My name is Max. (
theroadwarrior) wrote in
driftfleet2016-03-01 06:20 pm
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video | woof woof
Who: Max Rockatansky (and a dog)
Broadcast: Fleetwide
Action: SS Starstruck
When: NOW!!!!
[CLANGCLACK.
Did your ears love that loud sound? Max dropped his phone. He does that in most cases because he doesn't care very much about keeping his things safe; today, it's because he's apparently busy. As he walks a few feet from the supply pack and network device he'd dropped haphazardly, blood drips after him and leaves a small dotted trail before he plops down; it looks like he must have just landed the shuttle, the engine cooling and hissing softly. He grunts as something struggles in his arms pathetically. A tail of black and gray fur flops around, and there's a distinct dog whine.]
Shhhh. Shh.
[Max sinks down into sitting on the floor of the SS Starstruck's cargo bay, a medium-sized tin box in hand. It's hard to see what he's doing, but he's got one hand scavenging through it — first comes out a cleanly packaged syringe, and then the dog yelps slightly and snaps at him when he apparently uses it; its teeth scrapes the skin of his arm as he moves out of the way of its mouth, and then he hushes the dog again. It's by no means a small animal — not a gigantic beast but certainly an armful, and it's an effort. Max's voice is surprisingly kind, though, and he pets a hand over the dog's crown.]
Should kick in. Shh. No use in complaining. [Some time ticks by. He hums, pets the dog again. He sounds pleased, which is not common at all from him, really.] See, you're floating. Won't feel a thing.
[The feed doesn't catch the stern look on his face, but it does catch him threading a needle. The hands doing it are slick with blood, an old blanket hanging off his thigh from where he must have been using it as a makeshift bandage for the mutt. As he works, he stops for a moment and reaches out, grabbing the feed and pulling it towards him. It leaves a few red smudges on the screen, and he glances down at it.
... Mmmrm. Well, it's rolling for him, so he has less work to do there.]
I need — medicine. For dogs. Ahmm... Hm. Antibiotics.
[The dog huffs loudly, and Max turns to start wiping away more blood from the left hind leg, where there appears to be a heavy cut on the meatier thigh. He considers the injury with a careful touch, and then sighs, starts to splint the wound temporarily. He's by far better at treating wounds than a normal person should be, but he's not exactly the most professional of medics; see: his own damaged leg, which he should have seen a doctor for twenty years ago. Whoops, right.]
... It's broken.
[He'll wrap it. Keep it cleaned up,. He rubs sweat off his temple. And leaves a small red mark there, too. What, you expect him to be clean? He's already made the cargo bay look like a death zone. Hell, the shuttle he usually sleeps in... well, you know. Blood in there, too. Sorry crew. He considers the feed again for a moment, thoughtfully staring at the ceiling. He almost explains why he's bothering, why he's reaching out for help. He hit this dog. Was piloting a small craft on the station and the dog was in the way, was hiding between the wheels. It's only luck that it was his leg and not his skull.
And Max is very bothered by this. Very, very bothered. He tried to leave it. He doesn't have time or energy, and the last dog he had back home was shot down in his stead. He doesn't want the trouble.
And yet here he is, stained with dog blood and splinting an old mutt's leg. He thins his lips, decides not to explain.]
I need better equipment, to mend it. We don't have a doctor.
[While the dog's a bit hard to see around Max's annoyingly in-the-way butt, he's quite an interesting-looking dog; he's not any clear sort of species at all, just some sort of strange concoction; hard to say where it came from. Probably ditched by a ship who couldn't handle a dog on board, one could surmise. Judging by how underweight he is and how weathered he seems even not counting the broken leg (thanks Max), he has been on his own for a while.
..........
Anyone boarding or on board the SS Starstruck, feel free to find some of your linens or extra pillows missing. That's because Max has, since the feed, dragged them all to the cargo bay and made the dog a makeshift bed to lay in while he's in a morphine-induced and droopy-eyelidded rest. Should dogs have space morphine??? Who the fuck knows, Max did it anyway. Old mutt is loooovin' it.]
Broadcast: Fleetwide
Action: SS Starstruck
When: NOW!!!!
[CLANGCLACK.
Did your ears love that loud sound? Max dropped his phone. He does that in most cases because he doesn't care very much about keeping his things safe; today, it's because he's apparently busy. As he walks a few feet from the supply pack and network device he'd dropped haphazardly, blood drips after him and leaves a small dotted trail before he plops down; it looks like he must have just landed the shuttle, the engine cooling and hissing softly. He grunts as something struggles in his arms pathetically. A tail of black and gray fur flops around, and there's a distinct dog whine.]
