Chapter Text
The most exciting thing has just happened! The highlight of his week, of his year, of his life probably.
Sam has a new banjo.
It's so shiny and the sound is crisp and twangy, and he got a mean deal on it from the shop once they realized he wanted their one and only banjo. Seems like they couldn't get rid of it. Sam could scoff. People just don't know what good music is!
That, or maybe no ones willing to take on the arduous challenge of learning to play. Play well. Play without making everyone in a room want to tear their ears out.
Sam's not really at that level yet, but he’s sure he'll get there.
He strolls into the office in the late morning proudly brandishing it, much to Max's dismay.
"NO! NO!!! Not the banjo! I thought you'd given it up!!"
"Whatever would make you say that, Max?" Sam tilts his head.
"I dunno! I thought maybe in the dimensional crossover you decided to discard it when Sam Prime did not!"
Right, that. They bring it up sparsely, but they are not exactly a normal pair. Max is from the same universe as him technically, but due to temporal duplications he was briefly sent to an alternate timeline and managed to come back after his own copy of Sam, well... perished.
Sam's 'Max Prime' also was no longer with them.
They're recently healed wounds, but it's easier to talk about, now. After one or two serious conversations, they're able to mention it in passing and put it behind them. Maybe give it another month and the jokes will start.
Sam pulls out his chair and kicks his feet up on the desk. He plucks a few strings, testing the sound. Beautiful.
"No, Max. There is barely any a difference between he and I. My love of bluegrass springs ever eternal, time clones notwithstanding."
"Damn."
The lagomorph loudly stabs his cutting knife into his own desk, where he's currently sitting. It sticks in the wood, standing upright. He cringes with each pluck, shutting one eye tightly. Looks like Sam has a nice consistent way of irritating the little guy, once again. Good to have.
He strums an intentionally sour chord.
”Dear GOD,” Max quickly tugs his ears downwards and huffs. Sam can tell he is trying in vain to block out the sound. He chuckles devilishly.
“Song requests, lil’ pal?”
“The one where you smash that thing to bits.”
“I’m pretty sure only rock stars do that, Max. I ain’t no rocker, just a simple country dog.”
“We live in midtown!!” Max throws his hands up and stands, his tiny Howdy Doody chair screeching on the wood panels. Sam plucks another piercing note. “Argh! Sam!”
“Alright, alright. I’ll save it for… first thing in the morning.”
Max clambers onto Sam’s desk, standing on it so he is able to look down on the dog, a rare sight. He glowers, and it feels like the room gets darker.
“I will never let you have a moment of peace if you do that, Sam. You’ll be looking over your shoulder the rest of your life.”
Sam gets up and leans the banjo against one of their filing cabinets. He shakes his head.
“Like I don’t already do that.”
He turns to see Max with his hands on his hips, seemingly still frustrated. Sam takes a step towards the lagomorph, ready to take advantage of their current equal heights to maybe give the little guy a peck on the nose but—
The phone starts ringing. Sam abandons his current trajectory and sweeps his arm out straight, making a beeline to the phone table. He catches Max by the abdomen on the way, the rabbit hanging over his arm like a butler would hold a towel.
Max thrashes while dangling, but Sam holds him tightly in place and picks up the receiver.
”Yeeellow? Hm? No, that’s not actually my favorite color, it’s orange. Yours too? Wow! It’s also Max’s! Yes, he’s here. Being restrained, yes.”
”Unjustly!!” Max cries out, punching at Sam’s leg.
”Oh? A follow up? No… okay, that makes sense! We’re on the case!”
He releases Max as he hangs up, who drops to his feet with a soft thud. The rabbit brushes off his fur.
“What’s the case, Sam?”
“Do you remember when we snooped around Stuyvesant Town, Max?”
”Wasn’t that like a week ago?” The rabbit ticks his head to the side, his mouth going crooked.
”A little more, I think. Well, turns out it’s the East River that’s the actual problem area. Commissioner got bad intel.” He pauses. “Maybe bad is the wrong word.”
“Insufficient?” Max supplies.
“For once… yes, Max. That is an excellent descriptor.” He places a hand on his partner's head. “Don’t get too out of character, now.”
Max just grins.
“Well, what’re we waiting for? Do you wanna monologue about all our various knick knacks first, or go straight there?”
Sam glances around, considering. Depends on his mood, honestly. They’ve made sure to go through each of their case related souvenirs and make sure the events of each are actually similar enough between them. There’s some confusion sometimes, but Max chalks it up to his poor memory combined with the cosmetic differences of his temporary alternate universe.
Sam glances at the crooked hanging frame of him and Max on Hugh Bliss’s rollercoaster and smiles as his heart tugs a little. Sometimes the memories are too bittersweet.
