driftfleet | action.

Entry tags:

action.

Who: Max and the crew of the SS Starstruck and any visitors.
Broadcast: N/A
Action: Max is sick after falling into a frozen lake. He is insufferable about it. ~~he's been awful active for an antisocial dude~~
When: January 8-9th-ish.

[After a rather disappointing day of nearly freezing to death thanks to big ugly creatures, hallucinations, and generalized know-nothingness of an arctic terrain, Max is confined (at last) to a bed aboard the SS Starstruck. Well, partly. A slight fever and a sneezy, lethargic exposition is apprently not enough to keep him pinned down.

A sick Max is even more insufferable, turns out.

It's just — difficult for him to explain in words, what being still does to him. It's one thing to sit in a driver's seat, or even a passenger's seat, and to get out and feel your ass and legs numbed after hours of going on and on until the guzzoline runs dry. At least you can see the open world whizzing passed you.

But a bed. For one thing, Max hasn't slept in an actual bed in... He's not sure how many days. Not counting the rare occurrences, he's not even sure he's slept in anything more than a car's reclined seat since he first began his journey on the dystopian-gone-apocalyptic roadways. This is torturous. He's fairly sure Peggy and Nami and Furiosa are out to get him for sure. As it turns out, no-nonsense women are still far and beyond his greatest weakness and adversary. He's been shed of his bulky uncomfortable jacket and left in his mid-sleeve shirt, and in that way he's looking like an paradox: the most comfortable discomforted man in the galaxy.

So yep, when people aren't looking, he's getting up and wandering back into the cargo holds, where he had originally spent most of his time. In fact, one could probably board a shuttle and find him passed out asleep in the driver's seat, swaddled up in blankets. And still with a mildly sour disposition. Be careful waking him, he swings sometimes.

He only wanders to the main control room, where the crew would pilot their ship, when it's empty enough. Otherwise, he'll dip into the kitchen and eat, because being sick back home didn't mean avoiding food; if you were needing sustenance and it was there, you had to keep going, force something down to keep your strength up. Max was fairly good at it.

Unlike... you know. Being horrible at staying put.

On the bright side, he doesn't consider returning to the planet?

Not yet, anyway.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ -- why does she care?

it's a valid question. peggy, after all, doesn't always care. especially when to all proper observances, the man has plenty of allies of his own. she decides it's because he's part of her crew, and the old military blood can't be beaten out of her. they are comrades by lottery and random assignment, and that's enough for her. so -- well aware of his tendencies to wander -- she doesn't even bother checking his bed.

her heels click on the cargo bay floor as she crosses it. it takes some hunting, but she tracks him down as he sleeps in one of the shuttles. she doesn't try to wake him. instead, she leans in to deposit a steaming mug of tea within arm's reach.

there, she thinks, a cup of your own. ]

[Max's in the middle of running in his head, when she comes in.

He runs and runs and runs, through brown corridors and around metal pipes.

'look out, we got a live one here, boys!'

His shoulder hits one of the heavy metal doors to throw it open —

Max jerks awake at the slight clack of the cup, blanket flipping off his shoulders.

If it makes her feel any better about him suddenly coming rather aggressively back to life where he sits, it's that he probably will look way more freaked out about it than she will; his eyes are wide, anxious, like a burned animal wanting to bite at the hand that burned them. One fist is ready for lashing out, clenched, but he is quick to stop himself because he looks at the enemy and it's —]

[A cup of tea.

He freezes, hand still up for punching, and just stares at it like it's a plot twist and a half.]

[ she doesn't seize up. she doesn't flinch -- and she doesn't flee. point of fact, her brow creases with otherwise unexpressed sympathy. the words shellshocked as good as dance around this man; she's intimately familiar with the burn in his eyes. soldier after soldier after soldier has been hollowed out by that slow-burning fire, leaving only bitter ashes behind. sometimes, she fears the fire in herself. loose ends of traumas left buried, sizzling back to life in her gut whenever some politician decides a celebration is worth fireworks.

peggy steps backwards. she gives him space. but she does not give him mollycoddling: ] Spill it, and you'll be sopping it up on hands and knees so the circuits don't fry.

