driftfleet | Chocolate-flavored Dessert Cream on the House

Chocolate-flavored Dessert Cream on the House

[The bunks are filling up, but the new faces just keep appearing!

Are you a travel-weary passenger having trouble keeping your crew roster straight? Perhaps you are a fresh new recruit, finding themselves dumped into a new (and much less shiny) home. Or, maybe you've been around for a little bit and just haven't bothered meeting the other weirdos on this ship yet--what is their problem, anyway?

Well, this is the place for you!

All new passengers from the last few Shuffles, especially those who haven't met their crews yet, are welcome to post starter-comments here to invite those living on and visiting your ship to come and interact. Newbies could be just arriving on the ship, busying around where others can find them, or you can offering multiple options for interaction--however you'd like to set up your thread is fine. Just make sure to include the name of your ship in the header, so your crewmates can easily find you!

Everyone else-- go meet those newbies! Whether they are new to your own crew, or on ships you frequently visit, now is a great time to bump into them.]

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[It's a hug, you jackass. Nobody is squeezing anyone. And he's hugged Tuck a thousand times, probably more, it happens to be a kind of regular part of their routine. And he knows what to expect every time, an arm around his shoulder, a slap on his back. A totally bromo confession of love.

NOT A GOD DAMN FOREHEAD TO THE FACE. And damned if he wishes he could say Tuck would never do that, because...okay Tuck actually has a temper and they might have gotten into a few fights in the past. So even this isn't an actual deal-breaker.

But he's seeing stars even before he's shoved back hard into the console, and any buttons that are pressed or activated are totally on the dick in front of him, because he can't be assed to check. Because there's blood running down his lip, and his face hurts, and his back hurts, and has Tuck always had that much upper body strength? He wouldn't be surprised if he ends up with palm shaped bruises on his chest.

He should probably take a second to assess the situation. That's what a calm, collected CIA agent would do. But, that's not him. No, instead he balls up his fist and he comes charging back. He's not interested in an actual fight, but he is very much interested in returning that greeting.]

What the hell?!

[Max sort of kind of considers that the guy had said someone else's name — that was lost to the sudden freeze-frame going on in his head and the jump-start of his instincts to fight and flight, of course. Now, though, he's in full combat mode, eyes dark and a snarl that's nearly animalistic on his lips as he ducks backward as best as he can. The problem is, he has nothing but buttons behind him, too, so he's got really no choice but to face the man so he can get some distance from him.

... And maybe figure out why this is happening.

What are you doing, Max?! Glory hollers at his face, inches from it, and he's startled by it too much to do much but take that punch to the cheek hard. He hits the console sideways, a slight cut on his cheek bleeding from the sharpness of the punch (not bad); he pushes off on his forearm, speeding forward to charge all of his surprisingly stout, stalwart weight into it with a rough, sand-scraped growl. He's panicked and angry, two great ways to be introduced to new people.

Hope you don't mind re-crashing into things.

If it makes you feel any better, he's crashing with you. But on the bright side, he realizes he shouldn't go for the eyes. In fact, his mind is finally catching up with him, sort of. Or trying to. Every time he tries to get his deduction skills back into play, his cheek throbs something fierce.]

Waitwaitwait! [Whether he knows this guy or not, he knows the intent in that look, that particular bunch of muscles and he knows he's about to get charged at. But there's a difference between knowing and reacting. Because there's a console behind him and a whole furious mass in front of him and there's nowhere to go to. So the best he can do is brace for it.

So he tenses and twists just enough to protect the important bits as they go crashing onto the console, and then...over the console. And there's a fall and then hard ground beneath them.

It's enough to make him catch his breath before he's bringing his fists down on the guy's back in an attempt to drop him so he can properly shove him off.]

What the hell is wrong with you, man?!

[Max pushes away, rolling quickly to leap back up to his feet — but he's put a distance between them, anxiety in the way his gaze flicks to look at the guy. There's blood smeared on his and jawline, but then he seems to — relax a little. He limps backward a few more steps, his weight more on his good leg than the one with the metal brace.

What the hell is wrong with you, man?!

A lot of things, actually. His hand falls away from where he's got his shiv carefully holstered under his jacket. He scans the man, his hands still ready to throw punches again. One breath. Two. He glares, something offended in his expression. The accent... isn't British. It's not anything, almost. A weird concoction of a man who doesn't know his own voice. He points a harsh, jabbing finger towards FDR.]

Don't touch me again.

[He doesn't... do well with it, obviously.

He rubs the back of his hand crudely across his slight cheek cut, wiping the blood off onto one of his sleeves and glancing at it, as if that's how he tells how bad it is without a mirror, some way to see the extent of it. It's not bad, he can tell. It'll just swell a bit. Might be sore on the ribs, on the shoulder blade. It's fine.]

[Okay. Now that he's really getting a chance to look at the guy, there are a few not Tuck signs. Like that limp. Tuck sure as hell doesn't have a limp like that. And even if he had gone all native on him, that's not Tuck's voice. It's got the same hard gravel to it, but it's not right.

