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.]
no subject
That so? Good to know.
[Until the next time something goes horribly wrong, anyway.]
no subject
How's the pup?
no subject
[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.]
no subject
If you need help let me know. [Carrying the dog, or finding a doctor, or whatever. She's got his back.]
no subject
... Crew thinks I should keep it. The dog.
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no subject
[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.
no subject
[Furiosa has already learned this lesson,and it's something else watching Max struggle with it. Endearing, almost.]
Sounds like a pretty solid setup.
no subject
[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.
no subject
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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[Furiosa answers in a soft oice, feeling the emotional weight of his words.] It sounds like you're trying to live up to some pretty unattainable ideals.
[But there's something else that occurs to her, and she's not sure how to proceed. She got her redemption, because of him. She had been expecting at best an escape, but she hadn't expectedf to get the up close, personal, and satisfying end to Immortan Joe that Max had afforded her. Max, and Cheedo, and the rest of the Wives and the Vuvalini. Could she help him reach his redemption, was it even possible here?]
You would have been welcome, whether or not you think you deserve it, others did. [She frowns for a moment in thought, sparing a few seconds to wonder on the state of the Citadel now. She missed it, with its promise of a new leadership, a new compassion. Would the Wives be able to hold it up? She wondered about Gas Town and Bullet Farm, how they'd respond, now being effectively leaderless as well.]
[And then it's back to the present, and the edgy sands-worn man in the feed.] What do you see your redemption as?
[It's as prying a question as she's ever given him, and she's not expecting him to answer, but if she's to help him through this, she needs to know what she's working towards.]
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Don't know yet. I've been... looking
[He stops, looks away.]
But even if it's not mine... If I -- visit, sometimes. The Citadel. Would that... Be alright? Someday.
[He isn't sure if he will.
Or when.
But... It's there. A place to rest. To remember people. If she gives him permission, that makes it alright, doesn't it?]
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[Because right now neither of them were getting the chance to get back to the Citadel. Still, she's glad she was able to give him some sort of confirmation if the situation arose. It makes her think, about him and his little tics and their time here already.]
If you ever need to get away here, you can have my quarters. I'll make sure no one bothers you.
[She doesn't sleep there that often anyway; since having to relocate to the Captain's chair, she'd found it a more familiar sleeping arrangement than the actual cots, and now that a couple of their crew had left, her personal Captain's quarters were open again.]
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He's always surprised by these little moments, of just — kindness. Towards him.
It's alarming, some days.
He had gone so many years... Just him and the desert, and the people he met out there were usually more in need than him. In need, or ready to peel his bones free of meat. That was the thing, with Furiosa. At first, he assumed her the same as any other fight, any other wastelander. She was ready to rip him apart in her rage; he saw it in her eyes, felt it in the way she tried to strangle him, shoot him in the head.
But then, she offered to free him from the muzzle. Which was fine enough; he had a gun, he could cause an unwanted death then and there. But then, asking his name — relying on him to drive the rig, cover her. He could have shot her in that chase. Killed her, drove out of there, rid himself of the Wives. He could have. But he didn't. And she didn't.
And it's very confusing.
He nods.
More humorously, he continues:]
My crew can be very annoying.
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[It's still a slow burn, and if you got it, that means its been well-earned.]
[She gives him a cocked smile at his comment, remembering how he'd been hugged by one of his crewmates.]
They're nothing like who you meet in the wastes, I'll say that much. [A beat,] Anyone we have to keep an eye on or is this just idle Warboy level of annoying?
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Warboy levels might mean different to me than you.
[You know. Because they. Yes.
If Nux's behavior is the same as the other War Boys when they're not holding him down and leeching blood out of him, though, he imagines that they're just annoying more than anything, to an Imperator.]
But — no. Not bad. I'll keep an eye on 'em either way.