[ an edged and steely voice. almost like a drill sergeant's -- but it's a mercy! deflection and escape disguised as disappointment. she'll not call his startled pain out for what it is. not aloud. ]

[He wills his heart to relax, a soft sigh through his nose as he observes the small offering. He wonders if she knows he drank the last cup. She probably does. Every instinct he has is that it could be poisoned, could be dangerous — hearts change, people grow cold, he hardly knows her. But it's a thought he's willing to let slip away. Maybe stupid of him to do, but he's figures the odds aren't against him.

As he leans forward to accept the cup, the nape of his neck flashes the top half of a detailed burn scar — in the shape of flames, with a rounded skull in the middle. It's warm in his hands, and that's nice, even though he feels grimy and unwell. He's not as filthy as he used to be on the jungle planet a universe away. He actually bathes here. It's almost character development, to be quite honest.]

S'this all you drink? True Englishman.

[He knows the stereotypes, okay. Even if they're decayed and useless in the new world he lives in. Accents still survive, stories passed along where little remained in the way of books. Or rather, most use them for more practical things. Like burning for a decent fire. He glances at her, not exactly embarrassed or ashamed by the outburst of energy. It's too common for him, and people will get the idea eventually.

Not that he won't feel horribly guilty in the icy pit of his gut if he actually hit someone, succeeded in lashing out. But that's why he sleeps alone, at a distance. This stupid sickness has made him too easy to get the drop on when he fades off for hours at a time.

Which is a lot of sleep, lately. He's not sure how to handle how heavy his limbs feel.]

Edited 2016-01-12 20:36 (UTC)

[ she flashes a brisk and businesslike smile. and it too, in its own way, is rather chilly. like brass buttons left outside and gone to frost overnight. she decides not to quibble over the fact that she's more a true english woaman. ] Precisely so. A good cup is something halfway between routine and comfort. And damned ideal for poor sods who've had the misfortune of falling into frozen lakes.

[ they each have their own way of being guarded; this is peggy's -- where a font of feeling hides beneath an impeccably tidy appearance and formality. ]

I wasn't certain how you took yours -- milk, cream, lumps, et cetera. So I figured I'd make it like I make my own and assume that was good enough. [ a jab, of sorts. she did indeed deduce who had drank hers: a dash of cream-substitute and no sweetener. ]

[Huh.]

You learn to enjoy things that aren't water. Been many years since I've... hm. Stolen and drank real tea.

[He had a sort of flavored water, on the planet back in another universe.

Before that, he didn't have time to worry about flavored drinks. Desert, you know.

He studies the swirling mixture with quiet thought. Where Peggy smiles, is proper, is polite — well, Max is all of the most opposite things. Frowning is a constant, properness holds no meaning anymore, politeness is a ridiculous notion. It's interesting if one stops to think about it. Though... Max does consider they likely have a small understanding somewhere in there.]

So. What are you?

[He might as well get it out of the way.]

[ his question is party to a great many answers: telephone operator; soldier; spy; marksman; diplomat; hungry soul looking to make a living in new york city. none of them fully encompass what she is here, of course, but she doubts that's the answer he seeks. he already knows what she does within the fleet, and upon what course they've set her.

still, she isn't certain she can lie to him like she lies to the rest. it has nothing to do with affection. after all, she but barely knows the man. but he is crew, and he is burned. and he deserves better than sly evasion.

she folds her arms stiffly over her chest. ] I'm...I'm very good at what I do, that's what.

[... Is that your answer. Is it.

He looks over his shoulder, holding his tea in hand, and gives her a dry, unimpressed look.

Is that really your answer?]

[ she chuckles -- low, and wry. ] No, honest. It's just that what I've been doing lately as amounted to answering phones and fetching lunch orders.

[ ... ] Have they still got those in the wake of a nuclear wreck? Phones, I mean. Not lunch orders. Obviously.

[He shakes his head.]

No.

[They pass messages through flares... Written note.]

