driftfleet | enter if you dare (i'm kidding we're 80% approachable)

[~~also here is the 20% unapproachable~~

Max has been busying himself, now that he's decided to keep a watchful eye on the dog (which is now in a proper cast, though he makes it a point to not let the old mutt hobble around too much on it). He misses a few jobs on the station, but he's been paid very well in the past, and he's not particularly hurting on money. The audiences must've enjoyed watching him play hero to a dog — not that that was his thought process, but you know how animal rescue is for the sentimental heart.

At any rate, he can be found checking Dog Two's leg to make sure there's nothing more sinister going on with it, like an infection or torn stitching, and then he lets the pooch settle while he sits calmly at the kitchen table, sewing a rip in his leather jacket; the Citadel's brand is perched high on his neck, revealed under his normal shirt collar. It wouldn't be the first time he's had to mend it. The jacket. It's just not usual that it's because he'd gotten it caught on some machinery while working on the space station.

He's been thinking a lot lately, stuck in his own head. About a lot of things.

Obligations, and whatnot. Having a place here. Helping Peggy when she fell, helping the dog when he found it hurt. This isn't what he's made for. This is not only undeserved, but it's foreign territory. Even when he was stuck aboard the Tranquility, or the planet it crashed on, he at least had a way to always remain at a distance. Relatively, anyway.

He isn't sure how to feel about... any of that. What he does know is that when he's not tending to the dog, he's utterly restless and goes out for hours at a time. He always comes back, though. That's important to note. He comes back.

The bearded, wild-haired man is around. He can also be found inventorying his tools; it's kind of important to have them in order for shuttle repairs. The more concerning thing is that he's... kinda talking to himself. In his isolation in a corner of the cargo bay, with his tools being cleaned and properly maintained, one may hear him:]

Transmission won't burn up fluid during use... running low means a leak, might be disconnecting cooler lines, th'gaskets and the seals; worn down, no good, check the bell housings or loose transmission pans. Worn axles, mounts... unbalanced drive shafts... Grinding noise after engagin' the clutch... gear synchonizers... Whining... buzzing... humming sound...

[Yeah, he's repeating detailed information about transmission fluid damage in cars.

He only stops in his rambling to pat the dog's head when it whines nearby.]

[Ororo's still prone to wandering around the ship, trying to familiarize herself with her new temporary home, and happens to catch bits and pieces of his rambling words as she enters the kitchen. She admittedly doesn't understand all of it - it's a lot of jargon - but she's been around enough transport (everything between earthbound and spaceworthy) to sort of translate a bit of it for herself. Kind of.]

... Is there something wrong with our ship?

[Max looks back over his shoulder toward the approaching figure, a typical torch in hand — though if he's honest, it's practically glowing and a far cry from the sadder tools you'd find in the Wastelands. He hasn't seen her yet, because he's fucking terrible at actually stopping to see who's new on the ship, but her saying 'our' is plenty enough for him to figure it out. He hums in his throat and stands with a pop of the bum knee, moving to the shuttle, the toolbox shut and under his arm.]

No.

[For a moment, it seems like he's about to totally just ditch her with just a word.

It wouldn't be that shocking, really.

But he does poke his head out, wiping his hands.]

What's your augment.

[He's a surly sort, 5'9" of intensity and seriousness. Don't worry, it'll let up sooner or later. He's rough around the edges around strangers.

...

And FDR.]

[ Alistair spends most of his time on the ship either in his bunk or in the kitchen. In part because of his rather outstanding appetite, and also because they're the only places that have any real familiarity to him. The rest of the place is alien, metal, and cold, and frankly, he's afraid to touch anything lest it blow up in his face. ]

I don't suppose there are any actual books around? [ This is mostly a rhetorical question that he doesn't expect an answer to - at least, not a satisfactory one. ]

Tell me the dog has a good name.

