voice/action.

[theroadwarrior]

Who: Max Rockatansky and you
Broadcast: Voice Broadcast
Action: The HS Marsiva
When: Upon waking this week (MERRY CHRISTMAS, MAX.)

[The last thing Max recalls is marching quietly through the thick green underbrush of a planet that certainly wasn't earth — it was where the Tranquility had crash-landed, a place that was at least better than the endless captivity of space. Out there in the jungles he could stretch his legs, out-walk the ghosts as best he usually could. The issues with the acidic water and tainted meat aside (which was close enough to home to not even faze him proper), it was a welcomed new world to hide out in. 

So it stands to reason that when he wakes up, he's not humored by the scenery. Unlike his awakening from the pods in the Tranquility, though, he isn't violent and wild and frantic in his escape. His mind is in a good place this month — he's not greeted by illness and a barrage of angry spirits condemning him. It doesn't mean he's happy about it, though, and he's certainly as on edge as ever. Sitting up, he finds his new brace still strapped on, courtesy of Tadashi — and he's got his jacket, but the supply pack that he had so carefully hoarded and withheld from prying eyes is gone. And that is plenty to sour his already snappy mood.

And he's torn. On the jacket. On one hand, it looks — brand new, looks like the jacket the 20-something wore, back when he wasn't a psychotic, a vulture on the roads outrunning himself. And Max is also someone who, out in the sands with nothing new to speak of, appreciates when things are in better conditions than not. On the other hand... someone changed his jacket, and that's not their jacket to change, and he doesn't like when people touch his things.

So here he is, familiar enough with the network style to use it, social enough by the power of being unimpressed and insulted by the obvious violation to his person by changing his fucking things around —at first it's incoherent little mutters, as if Max turned on the voice function but didn't care much to use it right away (hint: he didn't).]

Where is my pack. 

[He's so sweet tonight, ladies and gents.]

(Below is potential action; warning for self-harm, though slight and re: the augment.)

[He feels something stretch his skin, something on his head, behind his ear. When he feels along and finds the bulge there, something in his chest tightens and his stomach flip-flops. Aboard the Tranquility, there was a tattoo on the arm. In fact, it's still there on his — scrambled, ugly and indecipherable, a reminder of his time on the other ship. Just as the hand-shaped burn on his forearm is. But this, this is different. This makes his hackles rise, makes him rise up and anxiously begin to pace through the ship. Little slivers of incoherence pokes through, tinny voices stifled by his own attempt to keep them at bay. Mind games. Something's under his skin, and he needs to get it out. It's putting things there that he doesn't remember knowing before.

The utensils in the kitchen will do, got to get this thing out of him, like scalding scorpion poison on the edge of a spear. 

He gets one slice into the flesh there before he stops, blinks, and lowers the barely bloodied tool on the counter. No — stupid idea. Think harder, Max. He rubs his eyes and thinks about trajectories and switches and sliding into the seat of a ship and piloting it. Out in the stars. It's different from the small shuttles aboard the Tranquility. He knows more than he should. It must be this place. Must have inputted this invasive thing in his system. Could kill him if he tries to mess with it anymore. Control yourself. Relax. 

He instead leaves the soiled knife on the counter and instead finds something (it doesn't matter what) to eat from the many areas in the kitchen, sits down on a counter with a loud grumble-huff of air, and begins the easier task of shoveling canned meat into his mouth while he settles his nerves and redirects his mind to a sharper, finer point that he's grown more capable of achieving. The voices vanish under the mechanical chomp of his jaws.

As he relaxes, he reviews the different mechanics of piloting out loud to himself, down to each use of buttons, levers, and gauges.

Probably helpful for what he considers a sure-fire attempt at escaping his new prison, for later.

You know how it is. Rough day, new place. Conjuring different ways to steal shuttles and fuck off into space.]

Comments

video;

[theshabbiestofmen]

[If Moony was a human-- well, obviously, he'd be Remus. But if he wasn't, if he'd somehow split off, become a separate entity, feral and human on his own, Remus imagines he'd be very much like this man. He can't see him, of course, but that voice is guttural, a snarling inquiry that makes Remus very glad he's on a separate ship.]

Not here, I imagine. Most people seem to come without theirs.

video;

[theroadwarrior]

[Max is still naturally not too thrilled with this answer. This shit is why he used to painstakingly take his belongings into his pod back on the Tranquility — to keep your things on you meant you had a chance on vanishing well-prepared. It's only luck that he didn't awake on some half-livable planet bone-dry of goods.

But no, he's still a grinch about that, semi-good fortune or not.

His voice is still rough and coarse and unfriendly:]

Do the people in charge take our things?