Not much left of the old world. It's all buried under sand.

[Well, there are a good amount of cars. Thank god. He would have lost his mind far earlier otherwise.]

[ sand.

a world of old structures -- buildings, beauty, and robust creation. buried, under sand. peggy swallows. the revelation humbles her. worse yet, it catches her off-guard. she brushes chilly fingertips across her brow and, in a fit bizarre flung-forward grief, she decides to be honest with him. ]

I'm sorry. I ought to have traded a little more honestly on my answers. I can't tell you what I am because -- because I don't have the answer. But I can tell you that I was once a sort of soldier. I imagine you still have those in the Apocalypse.

[He sips his drink, glancing sideways at Peggy.

He looks - humored? - by her honesty.]

Of course you were.

[He could tell you had some sort of skill, some sort of invisible medal to be had for field work. Max has never been involved in wartime, or as a soldier... but working as a cop in a nearly apocalyptic society does have it's interesting battles to be fought.]

Soldiers are nearly extinct. Not as much to fight for but yourself, anymore.

[What he'd done for Furiosa, that was very rare. And he's not about to pretend it makes him anything worthy of a badge of honor or anything like that. He was a tool, and then he was a tool once more, and then he was a man returning a favor. Hoping. Furiosa - now, she's a soldier. Built to carry the hopes of people on her back, whether she'd realized it or not. Terrible thing to carry, but she's strong. It's why she got on that platform and he did not.]

Survivalists is a more popular term.

[ she cracks a bare smile -- but it doesn't last. still, she had to recall what she'd surmised when she'd first met him in person. not a solider, but a survivor. peggy rarely cared what others thought of her, but she still enjoyed being right about things. ]

And that's you, isn't it? Whoever-you-are in a nutshell. [ she's not bothered to learn his name; it will come in time. ] Mister Survivalist.

[He shrugs, as is his usual aggravating answer. But it's an honest one, and it does come with words a few moments later, when he's pretty much inhaled his tea, it's gone so quickly and urgently. He takes no time to enjoy anything.]

Not much of one. Almost murdered by a frozen lake.

[But he has survived some pretty immense things. Things that in hindsight are insane, of course, to anyone but him. He's been sapped of blood, survived countless crashes, countless concussions and broken bones and hungers, thirsts. He's somehow managed to get through an incredible sandstorm and walk out of it, straight from captivity. He's taken arrows to the head and bullets to the leg, wheels to the arm.

But he doesn't much linger on those things. He lingers mostly on slipping up and falling through ice.]

Mister Survivalist. Hmph.

[Pulling the blankets back over his shoulders securely, he actually looks quite approachable and maybe even nice for a moment. Warmed by something, whatever it was. It happens. By all accounts, he should be uncomfortable resting in the pilot seat of the shuttle. But it's here that he looks the most at ease, compared to his room, or any other place in the ship.]

Guess you're Miss Soldier.

[ formerly miss soldier, but she won't quibble. quibbling leads to questions, and she's not prepared to tell him she's a quasi-field agent for the same organization who had their sticky fingers deep into a-bomb project. even the word 'agent' on its own would betray more than needs betraying. he doesn't need to know anything beyond ex-soldier and current comms-officer.

perhaps that's why she so readily accepts his stoicism. there are words she's not saying, either. but she hides them better beneath ornate speech. ]

Almost. The most important word in that particular phrase is almost. You were almost murdered by a frozen lake, and yet here you live and breathe. Looks like surviving to me.

Edited 2016-01-14 00:23 (UTC)

['Suppose he agrees with that. He feels like he weighs a ton in exhaustion and he's fighting with the lines of pain in his forehead and mouth when he shifts his swollen bum knee, but he is alive, it's true. That's what he rates the day a success on: is he dead or alive? And sometimes — sometimes — he rates it on if someone who managed to endear to him is dead or alive. Those days, those are the hardest for Max. The day Hope and Glory died, he could not quiet the voices in his mind for weeks.

Every time and place is a hard day, a rough world.

