driftfleet | first one to make that doctor who joke loses

[Max curses not paying better attention. He usually treads more lightly; shouldn't have been so talkative. To be fair to the two of them, though -- it all just looked like earth. A poor cover-up, someone hanging around lazily boarding up danger, perhaps. Or someone who thought, stupidly, that boards would hold with the vehicles they drive around here. Regardless, Max feels the ground leaving from under his feet before he can even logic it.

FDR's hand falls away as they tumble down a long, painful passage, nearly steep enough to be a hole straight down to death; lucky them, they don't crash into pancakes, but Max hits his head as he goes, his mask scraped right out of his hand and a nasty scratch raked up his forehead. CLANG CLANG CRASH-- his brace slams the rock, bending uncomfortably as he goes. By the time he hits a floor, he's on his knees through a wild rush of adrenaline alone. His ribs and joints hurt, has some cuts and bruises more than likely -- and he is bleeding a bit greedily from that otherwise normal head wound, but he's lucky. Mask is gone, but face isn't completely cracked open on the way down.

He wipes blood out of his eyes, alarmed by how small the opening is; there's debris falling and he ducks, hands over his head, waiting to see if any rock decides to join them. So far, mostly wood and dirt. He coughs, looking around--

Pitch blackness.

Ah.

Shit.

He nudges around with his good foot, looking for the small pack he had on his shoulder. Couldn't have gone far.]

Hey -- you.

-- FDR.

[Oh, how sweet, he said your name.

Too bad this is the reason, huh?]

Edited 2016-03-27 06:28 (UTC)

[The only reason he probably doesn't wind up dead is that he's had plenty of practice falling. He broke his arm jumping off the roof of his house when he was nine, foolishly believing his cousins when they told him that his cape would let him fly. And for as little as he had been, it had felt like he had been falling forever. But then he joined the CIA where jumping out of airplanes with nothing more than a hope and a parachute would land him safely. He had enjoyed those long free falling moments. He had jumped from moving vehicles to moving vehicles on the freeway so damn much that him and Tuck had a playbook for the maneuvers they used.

So he doesn't immediately go dumb and dull the moment they're falling. He's shifting as best he can to protect vital body parts, to keep his head safe and his middle uninjured. But nothing can protect him from impact, and he falls hard on his side, on his arm, and his leg lands on fallen debris under them, rock and wood in such a way that he can feel the crack, the hot pain as it radiates through him, nearly dulls out the way his whole body aches from the fall.

There's not much time to wallow in it though, not when the boards and sand above them creak more, tumble down with growing velocity, and he has to roll away before pieces come crashing down on top of him.

So stunned by the situation he almost forgets he's not alone, at least until he hears NotTuck's voice. And he groans in response as he forces himself to sit up on his good arm, the other throbbing painfully at his side. It's not broken, he doesn't think, but he's fairly sure the god damn shoulder is out of its socket.

Great.

His ankle though. That he can't move without having to hiss through his teeth just to breath.]

Yeah, you okay?

Edited 2016-03-27 06:51 (UTC)

[He leans against a jagged wall in the tunnel, the musty, closed in smell of air making panic tickle his senses. He's not -- good, in closed off paces. He's not good at all with it. He just imagines running for his life, hearing the call of uproarious warboys tailing him. His hand moves to his face; no muzzle. Just more blood.

He needs a light. Needs to -- focus. Max, where are you? Tunnel. Tunnel, tunnel, not home, not the Citadel, not anywhere but some other world; moon, toxic. This guy is a shipmate. He's not bound by the hands. He can move. But it's still there, a niggling fear that wants to explode out into panic.

He doesn't respond to the question, FDR's voice tinny and distant.

Instead he breathes in sharply, rubs a hand over the back of his neck. It doesn't hurt. It's a burn, already healed, already a brand. It's long since passed. You're alright. Everything is alright. He squeezes his eyes shut. Don't let this get you. Focus. Don't let this turn into the medical chair all over again with Furiosa and Ino and Beverly. You're fine. Everything is fine. Just a fall. Long fall--

Just. Give him a moment. Sorry FDR.]