[BE MORE SPECIFIC, UNTITLED MAN.]

video;

[theshabbiestofmen]

I think you just arrive with whatever you had on you. That was the case with me-- though my friend had something important left at home, which I'm fairly certain he had on him at the time, so.

It varies, I suppose is what I'm trying to say. I imagine it amounts to whatever will cause the most interesting result.

video;

[theroadwarrior]

[By proxy of telling him conflicting, unfavorable news, you are aggravating.

But he'll play nice enough anyway. Information is critical, and it's lucky that it doesn't come with a price here. He reigns in all of his inner puffer fish and mellows a bit. Doesn't mean he isn't saltier than the flats back home.]

You say there's no rhyme or reason.

[He's just confirming. But also:]

Where can I get weapons?

video;

[theshabbiestofmen]

Down on the planet, I would imagine. They've guns enough to hunt.

[Though honestly, he hasn't checked it out much. Who needs guns when you have a wand!]

Do you have a name, then? I'm Remus.

[mikangirl]

If you don't have it with you, they didn't bring it.

[She doesn't normally talk to new arrivals. It gets old after a while. But y'know, when laid up in bed with mystery planetside illness A, what else does she have to do?

...sneeze.]

[theroadwarrior]

[What a familiar tone. Something about it makes him want to protect his knees from danger.

Weird.]

They?

[He's still sour, but at least he seems more sour at 'them' than her.

Seems, anyway.]

[mikangirl]

The Atroma. Intergalactic kidnappers that yanked you from wherever to put you on television for the masses. Supposedly.

[theroadwarrior]

[He cocks his head to the side; actually, he thinks he really knows the voice. It's hard to pinpoint it just yet, though, because he has a lot of voices in his dome and, frankly, he makes it a habit to never remember anyone outside of vague recollection. For his own sanity. Or what's left of it. This stupid space thing wrecks his way of life enough as it is.

But hold the fuck up.]

... Television.

[There is not enough dryness in the wastelands to account for the way he says this.

He remembers television well enough.

But this shit is getting silly now.]

voice.

[brokencopy]

Pack of what?

voice.

[theroadwarrior]

Supplies.

[That's all you need to know, thanks.

Last thing he needs is someone taking his shotgun ammo. Or shotgun.

Ughhhh. He was so careful in keeping that on him, too.]

voice.

[brokencopy]

[B willfully misinterprets his answer.]

Oh, you're an artist? I don't see why anyone would want to steal art supplies from you.

voice.

[theroadwarrior]

[Sorry homie, Max doesn't give a fuck what you think is in his supply bag.]

Where would they be taken?

...

Where are the passengers?

[Just cough up some info so he can rudely hang up on you.]

Video

[kill_switch]

[Furiosa is trolling through the network, half paying attention because she's still suffering through the cold she picked up from the snow planet. That voice, though ... immediately draws her attention and forces a focus through the fog in her head.]

[She sits up, still nestled in her Captain's chair with a blanket despite the conversation with Nova (still contemplating a second in command, a decision she'd like to make when more coherent). She tried to think of his name - it was there, almost, hazy in the background. Did she dream hearing it, or had she picked it up from one of the Wives?]

[She gives him the benefit of a video feed, and although she looks better than the last time he saw her, there is a mark of exhaustion and illness on her face. She fights past it.]

Max.

Video

[theroadwarrior]

[Max is at first thrown off completely; her voice is familiar, but he's rarely ever heard his name come out of someone else. Even aboard the Tranquility, only perhaps three or four people knew his name, and not because he offered it. The feed is pen-drop quiet on his end, but you can almost hear the skidding noise of a car braking that's going on in his head.

Max's feed opens to video in response — not of his own accord, though it's just as likely that the reality show Max is woefully unaware of would just love to display a reunion and doesn't at all approve of Max's mute way of handling it thus far. He's a little different from what she may recall, though not by much: the same hacked-up hair, scars intersecting on his scalp in some spots from his life out in the Wasteland, but he's also got a slight beard, just over an inch now; he's a shade less tan thanks to his time on a space ship — time in a jungle with a wintry temperature. And his clothes, of course, have been properly mended by the ship. Clean new scarf, a dull sheen on the lapels of his mostly intact jacket. Not a proper look for a wastelander.

The grumpiness is clear in the set of his lips and shoulders, but it melts just a bit into befuddlement when he stares back. Really, he never expected to see her again. This is new, partly unsettling, something he can't quite identify — though he thinks that for anyone else but him, it'd be wholly positive. The sad truth is, Max doesn't know how to handle meeting someone for a second time. And he doesn't know how to handle someone who is not a ghost calling him by his name, which had been a deep dark secret for so long, with such a dark connotation beneath the three letters.

