driftfleet | first one to make that doctor who joke loses

[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.

[Max is considering their options even as FDR lists them. They could begin the miserable process of digging... And that could either give them some results, or... bury them in the case of a cave-in. Not pretty options. Maybe best to try that last. He taps his fingers on his good knee, nodding.]

Call for help. What about...

You stay here... work on communication. I'll go back -- see if the others are dead ends. Can come back and take you through if any gets us back up top. Can get there and back in -- three hours, f'I move fast.

[He licks his lips, summoning up more words. They taste like dirt in his mouth.]

We shouldn't be too far from the, ahm... Exit. Problem is knowing how far down we are. Feels like there are inclines. Maybe levels. Need to map our progress so far.

[He pulls a thick, strong cloth from his pack, and a ink pen. Judging from the map he's already started of the moon, he's been clearly using free time to map out places -- he marks exactly where the trees are, the area they'd fallen. Then he carefully measures the time and distance in his head and draws their path so far. The forks in the road are mysterious little prongs were they haven't been.]

Even if the paths aren't open, I might be able to find a stop to climb up.

[His lips twist into an unappreciative frown as NotTuck talks. But he lets him finish.

There's something to take into account in his words. There's more than likely several levels, inclined paths or even elevators or ladders. But if this place is in such bad shape there's always the chance that the ladders will be broken or the elevator won't work. But those are hopeless thoughts so he just nods in agreement. They've just got to keep finding ways to move up.

And even though he knows there's nothing in this room, he still can't help the curious glance upwards. Nothing but solid rocks.]

Not sure that's a good idea. [And he shoots NotTuck a pointed glance. He's too close to the other man not to feel the limp in his walk and it's got nothing to do with the added weight of FDR clinging to him. But that probably doesn't help. NotTuck is more injured than he's letting on too. And if he loses him somewhere in the caves there's a chance he'll never find him again.]

Why don't you sit down while I call. We'll move again in twenty. Then we can move together, it'll save us hours if you don't have to come back for me.

[GDIT don't leave him NotTuck. He likes you, but not enough to sit still in a cave for several hours in the hope you'll come back for him.]

I'd move faster--

[Rude, but honest. He cuts himself off though, squinting.

And yeah, Max looks absolutely ready to dispute otherwise at the comment of it being a not-so-good idea -- because he has quite a few reasons why he thinks that it's about as good as they're going to do, with the consideration of ~~their~~ FDR's injuries. but then he scans the man's face in the dimness illuminated around them and he can tell the guy is going to be a stubborn ass about it. And apparently, he's as good at that as Max is.

And Max doesn't feel very good anyway. With an indignant huff, he slides to sit against the wall. His leg is already at the ready to bitch at him, at the remotest idea of moving again.]

.... Hrmgh.

Twenty minutes.

[Says the guy who is kinda' paler than usual, actually.

He's a wastelander though, it's tooootally fine. He can handle toxic sickness.]

[Yeah he knows he'd move faster, but he doubts he'd move so fast that it saves them any time in the end, or effort. But NotTuck cuts himself off and FDR is thankful for it. He doesn't want to waste the energy on being stubborn, but he would have.

Instead he sinks down on the opposite side of the tunnel from NotTuck, eyes him for a moment. Maybe its the hue of the lights, but he's really not looking all that good. And yeah he's bloody, and sweaty, and he's got some sort of leg injury going on, but it looks a little more than that.

He'll worry about that later. For now he pulls out his comm and tries to call up Peggy, leaves her as brief a message as possible about what happened, tries to explain where they fell, and hangs up, hoping she gets the message, but through all this rock, he's got no idea what the reception on these devices are.]

[Max humors him. And, unconsciously, his own mind. He bows his head and closes his eyes and tries to get a little rest in -- and hey, at least he trusts FDR to not murder him in his sleep, should he actually go to sleep. That's good, right? He fades in and out, mostly thanks to the sudden roiling of his stomach. It's been -- almost four hours now? Maybe a bit more? Time is hard to keep track of.

When he blinks back into reality, though, he's reading a long enough passage of time on his network device. He stands up as quickly as his sore and aching body lets him, the vertigo making him stagger a bit.]

Need to move.

[He winces, though, hand moving over his stomach. And yeah, okay, that's not good. Feels like food poisoning almost, but he knows it's coming from the air illness -- he's had it once before, when he was stubborn and refused the mask. Down here, it's a little worse. This place is probably toxin city. He turns away and gives FDR the benefit of not getting vomited on (you're welcome) as he throws up the limited contents of his stomach, which is a concerning mixture of dark-red, smelling a coppery tang of blood beyond the bile.

He coughs, wiping his mouth, and rasps:]

... Great.

[He doesn't sleep, and it's got little to do with his trust for NotTuck and a lot to do with his distrust of where they are. But then not sleeping for days at a time, that's something he's used to. It's been a necessity on missions. Hell, sometimes he even has stims on him to keep him going. He wishes he had some now. Because this is boring as hell, staring at rock formations and considering their chances of ever finding their god damn way out of here.