[He shifts when he doesn't hear an immediate reply, and everything protests the movement. Aches and bruises and cuts from the tumble down, he can't see them, but they're certainly making themselves known. But it doesn't matter. NotTuck isn't answering and that is enough to make him nervous. He digs into his pack with his good hand, pulls out a glow stick and breaks it apart. It takes a moment for the chemicals to mix and blend and actually start to glow, but once it does, it's got a surprising amount of light coming from it. He holds it up in the general direction he heard Max speaking from earlier, and catches sight of his dark profile.

Sitting. Not smashed under falling wood. And he breathes a little easier. If he was in better shape, he'd move over, but as it is, he's staying still for the moment.]

Hey, hey pal. You with me?

[Silence. The voices are trying to make him crumble, but he ignores them and zeroes in on the small world around him. Spot the differences. He's not muzzled. There has to be more.

Ah, yeah. That guy. One of these things is not like the other.

He shivers roughly before blinking back into the real world, wiping a little new trickling blood down into his eye. The light illuminates a scratched up and mildly anxious but otherwise decently healthy wastelander. Small favors. He seems to be a bit rejuvenated by the light and breathes through his nose noisily in exasperation, put together and focused.]

Mm... M'here...

[He's here. As here as he gets. He used the light to start looking for his fallen pack, eased by the telltale strap poking out in the musky and dim light. He starts to pull away small and loose rock to retrieve, doing his utter damnedest to focus. It's hard, but he can't let the trickle in his head turn into a geyser.

... The metaphorical one, anyway. Though the headwound'll find the effort to stop bleeding eveeeentually.]

Need to -- figure out an exit. Need more light.

[NotTuck answers and there's quiet relief at the sound. FDR might be a stubborn asshole, but the chances of pulling some unconscious body the size of NotTuck's out on top of his injuries just isn't very plausible. He knows exactly how heavy that body is, after all.]

...This is getting to be a habit. [He jokes softly as he holds the glow stick toward NotTuck so he can find whatever it is he's digging for and maybe because he's procrastinating actually checking out how bad his leg is. He really doesn't want to see it just yet. One problem at a time.

But it is a habit, to find NotTuck bleeding in some fashion or another. Maybe he's bad luck. Maybe NotTuck is just accident prone like a son of a bitch.]

I might...need some help before we start moving.

[Hey, at least he's not the one with a messed up leg. You poor sucker. Max finally gets his small pack clear and pulls it open, wiping his bloody brow on his sleeve as he goes. He sniffs, clears his throat, which isn't given any protection from the dust and toxic air -- then retrieves his network device and switches on the light toward FDR.]

Leg?

[Easy guess. Most of the time, when someone in his world needs help to move, they've hurt their leg. Granted he could be impaled, but from the man's voice and the lack of blood on his outfit, he's thinking (hoping) he's right. He shifts, his brace making a little creaking noise as it digs uncomfortably into the side of his knee.

So that's gonna need replacing.]

[He flinches at the light when it's directed his way, the light much harsher on his eyes than the greenish glow of the stick, but it illuminates better and he can see NotTuck, can see the blood thick down his face, the absence of a mask, and it dawns on him for the first time that he's lost the beard, looks more at Tuck in this moment than he honestly wants. Blood included.]

What happened to your mask? [Should he be concerned? NotTuck made the radioactive comment, so...he'll be okay, right?]

...Yeah, actually. [And he finally reluctantly waves the glowstick at his bloody ankle and grimaces at how wet his jean pant is with blood. Man, he doesn't even want to look.]

But...I dislocated my shoulder on the fall. Gonna need to pop it back in. [Because that he can handle. Because that has an easy enough fix.]

[Max nods, wordlessly shifting with his light focused forward. He does give the ankle a once-over -- and yeah, that's bad -- before moving around the back of FDR. Strangely, he doesn't have a compulsion to leave him behind. Funny, that. Instead he puts a hand tentatively on the shoulder, already in the position like he's equally familiar with popped sockets.]