Shhhh. Shh.
[Max sinks down into sitting on the floor of the SS Starstruck's cargo bay, a medium-sized tin box in hand. It's hard to see what he's doing, but he's got one hand scavenging through it — first comes out a cleanly packaged syringe, and then the dog yelps slightly and snaps at him when he apparently uses it; its teeth scrapes the skin of his arm as he moves out of the way of its mouth, and then he hushes the dog again. It's by no means a small animal — not a gigantic beast but certainly an armful, and it's an effort. Max's voice is surprisingly kind, though, and he pets a hand over the dog's crown.]
Should kick in. Shh. No use in complaining. [Some time ticks by. He hums, pets the dog again. He sounds pleased, which is not common at all from him, really.] See, you're floating. Won't feel a thing.
[The feed doesn't catch the stern look on his face, but it does catch him threading a needle. The hands doing it are slick with blood, an old blanket hanging off his thigh from where he must have been using it as a makeshift bandage for the mutt. As he works, he stops for a moment and reaches out, grabbing the feed and pulling it towards him. It leaves a few red smudges on the screen, and he glances down at it.
... Mmmrm. Well, it's rolling for him, so he has less work to do there.]
I need — medicine. For dogs. Ahmm... Hm. Antibiotics.
[The dog huffs loudly, and Max turns to start wiping away more blood from the left hind leg, where there appears to be a heavy cut on the meatier thigh. He considers the injury with a careful touch, and then sighs, starts to splint the wound temporarily. He's by far better at treating wounds than a normal person should be, but he's not exactly the most professional of medics; see: his own damaged leg, which he should have seen a doctor for twenty years ago. Whoops, right.]
... It's broken.
[He'll wrap it. Keep it cleaned up,. He rubs sweat off his temple. And leaves a small red mark there, too. What, you expect him to be clean? He's already made the cargo bay look like a death zone. Hell, the shuttle he usually sleeps in... well, you know. Blood in there, too. Sorry crew. He considers the feed again for a moment, thoughtfully staring at the ceiling. He almost explains why he's bothering, why he's reaching out for help. He hit this dog. Was piloting a small craft on the station and the dog was in the way, was hiding between the wheels. It's only luck that it was his leg and not his skull.
And Max is very bothered by this. Very, very bothered. He tried to leave it. He doesn't have time or energy, and the last dog he had back home was shot down in his stead. He doesn't want the trouble.
And yet here he is, stained with dog blood and splinting an old mutt's leg. He thins his lips, decides not to explain.]
I need better equipment, to mend it. We don't have a doctor.
[While the dog's a bit hard to see around Max's annoyingly in-the-way butt, he's quite an interesting-looking dog; he's not any clear sort of species at all, just some sort of strange concoction; hard to say where it came from. Probably ditched by a ship who couldn't handle a dog on board, one could surmise. Judging by how underweight he is and how weathered he seems even not counting the broken leg (thanks Max), he has been on his own for a while.
..........
Anyone boarding or on board the SS Starstruck, feel free to find some of your linens or extra pillows missing. That's because Max has, since the feed, dragged them all to the cargo bay and made the dog a makeshift bed to lay in while he's in a morphine-induced and droopy-eyelidded rest. Should dogs have space morphine??? Who the fuck knows, Max did it anyway. Old mutt is loooovin' it.]
video;
Oy, got a real' good doctor on my ship. He's used to fixing up people more than animals, but a broken leg's a broken leg.
[to his credit, Robin sounds like he's taking this seriously, even if he's being very calm and casual about it.]
I can send him over. He's antsy for work to do anyway.
video;
That's just a normal outcome.
He considers the man's words for a moment — ah, right. The odd one. Icy planet. Birds.
Whoever he is.]
What doctor?
video;
His name's Simon, from the Bloodsport. Nice guy, kind of stiff. Very polite. [he... gestures vaguely in front of himself, shrugging.] Wears nice shirts. He'd know what antibiotics to bring over, at the very least.
video;
[That's one thing he needs.]
Don't have doctors. Been collecting, on the side.
[He inspects the used needle as he talks, recapping it.
In the Wasteland, he'd re-use it. He's still deciding if he should, for something or another. Not for putting things in your blood, but there are always other needs for syringes. Needles, especially. Could have put scorpion juice in it, used it as a weapon in the desert.]
video;
[since this guy doesn't seem like he's actually going to give them permission to come aboard and take a look at the dog, he thinks for a moment... and then gets up, from wherever he was sitting, taking the communicator with him.]
