him new arrivals were coming in again. Probably that wretched Vanderholt again, come to sell the devil more of his delightful poisons. The faint sulfer scent of that last serum, the one inadvertently responsible for his rejuvenation, still lingered in his nostrils like the promise of imminent damnation, and caused an involuntary shudder. He wondered what would be tested on him this time. Some new concoction that would turn him inside out, no doubt, or change him into a parakeet. '<em>No... I wouldn't be that lucky,'</em>Maximillian thought as he finished tightening the bolt and securing the new coil in place. '<em>No matter how painful it would be, death would be too sweet a release. I doubt Chang would let such a...'valuable' employee go so easily.'</em><br/><br/>The strains of piano music drifted throughout the lounge, and Max rolled his eyes again. That talentless<em>schwachkopf </em>Kissinger, probably trying to woo the barmaid as usual with his underwhelming melodies.<em>'Aside from Chang himself, I'm probably the only one around here who thinks with his brain.' </em>He rose to his feet and gathered his toolkit, surprised despite himself at the lack of pain from his rheumatism. He supposed his recent age reversal had a few benefits, really. Until he looked down at his skeletal left arm and clenched its brassy bones together in a deathgrip. Physical rejuvenation was nice, yes, but the price was damn near Faustian.