And put with the whole image. The excitement of this being Tuck just crumbles. Damn. He had been so happy. With his partner at his side, there really wasn't much he was concerned about, because they were good together. But this is just some feral version of his friend's face and-god he really needs to shave. And wash. Do they not have soap on this ship?

With a slow huff and slower movements-lets not rattle the snake here- he pushes himself up to his feet and pats at his lip with the sleeve of his freaking expensive sweater, thanks for ruining it you asshole.]

And you couldn't have just fucking said that? [And he makes an accusing gesture with his own handwave thing.] What the hell did they do? Put an ape brain in Tuck's body? Who the hell are you?

You grabbed me.

[Hey, be thankful he's actually bathed with water lately. In the last place he was it, he would wander the planet smelling like mud, blood, and plenty of sweat. Granted it doesn't exactly change how dramatically unkept he is compared to Tuck on the usual job, but it's one small mercy. Though honestly, there are plenty on the ship who would probably dump a bucket of water on him if he tried to be anything but mediocre in cleanliness.

Even with FDR moving slowly, Max still looks prepared to charge again if he needs to, guarded and ready. Still better than the obvious prepared charge he had moments before; still, he doesn't want to risk it. The guy is still obviously flustered mad. Spitting insults — which is fine to Max. That's the least of what he's been called, and it doesn't faze him even a little.

..... He's not about to admit he panicked.]

Don't know any Tuck. This is my body.

[He owns it. He's not a Thing. He learned that well enough from the Wives. He may struggle with the fact that he's really at his most useful as a weapon... but he at least owns himself. He found a voice, or he's trying to. And he has a name, even if he carries it somewhere hidden in his sleeve.

... Also he's possessive of his things. But that's another detail altogether.]

Edited 2016-02-04 21:44 (UTC)

Okay, first, that wasn't a grab, it was a hug. Because I thought you were my best friend. And that's what friends do when they've been apart and they see eachother again, they hug. [Shut up. They totally do.] And when someone hugs you you don't headbutt them in the face. You hug back, you neanderthal.

[And he pats at his lip again. He's used to injuries, it happens occasionally when the job can't be completed with a good sniper rifle, but they're filming here, man! And busted lips are ugly things.]

Yeah, I'm gathering that. So what's your name then?

It was a grab.

[Because hugs are a grab genre, obviously. You don't grab. Bottom line. If someone tried to hug someone in the wasteland without knowing them, they'd probably get stabbed in the eye socket. Max thinks he didn't do too badly here. Well. Okay, mildly badly. By fleet standards. He gives the man a entirely unfriendly look before he hobbles back toward the front console, working to shut off accidental buttons pressed and correct the system. And he's sure to make a very wide arc around the stranger, still ready to throw punches again. Just in case.

What's his name, he asks?

Rather dryly:]

Neanderthal.

And a kiss is, what, a bite? The first step toward cannibalism. Wow. You must have sex like...never. That's actually kind of in line with Tuck, though so. Hey, common thread. [He keeps a keen eye on Max as he moves, but doesn't make any effort to do the same. Not that he can't take a hit, but he'd rather not. And if he's really going to pull off this whole cruise-ship captain thing, he probably doesn't need to be thoroughly tossing down with some guy on deck.

He gets when the dude is doing, somehow, instinctively, knows he could do the same, but why the hell bother?]

Okay. So, Not-Tuck. We're going with Not-Tuck.

[He hasn't kissed someone in... forever, man. The last person he kissed was his wife — and he plans to make that the last, as far as he's concerned. Sex pretty much is the same idea. Funny how a miserable backstory kills all of your libido. He just gives FDR a half-lidded 'shut up' sort of glance before he gets back to correcting their blunders.

Then he wipes some of FDR's blood off the edge of the console with his thumb, then wipes his thumb off on his pants. There. Now Peggy won't completely kill him if she knows they've been fighting in here.]

Don't care what you call me.

Just stay out of my way.

[Look, you've made him even more of a sourpuss than he usually is.

Are you satisfied, sir.]

[One disadvantage Max is going to have with FDR is that he knows that face like his own, so all of those little scowls and glares? He's got a natural immunity to them. And if anything that 'shut up' glance only makes him grin slightly, because he can read that as a total 'yes, might as well check out a new virgin-card it's been so long'.]

Good. [Because it's been so dubbed.]

And just exactly where are you going? [Seriously? Who says 'stay out of my way' except the asshole protagonists in some action flick?]

This way.

[He nods in the direction, serious as sin, and starts to leave.

..........

No really he's just leaving.]

Edited 2016-02-04 22:58 (UTC)

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Chocolate-flavored Dessert Cream on the House

jfc

it's how max bonds with people, just ask furiosa

Well then THEY MUST BE REAL BROS ALREADY

the best of chums, chum

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