Lost it when I fell.

It'll be fine.

[He'll get horribly sick in, like, four or five hours. It's fine. He was able to sit through it before; it just sucks and he'll certainly lose his lunch then. He waits patiently.

Are you ready?]

[He eyes NotTuck carefully when he comes closer, but not because he's threatened or concerned in any way. And maybe that's more because he can't shake the association of NotTuck and his partner, but there's intuitive trust here. At least about helping him. There's less trust in NotTuck's words. Mostly about being fine. He knows the type to fight through the pain. Takes one to know one, after all. And NotTuck is definitely the type.

So he trusts his eyes more as he watches him move. And for the most part...he does look okay. Head wounds are nasty though, if for no other reason than they bleed profusely even from a little wound. He'll take care of that after the throbbing pain in his arm is dealt with.

He takes a deep breath and nods.]

Mmh. Relax.

[He figures you already are anyway, but still. Pays to inform. He gets into the position of totally causing horrible pain to your shoulder (because let's face it, that's exactly what is happening when you correct a shoulder).]

On three... One -

[Yeah no he just pops it back into place right then and there.]

AAAAH. You god damn bastard. [He doesn't mean it Max, but you better believe he's calling you every damn insult under the sun as his arm is manipulated and shoved back into place.

But as soon as it's back in, the pain subsides almost immediately, even if he's still a little light headed from the whole ordeal.

Just. Give him a second to breathe and reorient himself here.

As soon as he does though, he's rolling his shoulder with a wince. In a perfect world, in which he did what he was supposed to do and they had the supplies, he'd sling it just to let it rest. But that's not an option here. So he'll manage.]

Ah. D-damn. Well. That was a rush. [Aka thanks, you rough bastard.]

Should at least wrap that gash so you're not bleeding in your eye. Don't suppose you have gauze in that kit?

[Hey, the anticipation hurts a hell of a lot, too. Did you a favor. He thinks, with a very slight smirk, because he can't help himself. He doesn't let it seep into his tone when he says, dryly:]

See what happens when you follow me around.

[He has a feeling you're still going to piss him off, though. He looks around the area with his light, dismayed by how narrow the area is. Hopefully the small crawlspace nearby leads to somewhere more spacious. Maybe the main tunnels. He has a feeling whoever was working here had been in the middle of creating a new tunnel down, was gonna put in a ladder, make it easier to enter the area instead of wander aaaall the way to the main entrance.

Some help that did.

He shakes his head at the inquiry.]

It'll be fine. S'already slowed down. I'll use a sleeve if it keeps up.

Yours'll slow us down more.

[Sorta. It's not the ugly mess he left all over the floor now. Granted you should really use clean bandages on wounds, but he's covered in dust already, so cleanliness is out the window. He looks around. Ah. We have plenty of wooden pieces. Enough to stabilize the leg.

He unwinds the imperator scarf he recieved from back home off his neck -- the one Furiosa had given him before they had left for the salt flats -- looking at it with a sort of mild disappointment before motioning to FDR's leg.]

Give me your leg.

Yeah, I'm starting to think I need to carry a first-aid kit around when I'm with you. [Because if the alternative is not seeing you ever again dude, he'll take the lumps. And shut up. That's not romantic at all. Or obsessive. It's just friendly.

He shrugs at NotTuck's protest, sure the man is capable of taking care of his own health. He'll offer, he won't hound. Tuck was always good with dealing with his own injuries too.

His face scrunches up though when Max is removing that scarf and gesturing at his leg and he can guess what this next step is. Of course, he doesn't get how important it is to Max, you damn man, or he'd use his damn shirt.]

...Yeah. Okay. [And he sticks the glowstick between his teeth before he's leaning forward to roll up the leg of his pants, which is surprisingly easy when he realizes there's a tear all the way up the length of his shin, where a rock or something must have caught him and slice through his pants and the skin of his leg. Well, the giant gash certainly explains all the blood. But the break is high on his ankle, where its already swollen and bruised, where something under his skin looks deformed and he can only assume its fractured bone.

