driftfleet | A WORD FROM YOUR SPONSORS: TREAT YO' SELF (or don't)

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A WORD FROM YOUR SPONSORS: TREAT YO' SELF (or don't)

Who: Max Rockatansky
Broadcast: Fleetwide
Action: SS Starstruck
When: Lately, idk. Today??

[The feed opens up rather oddly, but then, Max almost never posts anything. So that in of itself is weird. The video catches Max wandering back and forth in the cargo bay of the Starstruck — apparently working on some minor damages to one of the shuttles. Likely a piloting gig, considering how much he'd been out of the ship and making chips on the side. He looks like an oil monkey right about now, black grease on his forehead and a general unkempt-ness about him from his time without bothering to trim his hair at all, in any way. Who has time for that crap? Not Max.

He makes a confused sort of sound off the screen, and then stops in front of the table that the feed is streaming from with a... box? It appears to be a new arrival, a confusing thing that Max can't figure out the original delivery time on. The label on it, if you turn your head, appears to say:

TO: ~~MEATHEAD~~
~~BUTCHER~~
~~MR. SURVIVALIST~~
~~PILOT TWO~~
~~FOOL~~
~~POUTYLIPS~~

FROM: YOUR SPECIAL SPONSOR!

Max clicks the metallic locks on either side and with a HISSS, the box opens. What could be inside...?! Hell if he knows. He stares unimpressed at the giftbasket crammed full of... particular hygienic products. Shaving cream, razors, body spray, shampoos —]

[The name, of course, is actually just generic, changed just slightly from their Earth counterpart. XES is clearly more sensual than AXE. Not that Max is familiar with any of them anyway, but still. He continues his unimpressed stare as an electronic voice emits from said box. It kind of sounds like SIRI. Also something he is not familiar with.]

"Congratulations on your sponsor gift! Mysterious quiet type, what a sale! Here's a little something on behalf of sponsors watching; maybe a little self-maintenance is just the trick to make the lady viewers—"

[Max calmly shoves the box off the table, out of sight, with a great clatter.]

No.

[Can he get back to work now, that was a waste of his life he's not getting back. If you'll excuse him, he'll be going back to his next line of work: shoving non-perishable cans of food into one of the supply closets with the grim expression of a man who's Lumberjack Slam arrived to his table at Denny's cold. All while continuing — such a rebel — to smell like a sweaty human car engine.]

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[ again, he draws a smile from her. what -- was that three, this very same conversation? she may not be half-as-stoic as he is, but nor is she known for her easy joy. but peggy loosens up around him. paradoxically, it's because of how little he expects. there is no performance; only care and idle curiousity. ]

You could always compromise and merely shave instead.

[ seriously, chum, that's a lot of stubble. ]

[He makes a slight face, rubbing his chin.

Yeah, it's getting far past stubble now.]

What was it you said...?? Ah -- other side of the coin.

It could be down to my chest again.

[small mercies Peggy, small mercies]

Oh, no. [ her smirk is lopsided. ] I simply wouldn't allow it to happen.

[ except her threat is fairly toothless. what was she going to do -- assault him with the shears? likely not. she's shown too much restraint and respect to be sincere about meddling in his personal grooming habits.

heavy-handed hints, however, remain fair game. ]

[huff]

First mate's orders?

[not that he sounds like he'll follow them]

Enforced by the first mate's right hook. [ not that it sounds like she'll follow through with that, either. merely looping the conversation gently back 'round to where they started. ]

Unless, of course, you do me one favour today. [ it's cruel to keep a man like him waiting, so she doesn't: ] We should took a glance at the weapons available down on the station and see what we can stow away in the shuttles.

[WELL THEN--

He's instantly zeroing in on the idea of a new task.

While he's a bit tuckered out by the social-ness in his current fleet entry...

Weapons are important. And they have been working on this.]

Mmhm. Only visited a small amount of places so far...

I've been 'round a bit. But I didn't want to purchase anything without consultation.

[ this is, after all, their project. peggy knows weapons well enough, and trusts herself to stock the shuttles independently. but it's not half so useful, in the long run, unless she engages him upon the task as well. already, she can see a focus on his face.

good. ]

[He raises his eyebrows. She really wanted to wait on him, huh?

How thoughtful. He wouldn't have been, but then, he's an asshole sometimes.]

Maybe we could... look into arming the shuttles.

Shuttles back in the last place, they had turrets. Could be useful.

[ perhaps. if they can rouse mister stark into action. peggy nods. ]

I'll go get my coat, shall I?

[He nods. He's always got his coat on him. In fact, he's always got his belongings a short, short walk away, in his pack. Max still doesn't live anywhere, not really — he doesn't use his room, doesn't house his belongings anywhere but on his body.

Always ready to leave. To move on. Sometimes it means to move on from corpses, or sometimes it means he can't bear the thought of staying with all the ghosts he has — how unworthy he still is of so many places, despite the odd feelings of wanting to linger, sometimes. It's a paradox. Home doesn't exist anymore, but he travels to find it.

He wordlessly collects his things, though, and sits in the pilot seat of a shuttle, patiently waiting.]

