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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I remind you of someone, do I? [ they walk in almost-step. peggy makes a point to match his pace, rather than set her own. she adapts with ease. ]

I shall try and take that as a compliment. You must know a great many resilient people.

[ she won't use the friend word either. ]

... Mm. Compliment.

[He looks a bit like he struggles with the concept of giving one, but that's mostly because there's rarely anyone around back home to give one to. If they're not trying to eat him or steal his things.]

She's in the fleet. Mmm. Saved my life a few times, made me make... better choices.

You'd like each other.

[Someone bumps their shoulder into him as they pass, unapologetic in a place this busied.

He shakes his head, blinking fast. Wheezing, windy gasps of ghostly disapproval fill his hears for split, disorienting moments; the same that almost earned him a bullet in the head by Furiosa, back home. Usually, so easy to ignore, does it all the time, even with Peggy and him speaking, but sometimes -- sometimes they just. Take over. The calm, normal expression he had and the teasing nature from just a conversation ago with Peggy seems leeched from his face. Furiosa gave him the room for better choices, but he has no right to say it like that. After all, think, Max. Think of all the people you've gotten killed. Remember what they've said. Furiosa found her redemption; where is yours? He counts off still-frames of bodies. Glory, Hope, the-woman-he-loved, the-child-he-fathered.

He looks anywhere but at Peggy now, anxious. There are so many people. They all wear different faces that aren't their own.

"Max... Max, Max, Max."

Peggy might as well not even be there. Max slows just a little, staring at Angharad where she stands ahead as he moves mechanically by instinct, the crowd walking around her, parting to her will. Nobody sees her. Of course they cant. They would be mortified to see what he sees. Her gown is much redder now.

"Did you make better choices, Fool?"

No, focus. Focus, Max. He grinds his teeth and listens to the way his molars grit in his ears.]

[ his words carry weight. the syllables are simple enough -- almost innocently vague. but she feels them like stones on her shoulders. pleasant, certain stones. better choices. she's known a few people like that, herself. and yet she doesn't believe the manner of person max discusses is quite at all like captain america. no, he must... ]

Hey, now. [ she'd been walking alone these last few steps. peggy turns on her heel and is stuck staring at max. hunched shoulders and busy teeth. she frowns. she retreats, back to him. unaware of what he watches, she steps straight into is line of sight. a frown which eclipses max's vision.

she is the roadblock in the way. the caltrop on the path to self-recrimination. ] What is it?

[ shellshock. peggy knows this face. ]

[He shrinks back at her appearance, just a little, a simple lean back -- she's not Peggy, she's someone else, some other face that is blurred and damaged and jittery like the smallest of aftershocks. The disturbed surprise is at least, at last, muted slightly. He hears a question, but he's not sure who is asking for a moment. He tucks his chin, trying to zero in on the familiarity of it. Not of the shaking, surreal figure standing in his path.

You're making mistakes, Max. Are you going to be there when they ask for help?

You're ready to run again, always ready to run.

Don't compare yourself to better people.

He turns away from her, toward the wall beside them, and looks at that instead for a moment. It's clear it's not from madness, though -- he isn't just peering beyond it like a zombie, but keeping his vision sharp towards the metallic surface. No mirrored image. Blurs of color that could be them. He rubs a hand over his eyes.]

I... Ah...

[Foolish. He wishes he had a steering wheel in hand. Wheels to carry him instead of feet, one more faulty than the other. Will you run, Max? He asks himself. Then he answers aloud.]

Nothing's fast enough.

[His gaze flicks back toward Peggy. He thinks he sees her, somewhere in there. It's clear he's lost his words, though. It's nonsense to anyone but him, but he tries for it, anyway.]

Nothing's. Hmm. Ahm. It's full of holes. They eat it up.

Edited 2016-02-16 16:46 (UTC)

[ she knew there were cracks -- fissures, in this man. broken jagged pieces, the evidence of which were the dark moods she often witnessed aboard the starstruck. and in the way he looked at spaces as though something more than air inhabited them. ]

Max. [ she speaks the name he never told her -- drawing upon the intel learned in the ship's paperwork. it feels like a dirty betrayal after she'd gone so long tiptoeing around his name, but she needs to pull him back into the moment. ] Max, come back to me.

[ she isn't a soft touch. she isn't a healer or a counselor. peggy carter is a soldier and an agent, and she is more comfortable with commands than caresses. ] Whatever you're seeing -- it isn't there. Doesn't make it any less real. But it isn't there.

[ not in the crowd. not in the shiny metal surface. ]

[He gives her a sharp -- focused -- look. An intense dislike at something. Not her, maybe. Hearing his name is like hearing nails on a chalkboard. Effective to get attention, but a near-physical pain to his ears.]

Don't say that word.

