driftfleet | 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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[ 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.]

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

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