... Ahm.]

It's you.

[He is also very horrible at using people's names when addressing them.

As usual.]

Video

[kill_switch]

It's me.

[Furiosa hadn't expected to see him either, but then again she hadn't expected to see Nux at all and he was certainly here. She's just glad that Atroma decided to bring her an ally instead of an enemy. She knows she can trust him.]

[She quietly notices the little differences, the tells that he's had some experience somewhere else. She's curious; if it's from their world where else did he go? What did he see? But that's not the top priority here.]

You must have a lot of questions.

Video

[theroadwarrior]

[He deflates a little, the sharp and unfriendly edge to his aura sanded down into something a bit more rounded, or as much as Max Rockatansky allows. Now he looks less like he's ready to shoot someone in the leg for his things returned and more like a quiet man who just floats along wordlessly through his existence — it's either/or with Max, and all.]

Not many. Was planning on stealing a ship.

[Spoken in an unintentionally humorous deadpan.

And that is probably the clearest way of demonstrating his experience meandering through space.

He had already been planning on hijacking a shuttle back on the Tranquility. That never panned out, though. He wonders distantly if Dog #2 is alright; she was near camp, she likely just wandered back to civilization to be looked after. He can't imagine anyone would hesitate much on his disappearance, save for perhaps Chook Feathers, though she's kind-hearted enough to care about most people around her.]

How long've you...?

[Voice]

[falconing]

Probably the same place as my gun, and my ship.

[ aka not here, because in addition to keeping an eye out for chewbacca, skywalker #1, and skywalker #2, he's also had the (completely pointless) hope that maybe the falcon would just... he doesn't know, sort of... appear.

obviously, that has not happened, and he is still stuck here. bastards. ]

They loot us when we show up here.

[Voice]

[theroadwarrior]

[Han, that's maybe the best way to start a conversation with Max. You're applauded, keep up the good work. Max can appreciate someone who's pissy about missing weapons and transport; it's impossible to scrub the speedster out of him, the man who stomps down on the gas pedal and leaves the sun and perhaps a few hungry raiders behind him. He misses having a steering wheel to grip tightly when the voice rattle around. He even misses the stench of guzzoline, so easily associated with surviving for another week, day, hour.

'Loot'. He's familiar. Painfully so. It sends an impatient annoyance through the base of his spine, heating his ears. Still, stuck is stuck, and he has to remember that he's at the very least not hung upside down by his boots with the blood rushing to his head. Small mercies, he'll take them.]

... Where do they keep it? What they've stolen.

[Voice]

[falconing]

No idea -- and if you find out, let us know, because I want it back.

[ han is very attached to his things, goddammit ]

I don't think they're hiding the Falcon in this neck of the woods, but if there's a giant stockpile of blasters with my name on it, I want to know where they're stashing it. There's nothing on these damn ships.

[Voice]

[theroadwarrior]

[Han we don't use 'neck of the woods', we're Australians in a desert hellscape.

But he gets it.]

... Mmm. You're already from space.

[He doesn't actually expect much out of that, just making an observation aloud in case there's anything else that comes up which could prove useful. Space is not Max's strong hand to play in any game, and all. He's also going to assume a blaster is yet another way to say 'gun', because he's already familiar with a billion other nicknames for them. Pet names, too, if the marauder or warrior is eccentric enough. Which they usually are.

He at least is relieved that he's not so crazy as to start naming his weaponry.]

The ship I'm on — seems huge.

Nobody around, though.

video.

[mucked]

Gone. [ she could be gentle, but she isn't. there is no profit to be had in molly-coddling the newer ones when they appear to be all grown up and jaded in their own right. ] Which means it's time to learn how to make do and mend.

video.

[theroadwarrior]

[He gives her the most sour look. Don't tell him how to adjust and adapt, nameless woman; he does it for a living: scavenging and scraping by, by the skin of his knuckles. He can tell by looking at her, she doesn't have the wasteland struggle in the creases of her face.]

Anything that's actually useful?

[Grumbled, short and ready to move on.]

video.

[mucked]

Perhaps. [ she expresses her impatience by...being overwhelming patient. no harsh tones, just dull honesty: ] And perhaps I'll share if you ask. Nicely.

[ manners maketh (wo)man. ]

video.

[theroadwarrior]

[He gives that good ol' incredulous stare. As if she's a little insane, too.

We have no manners where we're from, ma'am. None at all. He huffs, giving it, like, 2 seconds of thought, and — ]

...

Waste of time.

[DISCONNECTED.]