[ After all, he clearly got injured, and such a noble beast deserves a good name! ]

[Now that the dog was better and on its feet, Wanda wasted no time in taking multiple opportunities to play with him. She'd even managed to sneak him a few treats now and then when he wasn't completely under Max's watching eye. Know where the two of them might be--or rather, knowing where they always are, she enters the cargo bay, looking around for them. She spies Max first, and Rocky wastes no time in walking over to say hello to her. She greets the dog with a smile, kneeling down to give him a few pets.]

[She then straightens up and walks over to Max. Rocky follows after her, taking a seat nearby. She watches Max tinker away for a little bit, listening to him mumbling to himself like a weirdo, before she clears her throat a little, letting him know she's here.]

Whatever you take apart, make sure you know how to put it back together.

[Not that she doesn't trust Max's expertise, more so that she can't resist taking a little, teasing jab at him.]

[After some time, Wanda's begun to resume a more active presence around the ship. No longer hiding away in her bunk room, she'll often be found in the kitchen during meal times, willing to socialize with fellow crew members and visitors. And at other times, she can be found in the rec room. It's been a while since she last practiced some of the steps that James Barnes had taught her, and she figured she needed to get back into the habit of practicing. When she's not throwing punches at the bag, she's instead moving weights and other various objects around the room. Nothing too crazy or anything, but just enough to practice her abilities, trying to reclaim a bit of a routine that she'd let slip.]

[However, despite her apparent return to normal behavior, there are times when she can be found on the bridge, by herself. She's not really doing anything ship-work related, more so she'll just be found seated in one of the pilot chairs, seemingly staring out into the void of space. Watching, almost searching, for something.]

[Oh my god, why is everyone so hung up on dog names around here?]

... Rock.

Someone else named him.

[Are you guys happy now? It has a name. Don't give him anymore judgemental stares (Peggy).]

Rock? That's no name for a dog!

[ Sorry, Max, you're talking to a Fereldan. Fereldans are, by definition, dog people. ]

What about, I don't know - Ser Barks-a-Lot?

[The dog — 'Rock', as Peggy has officially titled him — has warmed up a bit to Wanda's charity; at first interaction, the pooch is about as friendly as Max can be, any given day. It huffs and sighs and complains, but when she offers food, he starts appreciating her visiting. When she approaches, the mutt sits up with its ears perked, and Max turns nearly just the same.]

... Ah.

[For a moment, he wasn't sure what she was talking about.

But he shrugs.]

Not taking anything apart. Just remembering.

...........

Terrible.

[REJECTED.

And that's coming from someone who tried to name the dog 'Dog Two'.]

Communications. [ ... she says, crossing her arms across her chest. Was he really about to walk away without a word? She just barely manages to keep herself from turning the stern goddess persona up to eleven, as she tended to do when someone disrespected her. ]

[ But the last thing she wanted to do was make more enemies rather than friends on this tiny ship, so she keeps her expression as neutral as she's able. ]

I hope that's useful to this crew. I'm not new to spacecraft, but I've not flown in something like this before. [ Ororo was (unfortunately) used to Shi'ar tech. ]

[ Ororo makes it to the rec room around the time Wanda is making various objects float around the room. It's a surprising sight, but Ororo smiles. It brings back memories of old friends. ]

... That's an interesting gift.

[Sorry Ororo, don't take it too personally; everyone in this ship has been left without so much as a word at some point. He's a little oblivious shit like that. The injured dog watches the two of them with a tired but curious stare, as Max continues wiping his hands of oily grease.]

S'fine; unless you're a pilot with the — [He taps a finger to his augment, the bump behind his ear she's just as likely familiar with.] — it's all, ahm. New. Communications is good. Should... get together with first mate. She knows comms. Tries to find new transmissions, I think.

[He's trying to be friendly, alright? Even if his voice has no real warm in it, just a sort of walking instruction manual of things to please the person in his vicinity enough to leave him be soon. Though — he has a curious way about him, stumbling over words, motioning with his hands, speaking in that sort of growly voice with a mish-mash of accents that aren't quite lining up with anything in particular.

Just about as odd as he looks, really, tanned and gritty, knee set in a metal brace and scars here and there in fine white lines — a burn scar that is clearly the outline of a hand at second glance graces his forearm. He wears a battered jacket, a scarf. A tube for what seems like transfusions is coiled and tethered to one shoulder. His pack is on his persons, strapped on his back.

