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)
driftfleet2016-01-02 02:26 am
theroadwarrior) wrote in driftfleet2016-01-02 02:26 am
Entry tags:
open action | ADVENTURES ON ICY PLANETS
Who: Max Rockatansky & Whoever is willing to bump into him.
Broadcast: N/A.
Action: The planet Arslae.
When: January 1st — January 8th.
ACTION A.
[Max gets off the SS Starstruck very quickly — he thrives on open space, needs the natural world around him, even if it's a frozen land that he's unfamiliar with. Snow and ice is bizarre; thanks to the landscape he was from — the radioactivity, the climate issues, all of it, he's never witnessed it at all firsthand. Doesn't even know where to really begin. Armed with a rather intimidating kitchen knife wrapped up and carefully hidden on his person, he bundles up and treks into the thick of it. Admittedly — and a rare occurrence — he finds his curiosity curves his caution just enough for the task.
It's like a dog or a cat being thrown into the middle of a snowy backyard. He tests the earth, quirks his brows when his legs sink deeper and deeper into the flurry. Almost reminds him of quicksand, only there's still the solid sensation of earth underfoot.
Careful Max, wouldn't wanna get slurped in, a young voice chimes in. He can't place it exactly, but it's not Glory. He's seen and heard so many children die in his life out there in the Wastelands, he couldn't begin to guess who it could be. He grumbles under breath and slips his fingers into the snow, forming a snowball in hand. Strangely, it feels like the natural reaction to snow. Heavy when compacted, holds shape unlike sand. The voice keeps knocking on the inside of his skull, slipping through the folds of his brain, tickling his eardrum.
Max. Max... Come find me, Max. Help me, Max—
He sees the shadow of a ghost in his peripheral and throws the snowball in its direction.
Mostly out of relaxed irritation. He's used to the sounds of the dead.
But sorry if you're actually standing there.]
ACTION B.
[Max lingers around a bit closer than he'd usually stay, near the bonfires. He's nowhere near close enough to be brightly lit or partake in any of the good will or hospitality, but he's at least close enough in the background to leech a small amount of the warmth while he sits and starts slowly packing up a pack made of hide that he'd bought with the limited money he had. He supposes that's one small upside to being on a 'show'.
But he's also unfamiliar with using a real form of currency nowadays. So that's strange.
The biggest foe he's faced so far here, however, is his knee. He sits away from the others and suffers in silence, unbuckling part of his brace and moving it so that he can knead the aching scarred, stiff joint with his hand. He's not unused to it hurting sometimes, considering the inside of his knee is a mess of tissue and rough bone. But that's in the desert, where the sun rose — inevitably as it did — on the coldest of nights, and the aching would stop while he could bask in harsh sun like a lizard on a rock.
Here, it's a constant nagging. A little chiming bell of nerves that fight their own body. He doesn't like it. He chews the inside of his cheek, expressive only in the lines of pain forming at the edges of his eyes, near the creases of his mouth, beneath his slight beard. Maybe he'll look into medications, since this world may have them. His, not so much. It is a rarity, medical care. He's learned plenty in looking after himself.]
ACTION C.
[One may find him hunting, but he's surprisingly with a group of natives. It's not that he wants the company — he just wants to barter, to get things in return for staying in motion. It's really quite simple: you live, you move, you keep your supplies well-maintained. In exchange for using their weapons and going on the hunt with them, he'll earn salted meats from their supply. It's interesting for him to see such simple measures taken on a planet with some surprising technology. Then again, home had some interesting machinery of its own, for how broken the system was.
Maybe you're out there with this group. They're going after mostly easy game, but they're bound to run into the less pleasant sort of monster out here. Until then, Max plays it simple, opting to stay in the back of the group and reply only when he's needed. He's a man of few words, always has been, always will be.
But... this sort of thing keeps his wandering and fractured mind on track.
He sneezes into his sleeve, tightens up the jacket and scarf he has tucked into his collar, and pushes forward.
His mind is blissfully silent.]
ACTION D. (STARSTRUCK)
[Max hauls what he's given back to the ship in one of the small shuttles. He supposes this is where it's a good thing he's a pilot — it's not completely effortless, but it's like working an old atrophied limb, and he comes to find that he actually enjoys the trips back and forth more than he'd admit to anyone. Just having something to drive... wheels or not... it's good.
He brings back both raw and dried meats, most of which he tries to discreetly stock the kitchen of the Starstruck with. He's not one to share his things — anyone can tell that by how he carries everything he owns on him, in his pack — but he's also aware that the struggle for food here is not-so-woefully absent in comparison to the planet he had just been on, before joining the fleet.
It's not an easy thing to shake. Sharing. It's not in his nature anymore. But you know, going against your nature is okay, from time to time. After all, he's usually a scavenging buzzard himself. A vulture picking off the old world. For now, he'll try to play along.
He tries to leave the place as fast as he'd arrived, of course.