The canine flicks off the light switch.
“Let’s just head out now.”
Straight and Narrow has never looked better, these days. The dirt is still present (mayor’s ordinances) but finally that long crack and ditch in the pavement has been properly patched. Bosco’s old store has been bought up by some other strange bodega-style business that’s not just open yet, but will be soon. Sam looks forward to getting to know (and getting to torment) whoever it ends up being.
A new face will probably be nice, something that he and Max can figure out together.
Even though he definitely already knows, Max still asks where they’re going when he hops into the car. A comforting habit that makes the dog smile. Sam supplies the answer and peels off the curb.
He blasts through a yellow light as Max feeds Huey Lewis into the tape deck. Gift from one of his poker buddies, he says. Sam just hopes it’s not the weird scrawny guy, because then who knows what’s contaminated the piece of plastic.
The music as usual sounds mostly regular, with the occasional demonic howl.
Sam pulls over on First Avenue. They’ll walk the rest of the way. This area is crawling with goons in crisp black suits. Sunglasses, earpieces. Little wannabe Superballs.
He pockets his car keys as Max jumps out of the car in one smooth motion. His grace sometimes is baffling.
They pass the fancy apartment buildings of Peter Cooper Stuytown and reach the East River. The smell wafts into Sam’s nose, pungent and disgusting. The track that lines the east side of Manhattan that many citizens use for a daily jog is roped off with police tape and secret service officers.
The two find a hole in the security and duck under the tape. Something’s here, something heavily protected.
There’s a particularly large gathering of suits about fifty feet down the path, and they start to head straight for it. There’s a small outdoor public bathroom here, a little building made out of stone. Standing in front of the entrance with his hands folded in front of him is…
“Superball?”
Sam raises a brow as he approaches.
“Hello Sam. Good to see you.” Superball is as flat as ever, but Sam can tell the statement is genuine. They haven’t seen each other in person since the whole… mess.
“Shouldn’t you be at the White House?” The dog asks, confused. It takes him a moment to notice Max has disappeared from his side, seemingly investigating the large gathering of guards further down.
“Important Presidential business is happening here at the East River today, Sir.”
“I… see. So it’s your business, then.”
“As acting President, yes. Besides, I placed the bobblehead in the Oval Office again.”
Sam furrows his brow. Superball loves to guard doors, but he really wonders if there’s anything important going on in the restrooms.
“Could I… see what’s in there?”
“Negative. Confidential.”
“Darn.” Sam snaps his fingers. It’s unfortunate they don’t have the privileges that came with Max being commander in chief, anymore. He’s sure his little pal will find that to be the biggest loss in all of this.
“What’s with the gathering, though? Some sort of security shindig?” He shoves his hands in his pockets and smirks. Superball sends back one of his own tiny smiles.
“Negative, Sir. Though that does sound enjoyable. We’re guarding a sensitive biohazard.”
“Can you tell me about it?”
Superball slightly shakes his head. Of course not.
“It’s not something I believe you in particular would want to know about, Sir.”
What the hell is that supposed to mean? Superball isn’t one to make mistakes in his wording, so the statement is very odd. Sam furrows his brow yet again, frown evident.
“…Why not.” This guy is gonna get on the dog’s nerves today, it seems. Maybe he’s still a little bitter about the ‘final imperative’.
Superball doesn’t reply. He’s seemingly looking at something else…
“Hey Sam! You gotta get a load of what they’re gathered around over there. Weirdest beached whale I’ve ever seen!” Max approaches, usual saunter present in his step.
“If I had some water, I’d do a spit take. I am very shocked.” Superball’s voice raises a microscopic bit. “How are you alive, Mr. President?”
“Heeyy!!! Superball! Maybe I’m just a ghost here to haunt ya!” Max stops right next to Sam, wiggling his fingers in the air.
“Shut it, Max.” Sam turns his attention back to the agent. “It’s a long winded story that’ll probably end in you erasing our memories, so I’d rather not tell it.”
“That’s extremely fair.” Superball states.
“Now that I’m here you can totally give me my seat back, riiight?” Max bats his eyes dangerously.
“There is no known protocol for a deceased President coming back to life, Sir.”
“Aw, damn.”
“Too bad it was your second term, Max. You could’ve run for re-election.” Sam pats the lagomorph on the head in comfort. Max looks dejected for a moment, then he perks up, seemingly remembering something.
“Anyway. Sam! I swear you need t’ come take a gander at this thing. S’like a kinda wacky fish covered in suckers.” He tugs on the end of Sam’s sleeve.
“Some sort of cephalopod?”
