[ It isn't immediately that Max notices anything might be amiss. He's not a Batman -- or even a Superman -- not the sort of man who's been trained for years to listen to the light sounds of footfalls or who's meta-genealogy could let him hear a pin dropping; if not for his metagene, the mind control, Max Lord would be a completely normal guy.
He, for instance, doesn't smell blood save for a mild scent that the air strikes him with occasionally, a faded reminder of what no longer left visible traces on his face. He was clean.
Mostly clean.
It's a balmy evening, the air more crisp than humid, and Max slows down at a corner with the intent to light a cigar. He stops entirely in order to reach for his lighter. ]
no subject
He, for instance, doesn't smell blood save for a mild scent that the air strikes him with occasionally, a faded reminder of what no longer left visible traces on his face. He was clean.
Mostly clean.
It's a balmy evening, the air more crisp than humid, and Max slows down at a corner with the intent to light a cigar. He stops entirely in order to reach for his lighter. ]