The morning air was sharp and cold, biting through Max's borrowed shirt. He caught his reflection in the dusty shop mirror as he passed the counter, and winced.
His hair had grown down to his knees, tangled and matted like seaweed. A thick, unkempt beard had overtaken his face, wild as if it had a will of its own. He looked less like a man and more like a myth dragged out of a gulag.
"Can't wear a costume if I look like a lunatic," he muttered.
The Search for a Barber
Max wandered through the town's crooked streets, scanning for signs of a barbershop. Most places looked closed or abandoned, and the few that were open had bars on their windows and rusted signage.
He finally spotted one — "Volkov Brothers Grooming & Style" — a chipped sign above a cramped corner building with a red-white-blue spiral pole still turning outside.
Max stepped in, ringing a bell over the door.
The inside was warm and smelled of cologne and aftershave. Three burly barbers stood around chatting in Russian, eyeing him as soon as he entered.
Max approached awkwardly, cleared his throat, and said in broken Russian:
"Please… haircut. No money. Prison — escape. Bad hair. Can… trade work?"
The barbers glanced at each other and laughed. One of them waved a dismissive hand.
"No money, no haircut," one said. "Try the church."
Another grunted:
"Or shave your head with a rock."
They turned their backs on him.
Max sighed and turned to leave, his boots dragging on the wooden floor. But just as he stepped outside—
"Yo! You sound like a kid."
He turned.
A blonde teenager was leaning against the wall nearby, dressed in a knock-off Adidas tracksuit with mismatched sneakers. One eye was ice-blue, the other hazel-brown. He looked no older than sixteen.
"I'll give you a cut," the teen said casually. "Free."
Max narrowed his eyes.
"Do you even know how to cut hair?"
The kid nodded.
"Yeah. Been doing it since I was eleven. You look like a wizard that got hit by a truck."
Max blinked.
"Why free?"
The boy shrugged.
"Barbers are like doctors — we help people feel good, look good. Restore confidence. Confidence is power. Should be free if someone really needs it."
Max tuned out halfway through.
"Where do I sit?"
The teen pointed to an empty chair inside the shop window.
"Right here, stranger. I'm Alexei, by the way. Friends call me Lex."
"Max," he replied, sitting down stiffly.
"What're we doing today, Max?"
"Mid taper fade. Trim the top. Shave the beard, mustache — all of it."
Lex grinned.
"You want a guard buzz on top?"
"Yeah. Number 16."
"Enhancements?"
"No."
Lex spun the chair. Max closed his eyes.
The buzz of clippers filled the air. Hair fell like snow to the floor. Ten minutes passed. Max could feel his face again — lighter, cleaner, human.
When he opened his eyes, he barely recognized himself.
"Damn," he said under his breath.
Lex smirked and clapped his hands.
"You're welcome, forest man. Go knock 'em dead."
Back to the Tailor Shop
Back at Ivan's store, Max rummaged through the leftover fabric bins. Most of the premium material had been used on orders — all that remained were scraps of bright green and mustard yellow.
He held the pieces up to the light.
Not ideal. But they'd have to do.
Then a memory surfaced — comic books. That ridiculous green wetsuit from Kick-Ass.
"Why not?" he muttered. "Better than a prison uniform."
For the next two hours, he stitched the costume himself — pants reinforced at the knees, a tight-fit long-sleeve top, yellow trim at the joints and cuffs. He even added a matching face covering with eyeholes, which he could lower when needed.
It wasn't perfect.
But it was his.
"Max is dead," he said quietly. "Let's see what this world does with something... kick-ass."
To the Highway
Max packed a few clothes into an old duffel bag, grabbed the suit, and left a folded note on Ivan's counter that simply said:
Thank you for the needle. I'll return the thread.
Then he headed toward the highway.
For over an hour, he stood by the roadside, holding a handmade sign:
"BUDAPEST?"
Car after car passed him. Some slowed, looked at him, then sped up again. A few even threw empty bottles at his feet.
He was about to give up when a dusty old Lada finally pulled over. A wiry old man with a cigarette dangling from his lips leaned out the window.
"Budapest?"
"Near it. Close as possible," Max said, hopeful.
The man shrugged.
"I'm headed to Szeged. I'll drop you halfway. You pay?"
Max hesitated.
"No money. But I'll fuel the car. Push it if needed."
The man laughed.
"You crazy."
"Little bit."
He opened the door.
"Get in, green man."
Max slid into the seat, the Kick-Ass suit hidden in the bag at his feet.
The car rolled forward.
Behind him, the town vanished into the mist. Ahead — Budapest. Natasha Romanoff. The Red Room.
And his chance to jump back into the timeline.