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)
driftfleet2016-04-04 12:06 am
theroadwarrior) wrote in driftfleet2016-04-04 12:06 am
Entry tags:
OTA | recovering from a pitfall (and being stuck with you-know-who)
Who: Max Rockantansky and you!
Broadcast: N/A; action only
Action: Just a quick Starstruck log for Max!
When: April 1st and the few days after that.
Max eventually gets back to the Starstruck after his tumble into the mines -- and Beverly's hesitantly accepted medical assistance. But his brace is broken and he's been put on... temporary bedrest. Sort of. Kind of. Look, he has at least agreed to use the crutch until he could get his brace back in order, okay? And yes, Beverly will probably have follow-ups for his leg. He's not willing at all to do anything invasive with it, but... he's listening. More than he has before. There's a plus, right there, to having spent two days down in a toxic mine shaft with no mask and a gimp leg. He sleeps a little bit, but even after all that's happened, he's restless and quick to get back up on his feet.
He hadn't let anyone treat his other injuries, but they were much more minor. His the forehead gash under a bandage needs to be stitched. He's got bruises the size of fists on his torso from his miserable tumbling. And goddamn, he is tired. He stops by in the bathroom of the Starstruck and slowly pulls off his shirt with a pained grunt, revealing the sad patchwork of scrapes and purple mottled shapes. Ramse had been nice enough to get him heat pads -- he's slowly administering them to his shoulders and ribs. He can't reach the marks on his back, intermingled with black ink, but it's a start.
Once he treats himself (or potentially gets help, because lbr, he's sick as a dog), he's quick to hobble himself into the cargo bay despite said nausea and spreads out a collection of scrap metal, bolts, straps, and welding equipment. He can be found repairing his knee brace there with Rock under his leg, propped up on the dog's shoulder blades as Rock slumbers. He looks tired as hell, but at least he's not going off all over the planet like he had at the ice one.
Apparently he's pretty good with a welding gun; the end result is something a bit like this, mish-mashed between Tadashi's and his own slight modifications. It's functional, will keep the knee steady. Feel free to say hello while he's focused; we all love to interrupt him while he's busy, right? Or maybe you'll find him sitting in a chair, cycling through Rock's many dog talents: sit, lay down, speak, stay. He seems a bit less restless compared to the other times he's been confined here, but then maybe he's just really, really glad to not be stuck in a goddamn tunnel. Or maybe there's a tension eased there thanks to Beverly managing to treat him without anything horrible happening this time. Either way, a sick and limited Max busy with his usual routine is a contented one.
Broadcast: N/A; action only
Action: Just a quick Starstruck log for Max!
When: April 1st and the few days after that.
Max eventually gets back to the Starstruck after his tumble into the mines -- and Beverly's hesitantly accepted medical assistance. But his brace is broken and he's been put on... temporary bedrest. Sort of. Kind of. Look, he has at least agreed to use the crutch until he could get his brace back in order, okay? And yes, Beverly will probably have follow-ups for his leg. He's not willing at all to do anything invasive with it, but... he's listening. More than he has before. There's a plus, right there, to having spent two days down in a toxic mine shaft with no mask and a gimp leg. He sleeps a little bit, but even after all that's happened, he's restless and quick to get back up on his feet.
He hadn't let anyone treat his other injuries, but they were much more minor. His the forehead gash under a bandage needs to be stitched. He's got bruises the size of fists on his torso from his miserable tumbling. And goddamn, he is tired. He stops by in the bathroom of the Starstruck and slowly pulls off his shirt with a pained grunt, revealing the sad patchwork of scrapes and purple mottled shapes. Ramse had been nice enough to get him heat pads -- he's slowly administering them to his shoulders and ribs. He can't reach the marks on his back, intermingled with black ink, but it's a start.
Once he treats himself (or potentially gets help, because lbr, he's sick as a dog), he's quick to hobble himself into the cargo bay despite said nausea and spreads out a collection of scrap metal, bolts, straps, and welding equipment. He can be found repairing his knee brace there with Rock under his leg, propped up on the dog's shoulder blades as Rock slumbers. He looks tired as hell, but at least he's not going off all over the planet like he had at the ice one.
Apparently he's pretty good with a welding gun; the end result is something a bit like this, mish-mashed between Tadashi's and his own slight modifications. It's functional, will keep the knee steady. Feel free to say hello while he's focused; we all love to interrupt him while he's busy, right? Or maybe you'll find him sitting in a chair, cycling through Rock's many dog talents: sit, lay down, speak, stay. He seems a bit less restless compared to the other times he's been confined here, but then maybe he's just really, really glad to not be stuck in a goddamn tunnel. Or maybe there's a tension eased there thanks to Beverly managing to treat him without anything horrible happening this time. Either way, a sick and limited Max busy with his usual routine is a contented one.
no subject
"No. Not often. If I needed to remember to get from one place to another..."
He snakes his hand through the air, though the motion is heavy with weariness.
"Hours and minutes... often pointless. You have night and day. S'all you need."
no subject
Peggy might never admit to counting certain days. Days since losing Steve. Days since her brother's death. Days since that bizarre adventure in Russia.
"Some work requires precision. Forget hours and minutes -- I like to work in seconds."
no subject
He's having a good day, despite the pain. A good mental day.
"How ever do you do it."
no subject
What use is there in hiding her work, now? Least of all with Max. She isn't certain he understood precisely what she did -- although she'd dropped the word 'soldier' often enough, 'spy' is a trickier thing.
"It's all about margins of error. Mine have always been narrow."
no subject
He admits it in a quieted voice, gentle even. It's not something he talks about often. But then again, it wasn't often he talked until these passed few months. He feels like he's been here an eternity, with these walls and this bathroom and this crew. Nothing changes but everything did.