As much as he can tolerate pain, he can't stop the grimace. This is going to a bitch to manoeuvre with. But the alternative is sitting in the middle of the god damn dark in an abandoned mine shaft without having any idea what's lurking, or what other threats there could be with the hope that NotTuck finds his way out and then remembers where the hell he is. Yeah, that's just not going to happen.

He gets his pant leg rolled up to his knee and gestures an invitation at NotTuck.]

Mm. Might want to try to call for help with your, ah.

[He wags his network device, never sure of the appropriate wording for it. Surely you have yours on you? ... Right?

Either way, he gets to work.

Max is at least nothing if not thorough and fast-moving. He is straightening out the leg completely and not bothering with talking through it; if FDR is any kind of pro at getting hurt (and Max is assuming so), he can bitch on his own time and let Max work without delay.

The leg wound is best left bloody, if only because it's slowed down and they don't have the materials to mop up blood already shed. Once he stabilizes the injury he begins to wrap the scarf firmly enough to hold the ankle and wound steady. The wood's sturdy to hold this much at least. It'll provide some movement.]

Gonna need this back when we're out.

[He wags a finger at the sullied scarf before glancing around for a decent route. Well. Gotta drag through the crawl space first. Hope you don't mind that soon, guy.]

[He eyes the comm that NotTuck is waving around and scowls flatly at him.]

What would be the point in that? I don't have coordinates. And for all we know we're a ten minute walk to the entrance. No need to worry anyone yet. [Nevermind the walk it would take to make it back to town even if it was just a ten minute stroll out of the cave. Between him and NotTuck he could handle thirty minutes on a busted up leg.

No. No he had no intentions of calling anyone.]

Let's just see-[And there's an inhale of breath as NotTuck sets his leg straight and ties it up, but no other complaint. Pain is something he's intimately familiar with. Being a field agent with sensitive information runs its risks and he spent enough time on The Farm learning how to take pain as easily as he dealt it out.]-See...uh...where we are before we jump the gun.

[He wouldn't have thought you'd be so eager to ask for help, NotTuck buddy.

He makes note that NotTuck wants his scarf back and he can't blame the man that. He'll make sure he gets it returned. Hell, he'll even try to get the blood stains out of it. Luckily, he's learned some tricks for that particular stain. It's kind of become a necessity.

Another steadying breath when he's done and then he's glancing at the crawl space with a thoughtful frown. Yeah, that doesn't look dangerous at all. What if the damn thing collapses around them?]

...You take point.

[He shrugs, moving toward the crawlspace.]

Figured you'd be smarter, inform people if you could. In case we're...

[He glances around the smaller area. Good thing he's not super broad-shouldered. He's quite not.]

... Hmm. Crushed to death.

[.................]

Also, wanted to get rid of you sooner f'I could.

[:) and then he starts his crawl through the tiny sad cave]

...If the walls come down around us, it's because you jinxed us. Just so you know. [Seriously, dude, don't you know better than to say things like that?

Shut up. He's totally smart. He just. Doesn't want to worry people. And by people he means Peggy cus he can't really imagine anyone else that would care much. Ouch. Those are kind of unpleasant thoughts.

He doesn't move immediately, watches NotTuck slink into the cave.]

What a day. [He grumbles, slow to move into a good position with his leg splinted. Luckily he's damn good at an army crawl and he can let his leg drag along the ground rather than putting it to any use. It's jostled by the constant drag, and his newly fitted shoulder that he's suddenly putting too much goddamn weight on again is shaky, but it's fine. It's all just fine. And he'll wiggle his way through behind NotTuck.]

So much for this shirt. [It's going to be sooooo ruined.]

If the walls come down, it's because you complain too loudly.

[Wow, his most coherent, non-mumbled grumble yet. He gets to the other side after a terribly long and miserable crawl -- his limbs all hurt, head throbbing fiercely. He's gonna have a hell of a list of bruises showing up in a day's time.

When he gets to the end of the tunnel he stands at the mouth of it, putting a hand out for FDR to grab; less horrible to pull him free, than to make him do all the work.

