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Max was out cold, Vinnie. He wasn't consciously able to do anything. He lay there, breathing, his face in the dirt. His back, however, was at least facing up. And this put his tattoo in full view, save for the bits that wrapped around to his chest. The tattoo had changed since the last time you had seen it, Vinnie. The colors were muted. Where once the pinks had been vibrant, they were now more dusty rose, and the bright greens had taken on a bit of an ashen quality. The thorns on his arms looked a bit... thornier. In short, it looked more like a plant that had been neglected, perhaps had not spent enough time in full sunlight, hadn't got the fertilizer it needed, not quite enough water, a little too much dry wind.

But something inside responded in kind to Vinnie's prodding, though less gently than his; either through inexperience, Max's nature, the sheer exhaustion, or some combination of the above.

I'm tougher'n anything. Tougher'n you. Strongest ever.

And yet still unconscious. Fat lot of good that toughness is doing you now, isn't it, Max?