He glances to the side. What an interesting piece of work this wall is, huh? But he wanted to be equal in this exchange. Tit for tat. She offers, he does, however barebones his reply.
"I was supposed to count the seconds, once. There were..." He licks his lips. His stomach churns, but he's not sure if it's the illness or the topic that causes it. He pays it no attention. "... margins of error."
no subject
Peggy smiles to herself as she reassembles the aid kit. A place for everything and everything in its place. As she sorts this out, she lets the idea roll around in her head. Perhaps any true rule of law or sense of justice has long since deteriorated in the way Max sees the world, but now that she considers his existence in light of this new information? Yes, she supposes she can see the hollowed out indentations where justice used to be. Even in defense of his heroics, he spoke of fair trades. Of deaths avoided.
With a gentle click, she closes the kit. And when she turns to face him, her expression is nigh inscrutable.
"I suppose I could see that being the case. Provided I squinted while looking at you."
no subject
But then, it's been so long. So, so long.
"Mm." He glances distantly to the leather jacket hanging nearby. The police jacket that's more polished thanks to the Atroma, one and the same. Relic from the past. One of his few possessions left, especially now that the Interceptor had died a fiery death on more than one occasion. A distant look in his eye leaves him entirely missing her inscrutable expression; he's lost in his own little world, as he sometimes ends up. Sometimes it's hard to tell if he's talking to himself or someone else.
"Joined when I was... eighteen. After the black snow stopped... maybe younger. We tried..." He looks absolutely exhausted now; tired from his difficult journey with FDR in the mines. His hand squeezes his good knee, the other stretched out more. It's still swollen, still a miserable lump. "Wasn't going to fix anything, though. It was already over."
So. There you have it. The end of (nearly) everything.
He retreated into the Wastelands and that was that.
no subject
"You tried," she echoes. God, she'd known so many who tried. A brother lost at war and a scrawny punk in Brooklyn. Sousa, every damned day. Angie whose career always seemed a little too far out of her grasp. It's no secret that Max must've tried all his life to survive. But somehow, this sheds a different light.
"Eighteen," she breathes. "Hell, what a young lump you must've been."
Bittersweet is this realization.
no subject
There's a humor there, perhaps, but it's under a grim expression.
He shrugs.
"But the past is over. Talking about it only makes it harder to move forward." At least, that is apparently the case in his world. After all, while it's taught to remember the past to fix the future... it's a little more difficult when there's little to nothing left of the past. Max isn't one who believes their world will be okay ever again. He's not so optimistic. Really, if Furiosa and the wives can keep the Citadel alive and flourishing? That's as close to a good ending as they'll probably ever get.
Ever.
The world will wipe itself out. Of this, he's sure.
And he'll be hopefully dead before then anyway.
no subject
Her hip leans into the counter. And her arms cross over her chest -- snugly beneath her bust, making crisp silk lines in her sleeves. She stands most comfortably like this.
"I'm -- I'm glad to have learned something new. Thank you."
A piece of a greater picture -- given freely, and so she adds it to the mosaic that is Max inside her head.
no subject
"I'm not that interesting."
He considers her for a moment, lips twitching.
"You don't like it, do you. Not knowing something when the answers are close by."
no subject
She stiffens -- perhaps prepared to steady him on his feet if he seems too woozy.
"--Do you know what a codebreaker is?" Quid pro quo. "Good codebreakers pin down a lot of close-by answers."
no subject
The other's still a mess, still swollen. He's waiting for the medication to work. It's blissfully not hurting in general now; just when he puts too much weight on it. That's when the stars dance in his eyes and he curses.
"Too used to finding answers. You can't always have them."
He's not trying to be above her -- it's hard to explain the way Max's concern works, but the easiest and most basic fact is, he feels like he has to say these things. Remind people. It's all wrapped up in how badly he wants the people he's come to care about to not turn out like him. Peggy is certainly one of those people.
He clears his throat.
"But it's a... good quality to have."
no subject
She acknowledges argument, but counters it with one that's part ambition and part narrow-sighted. "There are always answers -- even if I'm not meant to have them."
And if she's not meant to have those answers? Clearly, she'll want them anyway.
no subject
"I'll remember that when I need them--"
Only, he sways to the side, his injured leg taking the brunt of his stagger, and he sees near-literal stars in his eyes when the pain jolts through his busted limb. His vision whites out for a moment as the knee buckles and he scrabbles to grip for the sink again. Somewhere in this split moment of time he thinks in a rather late revelation, maybe I shouldn't be standing.
"Ngh--"
no subject
Peggy is at his side in an instant. One strong arm braces against his back, while her opposite hand grabs firmly onto his elbow. "Steady, now," she cautions and holds his weight in place while trying to fish for the chair with her toes. It scrapes across the floor until its near enough to be his convenient seat.
"Sit back down. Have some water, for heaven's sake."
no subject
no subject
Her hands hover -- above his shoulders, nearly dancing down his arms to feel the swell in his thigh for herself. But her fingers tighten, and she resists the urge to be quite so forward in her concern. Max is a man seasoned in his years, who likely knows how to manage his pain better than she does. He isn't some young buck soldier who needs a firm and guiding hand. Sometimes, the hardest thing to do is nothing at all.
"Ice? I can get you ice."
There is a restrained concern in the back of her voice.
no subject
And of course, it's a good day. It's not a bad day. He nods.
"Ice... hnm... please." Look at those strained manners, like asking with 'please' is not something he has a bachelor's in. But that will work. He just needs to handle the pain until the knee stops being twice its normal size.