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.]
video
... Not sure. It's bad enough, probably won't have a normal gait after.
video
[FURIOUSLY TEXTING HER MEDICS RIGHT NOW.]
Has he been able to eat or drink anything?
video
[He's not used to having that handy, to be sure.]
video
Make sure he's still breathing. I've sent a message to my ship's medics. I will inform you as soon as I hear something from him.
video
[Please, he's not that horrible of an emergency vet.
Just slightly. Blame the Wastelands.]
I'll keep an eye out.
video
I heard from one of my ship's medics. She agreed to come over and take a look at him. What ship are you on?
video
Well, it couldn't hurt any, to get a professional eye on the dog.]
... Starstruck. We're in the cargo bay.
video -> action
[Fast forward a bit later.
Riona hurries into the cargo deck, looking for Max and the dog in need. It takes only a few seconds; it's hard to miss a dog on a pile of blankets and pillows.]
There you are. In here, Beverly!
[And in she runs without further warning, nodding to Max before she kneels next to the dog. She's being a bit rude in not waiting for Beverly to at least catch up, but a pupper needs her and no amount of decorum is gonna keep her from getting to it as fast as possible.]
action
I'm Dr. Crusher.
action
He stares at it for a moment, vexed by the offer until he remembers it's a courtesy thing. Carefully, he reaches out and gives it one half-assed shake. It's the best one can get out of him when it's not Max himself who initiates. He's a very guarded sort of man.]
Mmn.
[He doesn't introduce himself in return. He motions to the dog.]
The hair's cleaned out of the wound. But it's — It still needs cleaning.
Leg's splinted loose. Didn't want it jostled.
action
[How anyone can leave a dog like this is beyond her. Though perhaps it's always been a stray. Still, somewhere along the line, someone tossed a dog out onto the street, and here was the result.
Assholes.
She looks up at Max, nodding as he speaks.]
You've done the right things so far. And you said you gave it some pain medication, yes?
action
What exactly did you give him?
action
Anesthetic from the station. Don't have a medical bay here.
Dog's been slowly coming out of it.
[If you're asking what the exact anesthetic is, Max couldn't tell you. Most of the stuff around here is completely unheard for him medically; they live in a world where infections from tattoos and scurvy can actually kill you nowadays.
He shifts uncomfortably.]
Didn't know if it'd, hmm. Survive. Wanted to numb it just in case it wouldn't.
action
He is a tough pup. Will he be able to survive his injury, Beverly?
[Please tell her yes...]
action
[The tricorder finishes its scan and she smiles.]
Fortunately, amputation should not prove necessary.
action
... Not that he worried about such a thing. A three-legged dog is fine. It's not like he concerns himself with things he causes, no sir. A mirror of the dog's own plight, Max hobbles with a slight hitch to his gait as he retrieves what appears to be —
Ah, a sort of canned fruit spread. He looks to Riona and offers the bag. It has about four or five of them altogether, and it seems like — despite the exotic nature of it, being space-made — it's for the inside of pies.]
Mm. Here.
... Payment, when you're done.
[He clears his throat, perhaps a bit self-conscious at his attempt of pay.]
Unless you want something else.
action
[Amputation didn't always go well where she came from, but as she hoped, it doesn't seem to be as risky. She scratches behind the dog's ear, relieved to know he'll be all right.
The offered payment is... a surprise. Riona's eyes widen momentarily, caught off guard.]
Oh, I...
[No, she hardly did anything here. She smiles but shakes her head, pointing instead to Beverly.]
I barely deserve such. Beverly here is the one who deserves a payment, and the one we should thank.
action
Thank you.
[She puts away the tricorder and takes the bag with a gracious smile.]
But just so you know in the future, payment is not necessary for my services.
action
Split it. It's... how home works. If you want, just call it...
[He hums, seems to need a moment to decide the word that fits. Talking to people is so tiring, sometimes. Being inside his head may have been lonely and sad, but at least it was easy to space out from.]
Rewards.
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Thank you, ser.
[Pies are gonna get made at some point with their "reward", she hopes. Because yum.]
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Riona, I need a bowl of lukewarm water. Max, I need you to keep him calm, hold his head still.
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He puts his hands in the fur on the dog's neck to keep him from jostling, but also to soothe.
As it turns out, Max isn't that bad at soothing something alive.]
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[Riona is on her feet quickly and heading towards the direction of the kitchen. Well, what she assumes is the way, anyway. It's not her ship so she has to peer around corners and turn around a bit before she finally finds it. And then it's another minute of opening and shutting cabinets until she finds the bowls. A near avalanche of bowls later, she's got one out and pours some water in, hoping it's not too warm.
All in all, it takes Riona a good five or so minutes until she's finally back, hurrying towards them with the water as she tries not to let it slosh everywhere. She sets it down next to Beverly.]
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How is it?
[Gruff, but not cold or indifferent.]
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