( video + action )

[mucked]

Who: Peggy Carter and YOU
Broadcast: Video; fleetwide.
Action: Starstruck
When: 27th; evening.

Anyone fancy a flutter? [ a brief, honeyed smile. ] We haven't got horses to bet upon, so I suppose dice and cards shall have to do. And if we can see fit to justify a Christmas Day, I imagine we can also decide upon a New Year's Eve.

[ she looks squarely into the network's broadcast. firm, electronic eye contact with any and all watching. ]

Four days from now on the Iskaulit. Come with credits -- or whatever else you deem valuable enough to wager -- and help us fleece poor Jim Barnes of his hard-earned wages.

[ afterwards, she can be found fiddling with the comms panels on the starstruck. she isn't particularly certain of what she's doing, but it's better than being idle. and she might as well try and put her bloody awful augment to work. over the next two hours, some ships may experience odd and incomplete burst messages as she tests frequencies, filters, and broadcast capabilities. ]

Comments

[mucked]

[ -- at the heart of it all, she's trying to trip some (hypothetical) old and latent system. one that might, if they're very lucky, create a broadcast far more secure than the ones currently on offer. it's the longest of long shots, and peggy has encountered absolutely no successes. not even the barest whiff of victory between singed wires and static noise.

until, to her dismay, her method-to-the-madness cacophony is suddenly absent. at first, she fears she's broken it. she retreats from beneath a removed panel under the control bank which commands most of the ship's communications technology. apart from the dust smudges, she remains impeccably put-together. him, on the other hand.

oh, she scowls. ] Pardon me for trying to do something useful.

[ that word (in particular) is quite barbed. because she remembers him, and his growling ways. and his dumbstruck scarred face. she's about to ask him where he'd come from when a far more pressing disaster catches her attention. ] -- Bugger. Where's the tea?

[ she side-steps him neatly, and inspects the empty cup. oh jesus mary and joseph, hell hath no fury like an englishwoman scorned. ]

[theroadwarrior]

[Max passes by her entirely, looking over all the panels and controls -- not quite touching, but so intensely focused on the task that he barely acknowledged her barbed remark. And yeah, he supposed they spoke before. Recently. But he's more interested in meticulously remembering every little detail for the controls where the augments haven't entirely filled him in. She can probably see, now that he's near, that he's tanned by what is likely a harsh sun -- his beard and the tips of his unkempt hair are sun-stained. On his neck there's an odd wound, a cut mark that seems to be inflicted where the augment is. A day old, uncovered. One hand doesn't bend well, the other hand plagued by a pinky finger that is completely curled in.

Basically, he's not very proper.

A desert hobo, if you will. Uncouth and rough and not great company to have on first, second, and third glance. She may not even have to ask him much; he says a lot in the way he looks, judging by the mash of scars and the build of his character. It's a good thing, too, because he's horrible at conversation. Wary and guarded, even.

... Are you taking to him?]

Someone probably drank it.

Shouldn't leave your things out.

[mucked]

No. I suppose I should not -- [ careful, and just a little distracted. after all, it's impossible to miss that mark on his neck. peggy mightn't have paid it so much attention, except that the augments (and their function within the body) are something of a pet curiousity to her. even today, mashing about with the comms panel, is more about understanding her own augmentation than anything else.

she stands next to the emptied cup. her arms cross. ]

Been shuffled here, have you? [ oh, joy for us. ]

[theroadwarrior]

[He grunts a small burly sound of approval. Runs his best hand along the edge of the pilot's controls. He has to admit, he'd like to drive it. Pilot it, keep his mind on motion. It distracts him to think about, makes him calm and takes off a small fraction of the tension.

He glances at her, passingly.

Some more tea would be nice.

Good to stay hydrated in case you're cut off from drink.]

Not staying along.

There's a planet.

[mucked]

It's cold. [ and, just now, she betrays herself with a small sniffle. peggy isn't prone to illness, but there's something about this particular planet that's overcome her robust immune system. ] And teeming with germ-life, it seems.

But worth a peek, if you're going. Do bundle up.

[theroadwarrior]

[Cold, huh? Max isn't worried about cold -- the things that come with it, sure, but the cold itself isn't too bad. The desert gets violently cold sometimes in the night. That's how it works. There aren't any middle grounds, just one extreme to the other. Night and day. So he looks rather unworried about it.]

You've been there.

Are there weapons?

[He turns to look at her, surliness on full display, but it seems that it's just his resting face and he really can't help but look that way 90% of the time.]

[mucked]

Some shops sell decent blades. [ a little coy. a lot vague. ] I've not yet found a decent pistol, if that's more your speed.

[theroadwarrior]

[He shrugs.]

It's easy to make blades. Pistols are better — prefer to keep people at a distance.