He ignores the quip about the shirt.

Because it's stupid.]

[Okay, this is fucking miserable. He really doesn't want to die like a damn ant. But he does grow a little quieter, not because of NotTuck's words, but because as they trudge on, everything gets a little harder, aches a little more, and by the time he gets far enough to the edge of the tunnel and takes NotTuck's hand, he's light-headed from the pain, slick with sweat that's only half from exertion.

So just give him a minute as he lays on the ground and just breathes for a few moments. But even then, he's eyeing the open mouth of the the mineshaft, there's plenty of paths to choose.]

Got any idea what direction we're going, or we just going on instinct here?

[He's keeping an eye on FDR's stamina. And dammit, he hates this. In another world, he would hardly have seen this guy, would have been able to ditch him easily. Except a.) Peggy wouldn't like that and b.) he doesn't want this guy to die. It's a struggle, when you're actually not that bad of a person. Not that Max would ever say he's not that bad, but he's a river in Egypt most days. He easily hefts FDR up to his feet, because the moment he lets him collapse might be wasted time they need.

And Max is certainly energized enough for the both of them. He looks a bit pale at the sight of the caves, because they're familiar in a way he can't really vocalize proper (not that he usually can, but anyway--). He shakes it off easily enough, though. Mr. Survivor here. Not going to let it trickle in when he's already too far down in the earth.

He takes a few steps forward, testing FDR's endurance when supplied with Max as a crutch.

We shall not speak of this ever.]

... Neither.

[Idea and instinct is thoroughly dead in the water.]

Pick one.

[He groans in protest when he's hefted up, but he doesn't actually fight it, hell helps where he can get himself standing up properly because he gets it. Underneath all the complaints he's just as much as survivor, so he shifts in NotTuck's hold, slings an arm around his shoulders to help alleviate some of his weight, and finally finds a position that will have him limping along.

Relax, bro. He definitely won't be chatting about this whole needing to be helped thing.

His brow arches though when NotTuck decides to leave the decision in his hands, he hadn't thought they had come that far, but far be it for him to disappoint. He doesn't answer immediately though, instead digs into the pack around his side and pulls out a compass and holds it up.]

Figure the entrance would be facing towards the city. Which was...south. [And he grows quiet as he stares at the hand on the compass and the tunnels around them before he's pointing at one.] Let's give that one a shot.

[It's not so much leaving the decision in FDR's hands out of trust, but out of the fact that Max literally has no clue where the fuck to go. Might as well give you something to do, man. He adjusts his grip and starts in the direction of that tunnel, his knee throbbing with each footfall. Stupid brace. It's a bust. He'll have to re-correct it, mend it.

He'll carry on wordlessly, then. And probably stay that way until his fellow mine-shaft adventurer gets sick of the sound of their own footsteps. He'll keep going until FDR needs rest... and ignore the fact that he's getting his own sheen of sweat, his head feeling light and his knee throbbing miserably in tune with his heartbeat.

He locks his jaw stubbornly and pushes forward. He won't get horribly sick for a few more hours. That's a small luxury most don't usually have. He has to make due while he can with that small skill. Mutation? Who knows what to call it.

How's that compass looking?

And what are the odds that this tunnel is caved in at some point ahead?]

[It hurts, even with most of his weight in NotTuck, there's no ignoring the pulsing throb in his ankle, or the burn in the cut, but he's not going to stop. Not if NotTuck is still willing to pull him along. Plus there's some pride at stake here. So he makes it, going on about three hours when he stumbles to a stop when he realizes that their chosen path had caved in at some point. Who knows how long it's been there. How thick that cave in is.

So there's the decision to be made now. Do they exert what energy they have left digging out rocks and hoping there's even something to get to on the other side, or do they backtrack at least three hours. Take a different route. But if this was the most direct route then there's at least as long of a trek any other way.

They're looking at several hours either way.

Maybe it was time to call out for someone.]

...whatcha thinking, man? Stick your light through and see if there's anything other than a damn wall of rock? I'll...I'll try calling Peggy.

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