[ and the coat in question does not necessarily match the 'round-the-office aesthetic peggy tends to foster while aboard the starstruck. instead, it's leather and fitted. this particular piece was a christmas gift from a man who shouldn't have been able to guess her measurements, but invariably did with eerie precision.

but paired with a dark skirt, she looks almost military once again. it seeps into her posture as she takes a seat in the shuttle. thank goodness they'd put in for an upgrade -- it's roomier, now. and made for a more comfortable trip. ]

Anchors away, good sir. [ she greets him again with a brightish demeanor. ]

Edited 2016-02-08 14:18 (UTC)

[He glances at her with the slightest confusion for a moment. Ah. Anchors. As in pulling them up from boats, right. He knows enough to oblige. And once they're in motion and traveling through the ever-silent space, Max is also silent as well save for a word or two; not silent in the occasional shut-down, withdrawn manner, but focused heavily on his task, as simple as it is. It gives him a tunnel vision, makes him sounder of mind. Driving anything has a way of setting him straight, and it shows any time there's someone observing him in the passenger seat.

He pilots them into their landing space with roughed up but expert hands.]

Shuttle's working well.

[He'd done some easy fixes to a busted part, so he's pleased enough.]

[ -- jim was right, it seems. when peggy had discussed her grumbling monosyllabic crewmate with jim barnes, he'd suggested that perhaps the pilot merely needed more opportunities to fly. to clear his head through purpose. and while peggy had acknowledged the good sense of such therapy, she hadn't pursued it further. after all, max's life is his own to live.

but now, sitting in the passenger seat, she can only see the good it does him. ]

All she needed was a deft hand, I reckon. [ she clears her throat. she didn't mine the silence while they flew, but now she has to coax energy back into her voice. she'd been lost in her own thoughts. ]

[He snorts like she just said he could leap over the salt flats in one bound.]

Hardly.

[... As it turns out, Max is bad with compliments, or anything relating to. It's not so much that he's shy by others complimenting his work; he just think it's sorely misplaced. He pats the console lightly, though, expression... not fond, exactly. Thoughtful maybe. Considerate.]

... Works better than most things I drive.

She's not so bad.

[He says as he starts to disembark.

.......

Apparently he gave the shuttle a gender.]

[ her fingers grip the edge of the shuttle's open door as she descends, chunky heels making a satisfying thud as she does so. she isn't much more than a few seconds behind max -- giving him the bare minimum of space to himself until they're both stood firmly on the station, at which point she puts the more common few feet between them. ]

Do you do a lot of that? Driving? [ she never knows when she's pushing her luck with questions. but this one seems safe. welcome, perhaps. ]

[For a moment, Max is very quiet - as if perhaps she's stepping into personal territory. The truth is, he's carefully weighing how honest to be and how personal that question actually is. He can work with it, though; he allows it to pass his test. He doesn't mind talking about his world. It's when it claws too deep into his very person that he turns away outright.]

There's few people, lots of streets.

[He goes quiet again. The people around them makes him... Less open, more on the defense.

Cautious. But he's still focused well enough.]

Staying still makes you an easier target.

[ it certainly paints a picture: that any average citizen must be concerned with being a target, and that doing something as simple as standing still makes you into one. sounds more like war-time bastogne than anything else. she frowns -- but not too deeply. ]

I don't much drive. [ a very stark admission. ] Not that I can't -- I'm not leery of the wheel by any stretch. But it's a pain to own a car in New York and...

And -- [ if she's honest ] -- lately I've found myself furnished with a driver.

[ he'd seemed more skittish of his own answers than she'd anticipated, and so she fleshes out her own circumstances in return. ]

[Furnished with a driver? How funny.

He supposes he can imagine some scenarios where someone drives someone else — couldn't imagine the War Pups or Wives were allowed much behind a wheel, though Toast seemed very capable (he imagines she was born into a village, a small town, something, with that sort of desert grit). But even the higher pigs like Immortan Joe and the People Eater drove most of their own roads, with their own wheel. As far as Max could see, anyway.

Still, he doesn't see any harm in getting a ride. He's been The Driver before.

He scans the shops, passing up any useless knick-knack store or the bars, restaurants, beauty shops; one of the ladies standing outside steps back very quickly when she notices Max's heavy-footed approach, making a face. Which is utterly fine by him, because he prefers people move out of his way.]

New York. That was... [hmm—] a small place, lot of people.

Oh, come now. I don't believe it was all that small.

[ a cheeky smile, but it isn't quite as though she's defending the city. she lives there -- and it had been steve's home before that. but she isn't so beholden to it as all that. ] But I suppose I could make it to work on foot -- which is more than can be said for most.

I drove a bit more often during the war. Jeeps. Horrid suspension. Give me a parachute drop over a jeep ride any day.

[UM EXCUSE HIM??]

You prefer falling from the sky?

[THIS IS MAX ROCKATANSKY, HATER OF HEIGHTS.

Look at how skeptical he is. Look how disturbed.]

I wouldn't call it a joyful experience but -- yes, it has been the most efficient way to duck in behind enemy lines. Driving just gets you noticed.

[Max... still looks displeased as all get-out.]

I'd prefer to keep my feet on the ground. M'no pole cat.

And nor am I. But now and then it behooves those in my line of work to at least play at being mustelidae. For an hour or three.

[Max still thinks you're crazy for preferring evil sky jumps instead of good ol' turbulent jeep driving. But to each his own. Still, he can't help but wonder — ]

You enjoy your job?

[He doesn't even mean to be too curious, to speak the question aloud. It's just — well. Ahm. She seems like she's not too fond of it, not really. But then, they've always handled heavier topics. Nuclear war, for example. He'll chalk up his inquisitive disposition to it being a good day. Not a hard one.]

I'm good at it. [ her answer comes with care -- not least of all because his curiousity catches her off-guard. ] And when it's done right, my job makes an honest difference in the world.

[ perhaps 'honest' is the wrong word. her expression crinkles. in the end, none of this addresses exactly what he'd asked. ] Let me put it this way: I can't imagine ever doing anything else. I was made for this.

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