My name is Max. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
theroadwarrior) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
driftfleet2015-12-25 09:11 pm
theroadwarrior) wrote in driftfleet2015-12-25 09:11 pm
Entry tags:
voice/action.
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.]
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.]
Video
Mmm. I'll be sure to fly enemy ships toward the sun.
What do they have us do, here?
Video
Mm. I'd like to see that. [Not that they come up against too many enemies; she's been around for one battle and that was a while ago. It's been so quiet, and not a quiet she's used to.]
We do whatever. We stop by different star systems, get a chance to to visit and stretch our legs. Nothing really of consequence. There was one incident with bandits, but otherwise it's been pretty tame.
[In other words, nothing like their world.]
Video
... And this is for people to watch.
[But one thing he needs to sort out. Because the last place...]
On the ships — are they...
[He stops, considering how to explain.]
Are there monsters? Things that get in your head?
Video
No, not that I've experienced. Was that ... common, for you? [Or from where he's been?]
Video
The ship was alive.
[And while most out in the desert would attribute that to Max's mental erosion, it's not at all insane — the Tranquility was very much real, very much its own beast. He slides up his sleeve, showing Furiosa, near a hand-shaped burn on his forearm, the scrambled tattoo that used to be numbers. Get ready, he's about to talk more than he has in your presence since that moment he'd intercepted her and the Vuvalini with a plan hatched.]
Was a colony ship, but things went wrong. People were experimented on. Made monsters. And for a long time, people were stuck with strange effects. Could see people's memories, or materialize things. Had to get into pods sometimes or you'd be crushed in the hallways.
Someone came to reclaim the ship, but our safety was endangered, so we fought. Flew shuttle ships and forced the colony ship to jump, crashed on — um. Unnamed planet. All green, but there were monsters and other dangerous effects.
[He's been super busy, you see.]
Video
You're probably going to be bored out of your skull here.
Video
He looks away, flustered by how crippled it makes him feel.]
Mmm.
I'll find... things to do. Always do.
Video
I don't doubt it.
I'll be on First Breath if you need anything more. We're both pilots so it's unlikely we'll have to share a ship.
Video
We only share war rigs.
[So pokerfaced, but there's an edge of humor to it.]
Heard there's a planet nearby.
Video
[He mentions the planet, though, and there she does have to laugh lightly. Even then, it turns into a brief, telling cough.]
There is. It is about as opposite from our wastelands as it can be; ice and snow and cold. Don't go unless you have the clothes to handle it.
Video
The last planet was cold. Lot of rain, lot of wind.
[He's made due. He cocks his head to the side though, and — ah, is he really smirking now?]
I'll be more prepared than you, maybe.
[(Don't listen to him Furiosa he got sniffles-sick on the other planet once, too.)]
Video
Video
He's got his scarf and sleeve for that kind of thing.]
Mm. Going to keep an eye out for weapons.
[It's one of his chief concerns, right now.]
Video
You're not going to be happy. Whatever you might bring back? It wont last the night.
Video
What d'you mean?
[Don't tell him it vanishes or something as some weird safety protocol.]
Video
[Yeah, sorry to disappoint]
Video
Then how do we defend ourselves?
[Can he make, like, a broom into a sharp weapon.]
Re: Video
[Furiosa shrugs.]
There's not much to defend ourselves from. The ships are capable for attacks on the Fleet, but those are few and far between.
Video
Just need to be creative.]
How's it feel about cutting knives?
[Harmless food-related utensils, right.]