... Except for this place. Where everything is quiet, calm. Food in the kitchen, a place to rest without fear of attack. Compensation for their kidnappings. Max doesn't like it, but he doesn't view it as venomously as some do. Even if they're likely floating towards a potential battle. War. Whatever the fight ends up being. The fleet certainly is better to be in than the planet they'd crashed the Tranquility on.

He hums thoughtfully.]

Never seen a frozen lake before. Or, mmm. Walked through snow.

[He clearly is not very fond of it.

At all.]

No? [ her interest is unfeigned. she means every syllable of it. nuclear fallout. ] No, I suppose you wouldn't have. It must have been quite the shock.

[ she leans on a piece of the shuttle's frame. comfortable, but not settled. she won't threaten him with the thought of being caught in her company longer than he wants to be. ]

I promise it can be quite beautiful when you're not making a run for it. [ half-smile. ] Or is that not what you were doing?

[He rolls his eyes, though it's nothing too aggravated.]

Hunting.

The animal rushed by, cracked the ice where I stood.

[He's not about to tell her that he could have laid down like Nami had yelled for him to do. Because then it would lead to the fact that the ghosts had decided for a poor moment in time to wrestle for his attention again. And the panic, it just makes them worse. Far, far worse.]

Got its revenge on me.

[And he wants to go find it and cook it and eat it.

Because he hates that wild smeg.]

Edited 2016-01-14 01:10 (UTC)

[ hunting! now, there's a thought. and (for a moment) all her lofty criticism seems to melt away. perhaps he isn't the fool she'd thought he was. not wholly the fool, at least. because fresh meat would be a welcome change... ]

What did you take with you? You're new enough -- you can't have managed a firearm already. [ her head tilts. ] Have you?

[He looks at her like she's talking ridiculousness. Of course he has. Granted, he didn't get to take it with him — but that's beside the point. When Max wants something, he's usually pretty good at keeping his word and getting it. He motions in the direction the kitchen would be, grunting an affirmative.]

Didn't get to keep the gun — made a... um. Deal to split meat with the natives.

Kitchen's fully stocked. Should last a while, if it's properly cared for.

How entrepreneurial. [ dry-as-bones in her voice, but ultimately she affords him some grudging respect. but peggy doesn't precisely know how to say 'thank you', so she stares -- silent -- for a moment, before: ]

Save up your credits and perhaps by the time we stop at another planet or waystation, you might find something worth purchasing.

Survivalist.

[It's a bit snarky, if you read between the serious nature of his voice.

He moves to stand, using the shuttle wall as support for a more prominent limp as he scans the small space. He may never say it, but he's extremely glad for Ino's medicine — he's getting back to the basics. Funny, he's only two inches taller than her. But it's the broadness of the bastard that makes him seem more sturdy.]

Should get these armed, too. Hidden weaponry on them. Blades and guns.

Should be a priority.

[After he arms himself, of course.]

[ far from rankled, she finds it gratifying to hear snark slither its way into his voice. it speaks to a vitality and spark that too often is missing from a man beaten down and defrosting. when he stands, she she holds her ground. shorter, and not at all so broad, but still sturdy in her own right. sturdier than the high heels give her credit for. ]

If you'd like, certainly. [ he wants for make-busy work, and for the security of knowing there's a weapon to hand when he needs one. she can't fault him for that. ] We could see to it. You and I.

[ it's a lot like a truce -- an offer of a joint effort. peggy's not certain the atroma will even allow one of their shuttles to stay subtly armed, but it's the attempt that's most important now. ]

['You and I'. That's a very rare and strange statement.

Max looks incredulous at the idea, like it's not in practice often (it's not).

But eventually, begrudgingly, he turns his gaze away and hums.]

... Better than leaving it unarmed. This whole place could use stashed weapons. If not guns, knives. Tasers, maybe. Good to put people down in case we're — hmm. Boarded. [He glances around the area, talking a bit more than usual — rambling, maybe more to himself than to her. It's much easier for him to speak when it's about things that kill people, you know. Plans to outlive someone else.] Everything here is temporary. Sooner or later, you fight for it or lose it.

Better to start early.

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