What ship?
video;
[Don't you go complimenting his work. Unnecessary.
He'll at least have a sidearm on him just in case; new faces aren't his favorite on the ship, but he's at least met this one before. Not that he thinks anyone is easy to judge at first glance, but he's not too worried about the guy who pokes at dead birds. Whatever, man. We all have weird shit.]
video;
[that was a long time ago, back when he had someone there to visit... he hasn't really been on it since, because he avoids old memories like the plague, but fuck it. maybe today's the day to give it another try.]
Gonna grab some stuff. Be there in a few.
[that's right, bird guy totally just invited himself over. you're already welcome.]
video; 1/2
SIGH, MORE COMPANY FROM PEOPLE HE HARDLY KNOWS.]
2/2
Is birdguy even a doctor?
Thinks Max asks himself.]
no subject
he shows up like he belongs there, shuttling in and very casually walking out into the cargo bay. he gives the place a cursory look-around (it's changed, some, since the last time he was here), but heads for the weird snowball guy and the bundle of blankets without a whole lot of hesitation.
he brought a canvas bag with him, slung over his shoulder. once he's a few feet away, he sets it quietly on the floor between them. he's busy looking at the dog, so if Max is looking at all unfriendly, he's at least going to act like he doesn't notice.
he talks kinda hushed, though. seems the thing to do. animals don't like or dislike him more than they like or dislike anyone else--but it'd be a shame to make it upset.]
Been collecting myself. S'clean bandages and some basics...
[and from the way he nudges the bag with his foot, he seems to intend Max to have them now.]
Found him out in the station?
no subject
He glances to the bag, and nods with a small sound that implies some semblance of gratitude.]
He was near cargo holds. Job I was working.
[So yes.]
Got under a wheel, wrong time n' place.
no subject
Rough day, huh... [it's... a little unclear whether he is talking to Max or the dog, though he starts peeling off one of his gloves to pet the latter of the two.] Well, I've seen a lot worse. Fur looks pretty good...
[he'll check its teeth, too, with a thumb. better to try that while its sedated.]
Needs to eat more, but I think he'll be all right. If you don't already have a half-dozen folks offering to help, I'll send my doc over.
no subject
Been offers.
Don't have much to offer in return.
no subject
[HA... HA....... wait was that actually supposed to be a joke, or. uh. huh. he shrugs with just a tiny wry smile on his face, and winds up just scritching the dog behind the ear.]
Seriously though, I think people'll climb over each other for the chance to help out, around here. Not even for favors or nothin'. The ones who'll hold you to an even debt are gonna be slimy about it from the get-go.
no subject
Nice guy, Dead-bird-guy. He huffs though his nose.]
Not how my world works; debts are paid or not made at all.
no subject
We got a saying, "Debt's the only currency of value."
[everyone has a motive, everyone's out to win or survive. people who do things out of the goodness of their hearts are either stupid or liars. money's not worth much in the post-End world, but people are priceless.
and here he is, giving out stuff and being all nice for no reason.]
But I think worlds like yours and mine are in the minority, friend.
no subject
Not uncommon, but not often brought to light, he thinks.]
This place could become ours. Could. Matter of when, maybe.
no subject
Well, if it does, you've already got the first rule down.
[he gives the poor mutt a cheery little pat on the shoulder, smiling widely in its direction.]
Always be nice to dogs. Ain't that right, bi'ji?
[the word automatically makes sense in a way it maybe shouldn't--but it's nothing exciting, it's literally the word for "dog".]
no subject
Thought the first rule would have been 'shoot first, question later'.
[Because, I mean. That's a pretty decent rule, mostly.]
no subject
"Everyone has a knife", actually. Not a lot of shooting where I'm from. Very impractical.
[that didn't stop him from carrying around twin pistols back in the day, but he did it more to be an asshole than to actually shoot anyone.]
no subject
[..............]
Good when you want to save the bullets.
no subject
[not that he actually needs to explain this, but you know what? he kind of misses saying things and people not going "wow that's terrible" or "why would you be shooting at people?". he gives a flippant wave of his hand.]
Anyway-- You get this guy a doctor, and if I don't hear about it in twenty-four hours, I'm sending mine over. [with a smirk, because he is funny. ha ha.] He's much less charming than I am.
no subject
M'sure he is.
[Max isn't exactly king of charm, though.]
... I'll get a doctor.