[Just because he gave it to Furiosa doesn't mean he likes it, not at all. He left it with her, maybe so that she could do something good with it. With him far away. It's an ugly sound, really. 'Max'. Rusty like nails and coarse like sand. He hears it whisperer, screamed, cried. All in his head.

But--

He seems to be more focused. He shakes his head again, like a dog meekly trying to dislodge a muzzle with a slight jerk of his head. Ghosts whisper, they talk their talk, and he tries to push them back. He's usually able to just fine when he's not in a fullblown panic. He considers her tinny words.

His shoulders are squared a bit, defensive toward whatever his plaguing him. He looks more intense, more like a raggedy man in a desert you would want to avoid if you didn't know him. Even the crowds are casting their glances on him, their own whispers as they pass feeding into the imaginary ones. It's fine. He doesn't care about the living. Not these people.]

Walk.

[ she searches his eyes for a moment. he'd rebuked her, but it hasn't had much effect. at least -- she hasn't shrank away from his attention. he'd have to be a lot louder and a lot more horrible to even inspire a flinch. ]

So long as you walk with me. [ an ultimatum -- almost tender, had it not been for the tin in her voice. or the bayonet's edge. it's a call to strength. a challenge given: she will not leave him behind to this madness in this moment, so he'd better damned well keep pace. ]

[The only sign that he's heard and understood is a hum that she probably knows by now is quiet confirmation. He does walk. He walks at her pace quickly, with that slightest of hitch in his step. The silence isn't as neutral -- pleasant even -- as their silence in the shuttle. But he appears to not be reacting to whatever is in his head. He glances at Peggy just to be sure she's real and not something conjured, too. He's only stopped by the rather old school blades displayed in the window of one of those shops that sell pipes and novelty pieces of junk, a few tense minutes later.

He looks discontent with it. They're just pathetic props compared to real weapons. The blades are thin as hell, and the edge is clearly not properly kept sharp enough. Far be it from Max to say he's used the best of the best, but he at least recognizes sins against daggers when he sees it.

He's still tense, but.]

These are pieces of shit.

[... Crazy or not, he knows that much. Whining about shitty knives is apparently a decent crutch right now. Reminds him of what they were here for.

Focus.]

[ -- a hitch of her own, now, within her step. her heel catches on the cobble and she stops walking. for a moment, she might be worried he's fallen back into his dark muttering of earlier. but then she sees the knives. paradoxically, this fresh context it something of a relief. ]

You're not wrong, [ she offers. peggy presses her hand against the window, thoughtless of the prints she leaves behind. ] I wouldn't take those to a roast beef picnic, let alone a job.

[ ... ] We'll need a better strategy for figuring out where the decent weaponry is sold in town.

[He hums again. Though he still seems... distant, foggy, he's not sinking back further into himself. He's not rambling, or speaking in confusing turns of thought. He just rubs at the old raggedy bracelet around his wrist and seems to focus as much as he can on what Peggy's telling him.]

... Give me an hour. I can find more information on, um. Decent weaponry.

[.......... Said with the implication said information won't be found in a pretty place, of course.]

[ shrewd eyes stay on him. now comes a judgement call: does he need the time alone, or does he simply want to hide the ugliness of his process from her attention? the former she wouldn't mind indulging, but the latter cuts her to the quick.

gently: ] It's not an hour you need to spend alone. I promise you I'm no stranger to dark alley deals. We could -- we could have each others' backs.

[ perhaps a step too far. but they're crew, now. like two soldiers in the trenches. they need to learn how to depend upon one another. ]

[He thinks about it or a moment, that much is clear. Struggles with it.]

... No.

We -- I. I don't need that. I need...

[He isn't sure how to explain it. While it's not true at all and having someone watch your back is good, he also... isn't very good at simply functioning as a unit with anyone. Furiosa had been such an odd phenomenon he hadn't seen coming... but with how he feels right now... Familiarity is his go-to. And his most familiar feeling is being utterly alone in whatever he's doing.

... He's never said he's a very healthy person, aright.]

One -- one hour. You search the shops, and--we'll meet up here again?

[He's in mumble mode, withdrawn just a little.]

... Cover more ground...

Do call me if -- [ there's trouble. but that's a busybody's answer. so she revises. ] If you see something worth our credits. I want to carry my financial weight in this endeavour.

[ sorta saved. ]

[GOOD SAVE, PEGGSTER.

Max gives a slight nod, seemingly distracted by something in his peripheral.

But then he looks at her directly.]

If there's anything worth it.

An hour. [ she holds out her hand -- determined to have him shake upon the deal. like an oath between compatriots. ] And then we meet back here. Promptly.

[He stares at her hand for a moment, but then — he reaches out, clasps it and shakes it firmly once. Her hand juxtaposed with his is an oddity, considering how tan and battle-damaged his are, like the small finger that doesn't seem to be able to unbend at all.]

Mm.

Promptly.

[You fancy Brit.]

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

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