“Just a piece of one! Huge!” Max throws his arms up, excitement rising in his tone. If it’s got the lagomorph in a tizzy like this, it really must be something special.
“Alright. Take me to it, little buddy.” Sam pushes the brim of his hat out of his eyes and follows suit as Max scurries away. The little guy stops in front of a gaggle of guards and bounces on the balls of his feet.
“Okay! Lemme and Sam in here or else I’ll rip out your achilles tendons!”
“You already said that threat,” retorts one of the guards. “Besides, I don’t think my feet could hurt more than they do right now.” Two others look down at Max, faces unreadable behind dark sunglasses.
Sam catches up to the action and begins a stare-down with one of the goons.
“If he said it more than once, he definitely meant it. I’d let us through, gentlemen.”
“You’re Sam, right?”
“Freelance Policeman, yes.” Sam adjusts his jacket, rolling his shoulders. Does he have a reputation? Maybe he could believe Max does with his general infamy, but…
“Yeah, you’re not allowed in here, buddy.” The guard’s lip curls in contempt.
Okay, there it is again! What is all the nonsense about him specifically being prohibited? First Superball, now these losers.
“You let me through!” Max pipes up.
“You’re freakishly fast, plus we don’t have orders about you.” Says another guard, pushing Max away. The first one whacks him over the skull. They start to bicker in hushed tones.
“You’re not supposed to let McGruff know it’s just him!” The dog manages to catch the phrase amongst the various whispers.
Sam growls, bearing his teeth. He will not be disrespected. He has enough sense not to pull his gun on the government workers, but his fists clench. It’s not the white hot rage and despair he felt when Max’s brain was stolen, but it’s not fun to be kept in the dark.
After a few more runarounds, they really don’t seem to be budging. Okay, they’ll circle back here with a solution.
“C’mon, Max. Let's brainstorm a way around this.”
“Find a few random objects that will lead to a series of Rube Goldberg style events and conversations so the guards will leave and we can get past instead of just sneaking by normally?” Max starts his usual upbeat walk away.
“You’re cute when you over-explain the mechanisms of our madness, pal.”
Sam’s called Max cute so many times over the years it’s a shocker he hadn’t deciphered any buried affections sooner.
Anyway, they do just as Max stated. Earlier, Sam had pocketed a tape recorder from the Desoto, leftover from the COPS. His instinct about what items will end up useful proves true.
Sam tries pressing Superball for details again, but he’s immovable. But, remembering the detail about the one man’s hurting feet, he lies and tells Superball that the guards are excited to stand for another twelve hours. The normally stiff man smiles and says he’s glad to give them even more overtime hours.
Upon hearing the playback, the guards say they’re union and take their federally mandated break.
Max grins at him as they waltz right on into the restricted area.
“Over here, Sam. It was probably about twenty feet long, and I swear it was a crazy shade, but maybe I’m just colorblind.”
“What sort of color?” Sam’s curious to see what Max thinks before he lays eyes on it himself. He follows closely behind, letting Max lead the way down to where he can see the vague shape of something large in a fishing net.
“Teal green-ish? What do they call it? Chartreuse?”
Something about that strikes a chord in Sam’s head, but he can’t pick up what exactly it is. It’s just out of reach in his memory. Oh well…
“Chartreuse is a yellow-green, Max.”
“Sorry, Mr. Encyclopedia.”
Max starts running.
Sam rolls his eyes and doesn’t change his pace, and the beached … something, comes slowly more into focus. Seems Max is correct, it is a teal sort of shade. One long slender tentacle, a bit flat on one side. Resembles something he’s seen before, actually. A very… familiar,
…
That’s.
It’s
…Sam stops in his tracks.
He’s about fifteen feet away from the thing, and he can’t move.
Recognition.
The ground falls out beneath him.
It can’t
There’s no way this could be possible it just can’t be possible at all.
Sam forgets everything. Where he is, what he was doing. Who he is Why anything at all. A fog sets in heavily around his skull, rushing loudly in his ears.
It’s a long tentacle, alright. Evenly covered in those octopus looking suckers that had been previously mentioned.
Not a tentacle that’s his. His
He should’ve put the dots together He should’ve stayed away He didn’t want to look at this.
Why is he still
looking
Everyone told him it wasn’t for him to see.
Desperate for something to grasp at, something to feel in this neverending disconnect, Sam slowly steps to the thing, and lays a shaking, trembling, convulsing hand on it. The coldness he feels against his palm sinks his already hammering heart.
The texture is foreign and unpleasant, the complete opposite of what it should rightly be. What Sam wishes it could be instead.
He takes in many shaking breaths
like the air is closing in around him.
Pulls away suddenly, as if burned.
How…?
From where?
and
What now?