[Which is probably pretty telling. Or already obvious. He barely looks at her when he talks, as though he'd prefer not to get used to it. But really, it's true, isn't it? Keeping people at a distance is logical. Smart. The closer you are to them, the more likely they are to stab you in the back or die. Furiosa and the wives had been a fluke, and even then... Angharad hadn't survived. Most of the Vuvalini perished. Nux the warboy, too. While most of them aren't ghosts plaguing him, they were still people he allowed too close.

And it's bothersome that he isn't entirely regretful to have known them.

Makes it so much harder to move on and drive away without even more intrusive thoughts.

Where are you?

He pauses and shakes his head slightly with a silent wince, as if jarring something from his ears.]

I just take a shuttle?

[mucked]

[ she's less offended now than she'd been throughout their first conversation. back then, she'd not had a proper vantage point for looking at his behaviour -- now, however, she can see the shell-shock all over him. it hides in his craggy corners. it dances in the places where he can't make eye-contact. she doesn't peg him for a soldier, but he certainly wears his survivorhood on his sleeve.

she tests the waters -- an even-keeled voice, sliding between the ripples: ] I can show you how they work, if you like.

[theroadwarrior]

[Max's hands linger at the controls, hesitant behind his turned back. The idea of someone else showing him something should be harmless enough. But all he's ever done in life is handle things on his own — in his second life, anyway. Life after wife and sprog, things that are left unspoken and nary thought on. Even now, the mere glancing of the topic in his head has him feeling like shutting down the conversation. Just in case.

But whether he knows or not, he has gotten a little better. Scarcely, because he's lived with it too long to be anything normal, hardly a functional person all around, but he's good at adapting. He tries to adapt. Now to balance that and wanting to handle everything on his own.

He goes his own way. Clearing his throat, he says:]

... No. I can... figure it out.

[Augments at least give him a good idea of some things. The idea reminds him off the invasion to his person — the lump behind his ear. He twitches a hand up, prodding at the injury on his neck. Even though he knows it has to stay and it's beneficial, every ounce of him wants to carve it out anyway. So intrusive.]

This thing shows me enough.

[He sounds a little grumpy about that.]

[mucked]

[ as if mirrored, she touches her own tell-tale bump on her neck. not an injury -- not like his. she doesn't react. not with concern, nor with curiousity. although the latter burns in her belly, and she has to quell any questions that leap into her mouth.

another line of inquiry is safer: ] Piloting, is it? [ just a guess. not even an educated one, but if he's so confident about his ability to suss out the shuttles first try... ]

I'm bloody comms. And even then, the help it gives isn't perfect. [ ... ] As you've just heard.

[ it's about the closest she gets to an apology for all the noise. ]

[theroadwarrior]

Mmm. Piloting.

[He supposes it's fitting. He's only ever been at ease behind the wheel of some kind of vehicle. A shuttle's missing wheels, but it's infinitely better than being stationary and without transport.

As for her almost-apology or non-apology, he doesn't notice it at all -- which is something, considering that's exactly how he works, too. Instead he turns his attention to the comm station, curiosity piqued.]

What were you trying to do?

[It's good to know what is going on around here; he's stuck on this ship, for better or worse, he supposes. Until he finds a suitable place to escape to, anyway. And even then, there are... reasons for sticking around.]

[mucked]

They -- [ she taps her implant ] -- monitor everything. And then, presumably, they broadcast it elsewhere much to the delight and entertainment of who-knows-how-many. And we can also presume that this mechanism for monitoring has been built right into the bloody ships.

[ she shrugs. ] It's the longest of shots, perhaps, but I'm hoping there's a way to fiddle with the communications technology so it might give us access to a frequency with a little more privacy.

[ obviously, it's not going well. apart from the implant and what knowledge it provides, this technology is far beyond her. ]

[theroadwarrior]

[It'd be so, so nice to be able to claw this thing out of his neck. He's sure many people share the same feeling. He does get it, though. You take what you've got and you try to put it to use. There's the faintest jab of — guilt, maybe? But he just steps forward, scanning the dissected comms panel.]

We're prisoners, in our own way. Or — commodities.

[He doesn't like it. The word is ugly, but he knows what it's like, to be an object for use and eventual disposal. The best thing to do in this situation is to try to break free before it wastes you away down to nothing. The tattoo on his back — the brand, it's a reminder. But the fact that he walks on his own two feet, moving forward... that's where the focus lays.]

Would they... mmm. Did they give you just enough of this — [He motions to the augment.] — to even do anything.

[It seems like they'd failsafe it. But maybe whatever owns them can be defeated by hubris. Or ignorance. After all, Immortem Joe lost his jaw for it.]