An odd fellow.]

[ peggy is her usual busy self -- except lately, her attentions have wandered far afield from their little ship. she can be found in her quarters with the door propped open (in case she's needed). but instead of the usual array of cosmetics on her cramped metal vanity table, she's swept it all aside in favour of...papers. she's been recording what she can remember from the last year-or-so. a hundred thousand new memories crammed into her brain as she'd slept, and suddenly she feels older and none the more wise.

but at least she doesn't abandon all routine. by now, she was feeling a lot better. in the cargo bay, she concentrates on throwing punches at their hanging punching bag. the hits land solid, and well. but every now and then her right hook looks a little more emotional than calculated. after each workout, she spends some time stretching. quiet, and occasionally cranky.

and finally, crewmates are likely to catch her brewing tea in the kitchen at one moment or another. she never fails to offer anyone a cuppa should they walk in while she's doing so. ]

[Definitely an odd fellow, but Ororo's seen her share of odd characters in her lifetime. She definitely counts as one herself, if the sleek, streamlined uniform and flamboyant plume of hair were any indication.]

[Still, she supposes she was a bit naive in hoping she'd get a warmer welcome. Part of her expected this sort of indifference, probably, and she can't really blame him.]

New transmissions for...? [She's barely been around a week, she still doesn't know how these things work. ... Though perhaps she should be asking the first mate, and not this monosyllabic fellow.]

Someone had suggested to Ororo that she try and look up the first mate earlier. She was told that they'd shared an augment, or something to that effect; Ororo had yet to figure out what they were, what they did, and why they were important. So she'd gone looking for answers. But when she'd passed by their quarters, she'd looked particularly busy - far too engrossed in whatever work she had for Ororo to disturb her in good conscience. She figured she could bother her later on; there was the rest of the ship left to explore, probably, and quite a few other crewmates to meet.

It's quite a bit later on that she finally winds back around to the kitchen (the ship wasn't that big, and the crew wasn't as large as she'd first assumed), drawn in by the warm, welcome scent of tea. She hasn't had a cup in what feels like ages, so at first she doesn't even realize who it is that's doing the brewing.

"- Is that real darjeeling...?"

It smells wonderful - or perhaps she was just imagining it? What she'd give for a proper cup.

Peggy Carter's hair is swept back in curls -- pinned, it seems, in place. She looks frightfully bureaucratic on first impressions: blouse and pencil skirt both without a crease; nails painted a vibrant red; posture particularly poised. And even with the new member of the Starstruck's roster chimes in, Peggy doesn't rush to warmth. A month ago, she might have. But she still feels a queer distance between herself and this reality.

"Darjeeling," she half-confirms, "or something as near enough it makes no difference. Want some?"

She knocks out and dusts off a welcoming smile, but is no less stiff. Introductions can wait for the tea to be poured.

[Funnily enough, Max doesn't think she looks very odd at all. But then again, a.) Ororo looks like she came right out of a Mad Max costume party with that wild 'do and b.) the people in the wasteland, have you fucking seen them, they have bloody bullets for teeth and cut holes in their shirts for their nipples. Like, Max is the most normal looking one most days. Yikes.]

You'll figure it out. [Not spoken in a harsh way, but in a way that suggests the same of someone learning for the first time how to take apart and put together a decent engine. It all comes with time and processing, really.] Mostly trying to find... intelligence. Gather clues about.

[He motions to everywhere. You know. The people in charge. Obviously.

If Max seems restless, it's mostly because he's back on the ships and not able to leave them frequently like he used to; hates this, being stuck, not being able to move on his own two legs more than around a ship. It's suffocating, in some ways. At least Ororo is adjusting, because Max sure isn't after a few months. He's already itching to take a shuttle and fly around, just because he can.

....

Ah, he's gone quiet. He should. Probably say something.

WWPD? What Would Peggy Do?

He grimaces, holding out a hand. For, um. A handshake.]

... Nice to, mm. Meet you.