His attention turns to NotTuck when he jerks himself awake, and is practically jumping up to his feet and he's not quite so eager to move. Mostly because he can see the guy's discomfort even in the dark. And before he can even ask about it, the dude is vomiting.

Ew.

His nose scrunches up in an attempt not to get a whiff of that mess.]

What the hell is-...[Fuck you, NotTuck.] You need your mask after all, don't you?

[... Well, hey, he feels a little better.

Rest in peace, lizard meal, though.

He shoots a look in FDR's direction, unimpressed with the exclamation. Or the fact that he's poking at something that is kind of a fact. Sure, he needs the mask. Or he'll get sick. But even still, Max is a stubborn-ass mule about it. A pale, sweat, stubborn ass.]

... I don't need it.

It's not gonna kill me.

...Seriously? You're gonna play that game still? [He's a little concerned now, because well, he kind of needs NotTuck's support and if the man is keeling over on him or passing out or throwing up on his god damn shoes, that's a problem. For both of them.

Shit.]

You need to take care of your damn self...Here. Here. [And he pulls off his mask and holds it out, before pulling it back in.] After you take a drink of something.

[He hesitates. Looks at FDR for a moment, pale with a sheen of sweat in the dark.]

You'll get sick.

... Bad idea to get sick with a broken leg.

Eventually. [It's not like a point he can even argue.] But I need you. Well. So. Damned if we do, damned if we do at this point, man.

[Well... fine. Far be it for him to argue for your health.

He looks with a half-lidded dry stare.]

If you pass out, m'leaving you here.

[But he moves to retrieve his water container, taking a swig (he's not sure why you're so fussy about the smell of vomit; it's not that big of a deal, wow, FDR, prissy much). He takes the mask without further ado. Still looking like a sourpuss about it all the while. He doesn't particularly feel a big difference in the air filtering -- but then, they're in a goddamn mineshaft. So.]

We need to keep moving.

[Oh he is soooo much prissier than he's letting on. Take the small blessings you get here, Max.

He'll ask for it back if he starts feeling sick, but right now he needs NotTuck a little better off. For Selfish reasons, and also because...god if he can't help but like the guy, even if it's just for his face.]

Got it. [And he doesn't want to admit how much his body aches when he pushes himself up with the help of the sharp wall, so he doesn't, bites back the groans and complaints.]

Okay. Okay, I'm good. [And he holds his arm out for NotTuck to grab.]

[Max doesn't utter any complaints as he reaches out to pull FDR's arm back over his shoulder. He just adjusts as needed, knee complaining at the weight, and pushes forward toward the next tunnel. It won't take too long for FDR to get sick, he knows -- so he keeps an eye out for that, as the time passes.

He's focused primarily and keeping them going and stopping only when FDR gets too tired or pained to carry on. Max has learned in times like these to block out the voices, the tricks of the eye that sometimes haunt his steps. Instead he puts on his determined, grim look as they go and falls into a singular purpose: get out.]

[You know what else is good for keeping those voices away, bro? Talking. Talking probably helps alot. Or hopefully it does. Because it's how FDR keeps himself distracted through the pain, through the nausea that's rolling through his gut. It's random things. Shit to complain about their ship. About being taken. About reality shows back home and how much he hates them. That he prefers movies. TV shows. His favorite one is one called CHiPs, its about dudebros that are cops and partners stopping crime. Of course it's his kind of show.]

So I got a question for you. Why do you do it? I mean, if your home is shit and there's no saving it, why do you try to survive?

[He glances uncertainly at FDR, considering his options. For a moment, he seems ready to ignore the man's rambling altogether; it wouldn't be the first time, and honestly, it's a question that he has a hard time with himself. Because sometimes... he doesn't want to survive. Sometimes he wonders when something will finally do him in, make everything easy and gone. The voices'll leave him alone then. Unless he goes to hell, which he hasn't ruled out. He's not a religious man -- hell, those are a dying breed at home -- but he figures if god had seen some of the shit he pulled, he wouldn't be very happy.

He shoves the mask back in FDR's face with a grunt.

And figures... why not? At least if they die, he'll have died knowing a little more.

FDR and his good ol' stupid curiosity.]

You don't get to take the easy route when you have blood on your hands.

[That's one reason, at least. One simple but honest one. And...]

And I was... looking for something.

[He'd argue, but really, he's not a fan of vomiting, so he takes the mask and slips it on even as he listens to Max. And...well, he kind of gets it. Maybe he wasn't directly the cause of his parents' death, but...to a nine year old boy with shitty coping mechanisms, he blamed himself for it anyway and that guilt had never exactly left him.]

...Yeah? Who's blood? And what were you looking for? [C'mon, you didn't think he was gonna drop it with that little detail, right?]

[His expression closes off, darkens.

He doesn't answer the first question.]

... Still trying to figure that out.

[Home, his mind supplies to him truthfully.]

first one to make that doctor who joke loses

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