[mucked]

[ 'commodities' is exactly right. and in the wake of the second world war, such treatment feels particularly galling. it smells of something twisted down in the bone, that people could be reduced to little more than objects. sideshows are only a bare step above experimental subjects. and not every experiment can be captain flippin' america. ]

Pretty much. [ here, she finds a groove to the conversation. a rhythm. they needn't be friendly, but they could at least be efficient. ] What I'm learning is -- if I want to connect a call between us and another ship? Simple. Consider it done. I barely have to think about the process, despite the fact that the tools are so very beyond what I know from home.

[ she isn't ashamed to admit it. ]

But once I try and do something outside that realm of approved communication? It's as if all the knowledge dries up. I'm stuck looking at panels I no longer understand. Connections I don't know how to make.

[theroadwarrior]

[Max studies the panel, glancing at her for only a short moment before signing through his nose.]

They can give and take away, moment's notice. Feels like we'll get nowhere until they lose control over the augments.

[He hums, looking more at ease now that they have a direction to speak in.]

Whoever they are. Or he is.

[Immortem Joe is a bright, ugly image in his head. He can't help but see him the moment Angharad falls. Or see him a corpse, a dusty image of defeat for someone who ranks as low as dirt yet wears badgers of honor. If the Atroma had a face, would it be his? And if so, when can they rip it off? They have Furiosa to do it; she's handy with a harpoon.]

[mucked]

Oh, I doubt it's one single individual. [ her tone is brusque, but her attention stays locked upon the man. ] Not even tyrants can go it completely alone.

[ it's adolf she considers. him, and his flunkies. ]

[theroadwarrior]

[He seems to think on that, and he supposes he gets what she means... Though, one single individual holds the course of history in their hands, sometimes... even if there are lackies along the way. With Immortan Joe, Max had gotten the fleeing the warboys were all mindwashed idiots willing to rip their heart out for him. All for that false belief of Valhalla. Yeah, he listens. He was in the bloodbag holding area long enough. He hung around, listened to their dreams of conquest and kamikazing themselves into their foes for a noble death.

Idiot sickies, waiting for a rest to use up the little remaining of their half-lives.

He's still not sure what to feel about them. Captors. Some of them have his blood in their veins, forced him to give it before they crammed him back into his hanging cell, pulled him back into it by the feet. He blinks, pulling himself out of that flashback.

What was it they were talking about? Oh, ahm. Hmm.]

Guess so. More than tyrants helped kill the world.

[Angharad's words. Who killed the world? Man, that is true.

So many little branches of them, all squabbling. For what? Guzzoline, the very thing they all still bite and claw for, same as water.]

[mucked]

Is that what it's like -- in the world your from? Dead, and killed?

[ she hasn't necessarily earned this ingress. but he has characterized his home as a certain way, and she takes that characterization as an opportunity for clarification. what did you come from? what made you? ]

[theroadwarrior]

[He hums thoughtfully.]

Road to hell's paved with bad intentions.

Oil wars, gas shortage. Wartime. The world became fire and blood where it's not just poisoned sand now. [He raises his eyebrow at her.] Nuclear fallout, it breaks everything down. Mm. With time. I think Sydney fell first.

[This, he doesn't mind sharing.

It's not about him. It's a much bigger picture.

Listen to how shitty the world is, was.]

[mucked]

Nuclear fallout--?

[ now, see, there is a twinge. in her time and place, the world is just beginning to toy with nuclear capability. peggy's theatre during the war might have been european, but the devastation in the pacific theatre could not go unmissed by the everyday person -- let alone an intelligence agent.

except, worse yet, he speaks a name familiar to her. with trepedation in her voice: ] You don't mean Sydney, Australia? Do you?

[ a road to hell paved by her colleagues, perhaps. ]

[theroadwarrior]

[He nods.]

Not sure about the rest of the world; information's impossible to come by. The Historians and writings we have are... mm. Limited. [He wonders if it means something to her, or if she's just horrified by the idea of a familiar place that hits close to home. Many of them are from Earth, after all.] If there is anything left out there, it's quiet. Nothin' but salt, sand, cancer. Scavengers.

[some things thrive. Almost none of them good.

He doesn't sugarcoat it.]

Nobody remembers the details anymore.

... Maybe better that way.

[mucked]

[ what horrifies her is the arms race, and its potential conclusion. before now, it was easy enough to assume that max came from something not-earth. a broken world. peggy grimaces. ]

A breakdown of civilization, is it? [ everyone's worst nightmares come to pass. ] Damn.

[theroadwarrior]

[He nods.]

Was a matter of time. All we do is fight; all just depends on who we're fighting.

[But look at you, Peggy. Getting him to talk so much. Good job.]

[mucked]

-- Doesn't sound all that different from 1946, if you ask me. [ which he didn't. still. ] Even after the treaties are signed, war never seems to end. It perseveres under one guise or another.