[Jilted, awkward, eyes shifting to the side. This is a new attempt at dealing with new crewmates. He's not sure he'll like it; he's testing his own limitations. See how much it might make his skin crawl. They say a handshake says a lot about a person, but people don't shake hands in the desert. They -- mostly try to impale each other, on most given occasions.]

Edited 2016-03-10 19:04 (UTC)

[Max is restless in the cargo bay as usual when she goes punching the punching bag. And so much like their first encounter with each other, his gears are grinded with every little THUNK-THUNK of Peggy's fists followed by that fwipfwipfwip of the bag waggling back into place between turbulent punches. It'd be one thing if he wasn't trying to concentrate on the information on the network. As it is, he can't focus, and every little sound leaves an anxious rumble of vocals perforating the folds of his brain. He hears the squeal of tires in rhythm with the noise, the sound akin to a body hitting asphalt and being run over.

He hobbles over, ready to be a whiny bitch about it (of course).

But then he just watches her with a quirked eyebrow and folded arms.

Somebody is having to release some inner demons today.]

[ each blow lands heavy. peggy's hands are wrapped, and she throws her fists like a brawler. if there is technique in her style, then it's buried deep beneath a proud history of gutter pugilism. of scrapping with an older brother. of knocking down germans and keeping them down. there is nothing precise about her violence, but it is practiced. she'd honed it in its own messy fashion.

after a minute or two, she uncurls her fingers from fists and plants her palms against either side of the bag. peg bows her head until her nose touches the canvas. she exhales, eyes squeezed shut. in the absence of her own noise, she can feel her attention snap back into place.

without lifting her head (but with a glance askew): ] How long have you been watching?

[ it isn't a challenge. not one with any teeth, at least. ]

[Max's stature hardly changes when she stops, arms folded loosely and brow raised, a piqued curiosity to the way he looks at her. Today he's clear-eyed, gray-blue, not the sometimes dazed and listless world that takes hold.]

'While.

Couldn't concentrate, too much noise.

[It's not judgement toward her work-out, not a finger wag at her, but just a fact. He's sensitive that way to sound. To his senses in general. He smells burnt rubber and asphalt right now; there's none of that to be found here.]

[ a toss of her head. peggy draws the back of her wrapped hand across her brow -- she is sweaty, and the majority of her curls have come undone. but for all she prioritizes her appearance, she seems unperturbed to be so unpolished now.

she gives the bag one last shove, and then retreats. she's still breathing heavy as she adjusts the wraps. ]

I'll take that as a sign that I'm doing it correctly, then, [ answers with a pinched expression. ] Right hooks aren't meant to be stealthy.

[ not an apology. still: ] Do you want me stop?

[... Ah, good question. He considers her from head to toe, as if that is an assessment, a way to answer her. She looks like she still wants to have a go at the bag. After a moment, he rubs the back of his head, thumbing the brand there unconsciously.]

Mn, I can leave.

It's the noise. The sound, it's — hmm. A bad sound.

[He's not sure of any other way to put it. Wishes he had one.]

[He turns to leave, stops, looks back with a scrunched nose.]

Not my fault in some way, that you're —

[He waves toward her.

Just to make sure he didn't do something or say something stupid. He's familiar with both.]

enter if you dare (i'm kidding we're 80% approachable)

OTA | Sewing Mama in the Kitchen | Or Rambling Handyman in the Cargo Holds

no subject

no subject

OTA! kitchen mostly because well

no subject

Action

OTA l Kitchen, Rec Room or Bridge

no subject

no subject

Action

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

ota!!!

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

never enough threads lmfao

never enough.

no subject

no subject

1/2

no subject

enter if you dare (i'm kidding we're 80% approachable)

OTA | Sewing Mama in the Kitchen | Or Rambling Handyman in the Cargo Holds

no subject

no subject

OTA! kitchen mostly because well

no subject

Action

OTA l Kitchen, Rec Room or Bridge

no subject

no subject

Action

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

ota!!!

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

never enough threads lmfao

*never* enough.

no subject

no subject

1/2

no subject

never enough.