Mar. 14th, 2016

theroadwarrior: (pic#9855942)
[personal profile] theroadwarrior
Who: Max and you!
Broadcast: Fleetwide!
Action: SS Starstruck — cargo bay, medical bay, shuttles, kitchen; Iskaulit — bar, community garden.
When: Monday and Tuesday (because he's gettin' shit handled Wednesday... hopefully.)

((Also just FYI this talks a bit about dental issues so if you're grossed out by teeth this ain't your post.))

[Max seems to be in a bad way this week.

Not a 'distant' kind of way, not avoidance because of skittishness, or his own inner demons wrestling with him. It's not one of those rather dreary episodes.

No, Max is — just even more easy to annoy and even more temperamental than usual. It all begins Monday: he sits in the cargo bay with The Dog, AKA Rock, who is still on casual bed-rest with his thin furry leg in a cast. The dog huffs and Max matches the sound himself, massaging his temples like something is burrowing into the bone there. Headache, perhaps? His crew will probably notice it first. Any attempt to talk to him will leave people, even those he's more patient around, with a cold shoulder of sorts or a shorter fuse on conversation than usual. He doesn't talk much (even compared to usual), sort of has a hard time concentrating, replies sharply and then is gone just as fast with a miserable scowl on his face.

Be so careful approaching him, guys.

He's probably gonna aggravate you as much as you're gonna aggravate him.

In the kitchen, he seems to have switched over to the room temperature liquid foods — nothing solid, and he spoons it with a completely unhappy look on his face. Sloshes it around, grumbles at it, and finishes the bowl when his stomach gurgles to urge him on. Whatever it is that is clearly bothering him (it's getting more and more transparent), he can barely focus sometimes. He paces instead. And then he leaves the ship, ignoring the gumball thing entirely. The thought of chewing on those makes him want to bash his head into a wall; meanwhile, his jaw throbs painfully, like a heartbeat. Thump-thump-thump.

His fingers move to prod the back of his mouth as he digs at the culprit of his bad attitude, but it ends with him cursing aloud in the cargo bay, an echo of a sailor's mouth. Not PG-13, kiddies. Max apparently knows some super special no-no words. Excavating the root of his issue leaves nothing for results.

Max goes to the bars on the Iskaulit, because that's where people go when they're not happy and need a drink for it, and—]


.... Nothing cold.

[Yes, bartender, give him his lukewarm booze. Thank you. This guy can hold guzzoline in his mouth; he can handle bland, iceless liquor.

He meanwhile scrubs at his cheek as he sips and finally makes an exception to his drinking limit; not enough to get him drunk, of course, but enough to numb his gums a little. If not that, then he'll just have to medicate himself later. At any rate, maybe he's a familiar figure hunkered over his glass. Or maybe you want to to know why there's someone who hisses and flinches like something bit him. every time he massages his jaw. Either way, forced company will do him some good.

He also visits the Iskaulit garden here, and... then he looks around to see if anyone's going to catch him. Looks all clear. He moves to swipe whatever vegetable is easiest to squish down in a bowl to eat. It's good for you. Vitamins, and all that. Nobody will miss these, right? It's like old times, when he used to pilfer from the gardens aboard another ship from another world, which feels like a blink ago.

The SS Starstruck finally has a medical bay (thanks, Lauralae), so he moves to find some decent painkillers in there, too. Which is good, because... The longer he's gone on to ignore this... the worse it's getting. It's not much of a plot twist by now, is it? Nah. It's a broken molar, a tooth fractured and now officially infected thanks to certain giant behemoth smegs in his world throwing him around and trying to beat his head in.

Thanks, Rictus.

He lays in the shuttle with the chair tipped back, arm over his eyes.

... Maybe he should find some decent pliers and go for it.

Mmmrph.

Yes. It's starting to look promising.]





FLEETWIDE TEXT.

i need surgical pliers. 




[how is it that max's entries end up him needing medical supplies what's up with that, huh]
misterprongs: (✳ didn't do it.)
[personal profile] misterprongs
Who: James Potter [[personal profile] misterprongs] and YOU.
Broadcast: Fleetwide!
Action: The Paisley.
When: Now!

Ahem.

[ with a modest clearing of the throat and bright eyes, james potter looks like everything is Alright. everything is, in fact, not alright, and his closer friends may be able to tell -- but for all the world, james looks like the enthralled young man he usually is, ready to make a grand announcement. ]

As some of you may know, my birthday is at the tail-end of the very esteemed month of March, and while I normally don't request gifts, I do have a slight idea if anyone is so inclined to celebrate the day of my birth. Or I can pay you for it, whichever your heart desires.

[ PAUSE FOR DRAMATIC EFFECT as james allows his somewhat weathered golden snitch to flutter into view, and he snatches it out of the air without looking at it, offering a grin. ]

I would like a broomstick. A proper one, that flies, and allows for death-defying leaps, drops, loops, stunts, and otherwise perfectly suited to play Quidditch, and before any of the ill-informed ask me what Quidditch is, allow me to explain the rules of the best game in the history of wizarding kind. I'm told it's a bit like rugby and football, but in the air -- teams of seven, and three types of balls. There's the quaffle, which is handled by the Chasers, of which there are three, and each time the quaffle is thrown through the hoops on the pitch, it scores ten points! There's also two bludgers, which are two balls made out of iron that whip around trying to knock folks off of their broomsticks, and the two Beaters have got clubs to knock them around at other players, and to protect their own players. And there's the Keeper, their job is to block shots by he Chasers and protect the goal posts -- and then there's the Seeker, whose job it is to catch the Golden Snitch, which -- this.

[ as james holds up said golden snitch, which is struggling between his fingers. dealwithit.jpeg ]

Catching it ends the game, and grants the team who catches it a hundred and fifty points. Which usually means you win the game, but there're've been instances throughout history where the bloke catches the Snitch, but you lose anyway, 'cause some people don't know how to do math properly, which I imagine happens if you've been hit in the head one too many times by a rogue bludger, and I think the last time it happened was in the early eighteen hundreds -- oi, Moony!

[ but it seems someone (and judging from james' indignation, remus) has grabbed at james' communicator, and there's a faint muttered no one cares, prongs, shut up before the feed is disconnected.

rude. ]

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