Page 25 of Nemesis Mine
Cyrus laughed. Maximillian frowned. He looked affronted.
“Good one,” Cyrus chuckled. And it was, really. A good attempt, at least, though he couldn’t deny a niggle of concern that Maximillian thought him capable of falling for something so ludicrous.
Still, credit where credit was due; Maximillian had some balls on him, coming here with a ploy like that. And itwasfunny, Cyrus had to admit. He could picture it now. Cyrus, friend to champions, fighting the honourable cause.
“I’m serious,” said Maximillian.
“Yeah, I bet.”
“I am! I wondered if we—”
“If we could work together, yeah, I got it.” Cyrus sniggered again at the thought. But then he quickly sobered as a worrying notion surfaced. He sat up straight, pinning Maximillian with a troubled look. “Tell me. On your honour as a champion, by the light of the midsummer sun, all that shit. Is there something about me that indicates thatI would want to team up with a champion and do good? Because I’m not intending to give off those signals, and—”
“There’s not,” said Maximillian.
“—I really wouldn’t want to be giving anyone the impression that I’m not fully committed to the wrongdoing cause, which I am—”
“There is absolutely nothing about you that suggests you have pure intentions towards anybody.”
Cyrus’s shoulders sagged in relief. “Oh. Good.” Worry assuaged, a grin crept back into place. “I’ll give it to you, Maximillian. You’re funnier than you look.”
Maximillian was still frowning. “Don’t start laughing again. You’re not understanding what I’m saying.”
“It’s just the thought of it.” Cyrus sighed happily. “Me, helping a little old lady stuck up a tree—”
“How many little old ladies do you know who get stuck up trees?”
“Doing a bit of good, some charity work alongside my wrongdoing,” Cyrus continued as though Maximillian hadn’t spoken. “Can you imagine?”
“I can’t imagine, no, but listen. You’re not getting it.” Maximillian leaned forward again. His hand hovered in midair, then settled decisively onto Cyrus’s knee. It worked to capture his attention; he blinked, taken aback, his eyes dropping to the strong fingers laid against his leg. He opened his mouth to instruct Maximillian to remove his hand from Cyrus’s person immediately, before Cyrus removed his entire arm, but Maximillian spoke before he could.
“I’m not talking about you working with me on the causes of a champion.” His voice was quiet and level, hisgaze steady when Cyrus’s eyes travelled slowly up. “I’m talking about the two of us working together to—to trick people. To act as enemies in public and use that for our own benefit. We could bait each other, make a show of it, fight like we did in Arclee.” His voice rose, earnest; his fingers tightened on Cyrus’s knee. “But because we would be planning it in advance, we’d both know what was going to happen. We’d be expecting it. We’d discuss how to do it, how to end it, and nobody would know. But after, we wouldbothreap the rewards.”
Cyrus eyed Maximillian in silence. The seconds dragged on. Maximillian’s hand still rested on his leg. He was very aware of its weight. Beneath his impassive expression, he could not remember a time when he had felt more startled. That a champion—Maximillian, golden boy himself—would come up with a scheme like this. That he would sit here, on Cyrus’s couch, his fingers wrapped tight around Cyrus’s knee, and want to do this. His thoughts spun, possibilities branching out before him, with each morphing fluidly into the next. But one particular thought brought him back to reality.
Maximillian did want this, very much. Those eyes were steady, but they were also imploring. These words had been carefully selected to try and get Cyrus to agree, and his tone bordered on beseeching. This mattered.
A single word, that was all he needed.
“Why?”
Maximillian blinked. “I just said, reap the—”
Cyrus leaned forward. They were very close, scant inches between them. It was unfamiliar, alien,wrong. Theywere supposed to stand on opposite sides of a battleground, not hunch here face-to-face on Cyrus’s couch, so close that he could see each smile line carved into the delicate skin around Maximillian’s eyes. He still bore the burn mark from the flaming wood Cyrus had thrown at him. Cyrus’s eyes drifted to it for a second, fascinated, before he pulled his gaze sharply back. Whatever intensity Maximillian gave him, he would match.
“What rewards? You already have your deals, your sponsorships. What could possibly make teaming up with a wrongdoer worth it to you?”
Maximillian hesitated for one long moment. Then he leaned back abruptly, his hand falling to his own lap. Cyrus stayed where he was.
“It’s—it’s a lot of pressure, being the elected champion of a city like Heliarth,” Maximillian said stiffly. “There are countless champions newly graduated from the Federation who’d jump at the chance to take my place. It can be... difficult to meet people’s expectations, when you’ve been in a role for a set amount of time. People take things for granted that they used to be impressed by. And they always want more.”
He stopped, turning his head away with his lips pressed tightly together, like he couldn’t bring himself to say anything else. But no matter. Cyrus didn’t need him to fill in the blanks.
“The championship elections,” Cyrus said. Maximillian’s head whipped back to face him. “You’re worried that you won’t get reelected unless you do something big. You want to impress people. To... build your reputation.” Afunny little jolt in the pit of Cyrus’s stomach accompanied the words. He was too aware of how well Maximillian’s motive aligned with his own plans.
Maximillian blew out an unsteady breath. “I need to give the people something to talk about. Help them remember my value.”
“And you think you can do that by staging some big dramatic clashes against a wrongdoer. Let them see and hear about our fights. Witness how capable you still are when it comes to defending them.” Cyrus spoke slowly, partly because he was trying to piece together Maximillian’s idea for himself and partly because he couldn’t help but picture it.
