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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[Does he mean 'listens well to instruction' or just 'listens well' in general?]
Has to be worth the price of losing it, later. Worth feeling... upset.
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worse, still, for having just lost again. ] It's a trap, isn't it? The very moment something [ someone ] becomes worth the price of losing, it's already become far too valuable to ever be lost without immense grief.
[ grim, maybe. but she likes being her honest self with him. ]
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There's still time to cut it loose, give it to someone else. Wouldn't have to see the day it dies; wouldn't have to remember. It would be... Salvaging yourself. Carving things out and packing in the sand there.
[He falls quiet after that.
He doesn't want to talk about it anymore. It's too close to asking about things nobody needs to ask about. It's too close to the surface. He reaches toward the dog's neck -- and then pets it gently.]
It's old and damaged.
I'll... Mmrgh. I'll watch out for it.
[What more could wreck him? He's already been at the bottom of where the ocean should have been. He's already bashed up. If he's honest, it's not just the dog on his mind. If he's honest, the way he's finding a place here is...
Very terrifying.
Some days he wants to cut it all loose, pack in the sand where he carves the fleet out, and then leave without a word.]
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but then she thinks about the skinny asthmatic young man whose will to survive won her over. and she thinks about the soldier he became.
quietly: ] Maybe...maybe I could help. More.
[ going forward. ]
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You don't need to.
[He bites the nail of his thumb, eyeing the dog's leg.]
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[ that one small thin similarity between the pair of them: the need to always be preparing for the next disaster. ]
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So you don't need to, but you need to.
[A slight jab, for trying to trip him up about caring for the ship.]
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Alternatively, we could both continue on living in a way that will hollow us out in the end. Trying too hard not to care.
[ pointed, perhaps. but she's sad and exhausted. ]
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We could. You could if you wanted.
Weigh the costs.
[He's already been on his way to that kind of life. He's very hollowed out, even if he can't really comprehend that some of the smashed-in spots on his psyche are getting cemented back into sturdier shape. He had almost driven into the Plains of Silence, a final unconscious bid to try and die. It didn't pan out.
So he exists, and things change, and he's not sure how to accept it.]
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when one living thing chooses to look after another -- to care for it, and sacrifice comfort? then it's a choice worth respecting. perhaps looking after a bashed-up dog is hardly as grand as saving a country, but... ]
You'll have to name him.
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He shrugs, as if it's out of his hands, when it most definitely is not.]
Dog's fine.
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[Hardly a voice raised enough to be a certifiable exclamation, but it's as close to one as Max gets, motioning at the sleeping sad pile of fur.]
What's not right about it? Don't even know if it'll live.
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Shall I rename you Human Man while we're at it?
[ though let's be honest, it's not like she calls him by any name if she can help it. ]
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[Apparently Max is just a dog mentally, himself, because he doesn't seem to see what the fuss is about. Names are... not important to him. Not anymore. He hadn't spoken Furiosa's at all, hasn't called Peggy by name. His name is a curse, as far as he's concerned; everyone in his brain says it, over and over, in all the ways you can possibly say it.]
I've named other dogs 'Dog'. They didn't care.
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WHAT??????]
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[ forceful, really. less supportive and more daring. ]
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[He folds his arms, glancing away and mumbling under his breath.]
Names aren't that important...
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[ she's been a hundred different names. but underneath them all, she remains peggy. ]
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Fine. Dog Two.
[Max no]
Now I won't confuse him with Dog One.
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It'll do. [ a huff. she gives the poor creature a shapeless, unofficial salute. ] Welcome to the Starstruck, Dog Two.
[ it sounds utterly ridiculous. ]
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He gestures from her to the dog.]
You know, I don't have to be the one who names him. Figure one out you like.
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[ she shifts where she stands. as uncomfortable with this prospect (perhaps) as he'd been with the same damn responsibility. ] Give it time. We'll see what name he eases into.
[ oh good, they're using 'him' now instead of 'it'. ]
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He did give Furiosa his name.
He did. It was all he really had left that was his, and it's true what Peggy said — that it's what you hold onto, a defining thing. She deserved to know the idiot who she dragged along through the Fury Road, doesn't she? But his name is a double-edged sword of sorts... and this is a dog that could die anyway. And it is... just a dog. But.
Maybe... Maybe. Maybe a name. Not from him, though. Not his place. Not confident to give a living thing a name.]
You'd probably pick something decent.
...
Ah. Mmhm. Probably.
[Deadpan delivery, A+.]
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