My name is Max. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
theroadwarrior) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
driftfleet2016-03-01 06:20 pm
theroadwarrior) wrote in driftfleet2016-03-01 06:20 pm
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.]
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Not good with taking care of things.
... Living things.
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Well, having a dog on a ship might not be the best idea. Is yours overcrowded still, too?
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[His idea of overcrowded is different from the ship roster's idea -- it was overcrowded the moment he realized he was sharing it with other people -- but he understands the idea. After a thoughtful moment, he looks at her with something that's been burning in the back of his mind for a while. A curiosity that needed to be dealt with.]
What made you take in a dog on your rig?
[... You know. That rabid mutt on a chain that snapped at you and the Wives.
That... dog.]
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You mean why didn't I kick the dog off the rig?
[She glances off to the side as she thinks, a slightly bemused smile twisting the corner of her lips. They'd certainly had a rocky start.]
I guess you could say he came in useful. [She looks back at him. Without him, they most likely would have died of exposure out on the salt flats.]
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Kind of a gamble. Could have been a big mistake.
[He wonders what made her take the risk, is all. He had stolen their rig, was clearly desperate, mad and not exactly friendly -- and that was even after the file was offered to him. Was it because he didn't kill her, outside of the rig? Surely she should have just put a bullet in his head when she had any chance. Or cut his throat with the blade she had hidden as her gear shift.
It's not that it ended up as poor as it could... but she couldn't have known.]
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[She sits back and considers his words. This is the first time they're really getting into the details of what happened, and why. Even if it's not direct, she gets the intention, and it's bringing up some questions of her own she never thought she'd get answers for. Why had Max stuck around? Why hadn't he taken the shot?]
Everything is a gamble in the Wastelands. Why did you let me live?
[Since they're asking questions now, it's time to be point blank.]
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You were... just trying to defend yours.
[He glances away. There's more to it, of course. He didn't want to kill anyone. Not anyone, he just -- he just wanted to have a moment of peace. Quiet. No more blood on his hands, no more chipping away at his own head. Just... wanted to get away.]
... Owed you a debt then already, anyway.
I pay my debts.
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[She listens. She thinks she can understand. His purpose had never been about killing; it was pure survival. But she frowns when he mentions debt. Was that after she gave him the file and allowed him on the rug? Is he thinking more broadly than the specific moment she's thinking of?]
You had a gun to my head. You didn't shoot. [Who in their world does that? When someone is obviously, violently in their way of survival? Even now she recalled the gritty smell of sand and felt the ghost press of the muzzle against her skull.]
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Would have still been in a cage otherwise.
[She had given him a chance to run, too. Cause and effect, Furiosa. It trickles far. Granted, he could have potentially rescued the war rig and Furiosa when he stopped Nux from blowing them up... but it's a what-if. And it wasn't for anyone's benefit but his own, at the time. Of course, that reminds him -- rather deadpan:]
... Would have preferred not to almost die in a sandstorm.
[Hello, I'm Max, and I have nine goddamn lives.]
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[That's something she hadn't considered; that Max would be thanking her for something she would have done anyway. And she should be indebted to him for coming to get them off the flats. He didn't have to do that either. ]
I think we're about even.
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That so? Good to know.
[Until the next time something goes horribly wrong, anyway.]
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How's the pup?
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[Lucky bastard, right.]
Should have someone... ahm. More skilled, to look at him.
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Aah... no. But... some of the doctors in the ships, they'll help.
[He's surprised by it. Shouldn't be, but he is.
Getting help, when asking for it? It's not... something Max is used to.
Just like he isn't used to people actually caring about his well-being.]
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If you need help let me know. [Carrying the dog, or finding a doctor, or whatever. She's got his back.]
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... Crew thinks I should keep it. The dog.
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[He's bad at saying that he has a crew, a group of people he shares this place with that actually matter a little bit. He hates that sort of sharp weakness. So it goes unspoken.]
Dog'd be better off with more than me, anyway.
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[Furiosa has already learned this lesson,and it's something else watching Max struggle with it. Endearing, almost.]
Sounds like a pretty solid setup.
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[It seems to be a noise of agreement... but he looks — troubled, by the thought.]
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So what's the problem?
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I don't... It's —
[He shakes his head.]
You're wrong. M'not good with obligations. Not good at any of this.
[It sounds like it takes a lot for him to admit that out loud, to voice how he feels. He already seems to look a little tired just doing that much. He looks at the screen with thinned lips and a sort of lost way about him.]
... Not sure what I'm doing.
[This whole thing... these months, changing everything about his life, the way he operates, the way he functions — his mind feels like it's been constantly whirling, even more than when he was in the desert sands. That was him for twenty years. over seven thousand days. Mostly out there, feeding off the corpse of the old world.
And now — this. All of this. He's in a space ship, surrounded by people he's starting to — worry about. With a dog. No guzzoline, no car, no sand, sun, and sky. Having to face the same things and people and places every day... Having to be a person in the crowd, someone they seek out, know the face of, learn the tics of...]
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[But she's not about to ask about his past. He's done her the service of not asking about hers. Instead, her expression loses the edge that she's grown used to carrying. She settles back in her seat while she mulls over his words and dilemma, formulating an answer that wouldn't be patronizing or dismissive.]
Whatever you're doing, you should keep doing it. [It's a quiet, but honest answer.] All I can tell you is, my plant came back in better condition than when I gave it to you, and there's a handful of women who get to live free now because of your contribution. [A small pause,] I would be dead if it weren't for you. [Your very blood, Max.] Whatever happened that makes you think you can't take care of things, it's over. It's in the past. You've moved on.
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You did it. Living free, s'not on me. I just... I did what I, uh... do.
[He's a good weapon. No. He's not a thing, right? He's working on that. As for the blood... well. He gave it to Furiosa because she deserved it. She of all of them. Regardless of what she thinks, she brought all the girls home. Would have brought Angharad, too, if Max had been more careful. He knew the moment she slipped. He knew he did that. That was on him, him and his reckless fear-biting.
Whatever happened that makes you think you can't take care of things, it's over.
He shakes his head again, slowly. The words are slow to breach the surface of his cluttered sea of thoughts.]
But... it's not over. Didn't find it... Redemption. It wasn't enough. The Citadel's yours. Theirs. Moved on because I can't... stay. Couldn't. It's not my place; not deserved.
[He didn't have a place deserved among them. He had to keep going. Like a snake eating its own tail.]
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