He hasn't picked a bunk, a place to sleep; he hasn't made a place for himself here yet.]
Broadcast: N/A.
Action: The planet Arslae.
When: January 1st — January 8th.
ACTION A.
[Max gets off the SS Starstruck very quickly — he thrives on open space, needs the natural world around him, even if it's a frozen land that he's unfamiliar with. Snow and ice is bizarre; thanks to the landscape he was from — the radioactivity, the climate issues, all of it, he's never witnessed it at all firsthand. Doesn't even know where to really begin. Armed with a rather intimidating kitchen knife wrapped up and carefully hidden on his person, he bundles up and treks into the thick of it. Admittedly — and a rare occurrence — he finds his curiosity curves his caution just enough for the task.
It's like a dog or a cat being thrown into the middle of a snowy backyard. He tests the earth, quirks his brows when his legs sink deeper and deeper into the flurry. Almost reminds him of quicksand, only there's still the solid sensation of earth underfoot.
Careful Max, wouldn't wanna get slurped in, a young voice chimes in. He can't place it exactly, but it's not Glory. He's seen and heard so many children die in his life out there in the Wastelands, he couldn't begin to guess who it could be. He grumbles under breath and slips his fingers into the snow, forming a snowball in hand. Strangely, it feels like the natural reaction to snow. Heavy when compacted, holds shape unlike sand. The voice keeps knocking on the inside of his skull, slipping through the folds of his brain, tickling his eardrum.
Max. Max... Come find me, Max. Help me, Max—
He sees the shadow of a ghost in his peripheral and throws the snowball in its direction.
Mostly out of relaxed irritation. He's used to the sounds of the dead.
But sorry if you're actually standing there.]
ACTION B.
[Max lingers around a bit closer than he'd usually stay, near the bonfires. He's nowhere near close enough to be brightly lit or partake in any of the good will or hospitality, but he's at least close enough in the background to leech a small amount of the warmth while he sits and starts slowly packing up a pack made of hide that he'd bought with the limited money he had. He supposes that's one small upside to being on a 'show'.
But he's also unfamiliar with using a real form of currency nowadays. So that's strange.
The biggest foe he's faced so far here, however, is his knee. He sits away from the others and suffers in silence, unbuckling part of his brace and moving it so that he can knead the aching scarred, stiff joint with his hand. He's not unused to it hurting sometimes, considering the inside of his knee is a mess of tissue and rough bone. But that's in the desert, where the sun rose — inevitably as it did — on the coldest of nights, and the aching would stop while he could bask in harsh sun like a lizard on a rock.
Here, it's a constant nagging. A little chiming bell of nerves that fight their own body. He doesn't like it. He chews the inside of his cheek, expressive only in the lines of pain forming at the edges of his eyes, near the creases of his mouth, beneath his slight beard. Maybe he'll look into medications, since this world may have them. His, not so much. It is a rarity, medical care. He's learned plenty in looking after himself.]
ACTION C.
[One may find him hunting, but he's surprisingly with a group of natives. It's not that he wants the company — he just wants to barter, to get things in return for staying in motion. It's really quite simple: you live, you move, you keep your supplies well-maintained. In exchange for using their weapons and going on the hunt with them, he'll earn salted meats from their supply. It's interesting for him to see such simple measures taken on a planet with some surprising technology. Then again, home had some interesting machinery of its own, for how broken the system was.
Maybe you're out there with this group. They're going after mostly easy game, but they're bound to run into the less pleasant sort of monster out here. Until then, Max plays it simple, opting to stay in the back of the group and reply only when he's needed. He's a man of few words, always has been, always will be.
But... this sort of thing keeps his wandering and fractured mind on track.
He sneezes into his sleeve, tightens up the jacket and scarf he has tucked into his collar, and pushes forward.
His mind is blissfully silent.]
ACTION D. (STARSTRUCK)
[Max hauls what he's given back to the ship in one of the small shuttles. He supposes this is where it's a good thing he's a pilot — it's not completely effortless, but it's like working an old atrophied limb, and he comes to find that he actually enjoys the trips back and forth more than he'd admit to anyone. Just having something to drive... wheels or not... it's good.
He brings back both raw and dried meats, most of which he tries to discreetly stock the kitchen of the Starstruck with. He's not one to share his things — anyone can tell that by how he carries everything he owns on him, in his pack — but he's also aware that the struggle for food here is not-so-woefully absent in comparison to the planet he had just been on, before joining the fleet.
It's not an easy thing to shake. Sharing. It's not in his nature anymore. But you know, going against your nature is okay, from time to time. After all, he's usually a scavenging buzzard himself. A vulture picking off the old world. For now, he'll try to play along.
He tries to leave the place as fast as he'd arrived, of course.
He hasn't picked a bunk, a place to sleep; he hasn't made a place for himself here yet.]
no subject
WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT WITCHCRAFT.
/INTERNAL RECORD SCRATCHING]