SLAVERS PLOT LOG |closed-ish. this is why we don't get nice things, bud.

[theroadwarrior]

Who: Max, Tempest, and a buttload of others who want to be involved (and slavers).
Broadcast: N/A
Action: that shitty junkstation what up
When: IDK TODAY SURE.

SUMMARY:

Max helped Beverly out with some shady people a while back. Well. They didn't appreciate that. Cue them deciding to wail on Max and Tempest and drag the guy off to sale on the slave trade market. That just won't do, who else is gonna grunt and complain and accidentally punch or threaten small children on the fleet? Rescue squad, assemble.

(AKA there will be a Part A thread and then future open threads for rescuing or just... y'know, an excuse to beat the tar out of some terrible people. Also maybe a thread for Max after the fact?? Who knows.)

Comments

PART A | Max and Tempest (and Makie)

[theroadwarrior]

[This is how Max dies.

No, kidding. But this apparently is his thought process when just about anyone catches him out and about. On the bright side, he's in a fairly decent mood — and is mostly there, mentally, so listening and actually being a contributing force to a conversation, however little, is actually a thing. He's just casually perusing the display of a store front, practically flustered in his fangirling of the machinery listed at steep, ridiculous prices with his nose nearly at the window.

It's easy pickings for him to be pecked at by particular nosy people.

(So basically almost anyone he knows.)]

[noprophecies]

[Tempest frequents the waystation far more often than the planet, it being the sort of place she's comfortable hanging around in - as odd as that sounds. And what better way to do so than by bothering one of the old men she's come to befriend? It's one of her favorite things to do, and as long as Max isn't (seriously) telling her to get lost, he's earned himself someone to accompany him around the stalls.

Her second favorite thing to do is learn, and unfortunately for Max, that means questions. What does that do, what do you use that for, and so on. Most of this nonsense is foreign to her, so all the more reason to ask questions. And hey, it gets him talking! Which is always a plus]

You really enjoy this sort of thing, don't you?

[theroadwarrior]

[How dare you catch him not being a pillar of bitter grumbling.

He looks at her with some surprise, eyebrows raised, and places her quickly enough. He's not exactly the giver of names around here, but he's at least learned to be more open to — companionship? Sure, companionship. He's got a very small well of social energy, but at least he hasn't needed to spare any today, so he's full up.

He looks from her to the window again, trying not to look a little embarrassed.]

S'what I'm used to.

[Since before he can remember, he's always loved cars and machinery and how it all runs. He's a speed junky even now, even if there's not as much enjoyment in it these days as when he was young and spry. And, y'know, not a psychotic. He considers the thought with a light frown.]

Like building n' moving.

[Always moving. Jessie used to chide him for never slowing the hell down.]

[noprophecies]

[oh no, Max, Tempest zeroes in on that sort of thing. Mostly because she finds it endearing, and it encourages her to tease in most respects. But this time she gives it a pass - less because she doesn't know Max that well and more because she genuinely wants to hear what he has to say. He's a man of few words - it'd be foolish of her to shut him up right away because she overstepped]

The mechanical bits or the technology bits?

[it's all the same to her in the end, as they all are things you wouldn't find in her world] I have seen gears before, but used for all sorts of things. For example.

[theroadwarrior]

Mmm... Technology, not so much.

[He got used to the futuristic technobabble, can handle shuttles and take them apart, put them back together. But it's not really a puzzle piece that fits in well on him. He shrugs.]

Cars. Vehicles. Engines.

[He's quiet for a long moment, the thoughtful furrow of his brow the only indication that he's likely got more to add. He considers his world carefully, consciously making an effort not to look his own reflection in the eye.]

Home's... simpler. Gears are, um. Treasures.

[noprophecies]

Oh - [she lights up a bit] I have seen cars before. Different kinds, a friend showed them to me. You work on those?

[all she knew was they were a quicker form of transportation, and they came in funny shapes. She'd never actually seen one in person, though. She glances up at him, head tilting curiously]

Treasures? Are they rare?

[theroadwarrior]

Extremely.

[He glances at her, sparingly but open enough. Not quite friendly, but not closed off.]

Home's no good. Most's, mm... gone. It's mostly just sand.

Finding gears means trading for food, building a weapon, a vehicle. Rust or no, it's important.

[noprophecies]

That is what your captain friend said, when we last spoke.

[she can't imagine a world like that, let alone one where things like these were considered precious. It reminded her that for all of her world's shortcomings, for all that she hated it, there were worlds that were far worse in comparison. And that the people from them did not feel the same as she did]

So it is like currency. You can build all of those things? Vehicles and weapons both?

[theroadwarrior]

[He blinks, caught off guard. Surely, she's talking about Furiosa.]

Ah... yeah.

['Friend'. He's still adjusting, even now.]

Can be currency. I learn to build whatever I needed. If you don't you'll die quick.

[He blows out a breath, looking mildly unsatisfied.]

Not a lot of building to do here.

[noprophecies]

[she hums a little in understanding, as much as it's completely unfamiliar to her. She understands the necessity to survive, at least]

I can imagine, from what you have told me.

Can you not build for others, though? Perhaps ask if anyone needs anything?

[theroadwarrior]

[He steps back from the window, his own way of cutting himself off.

The prices are bad, not worth it, even with his secret fawning.]

... Sometimes. People in most places prefer their own. Someone, hn... safer-looking.

[He turns to her, chin tucked into his scarf, splotted with what seems to be the remains of shuttle oil from repair work. Every inch of him reflects his lifestyle, even now, even with cleaner clothing and a little less beard. He'd probably clean up nicely, if he weren't so determined to be a scruffy desert hobo. He's got his properly oiled leg brace and his old collection of scars and his callouses and heavy forearms. Working guy, always trying to find jobs. Found plenty here, some not so clean.]

I do what's offered. I can pilot.

[And if there's a surprisingly quiet group behind him, so far innocent enough in their traveling, he doesn't know about it. It'll only be when even more men wander out from an entirely different walkway that things might seem concerning.]]

[noprophecies]

[had she known him a little better, and felt a little more confident in understanding him, she would have reached out and tugged him right back. But instead she purses her lips and steps into the space he just left, lifting a hand to get the the attention of the man selling the pieces.

Does she intend to haggle for some gears? Damn right she does. She has nothing better to do, aside from speaking to Max anyway. And it was something she was decent at. She glances at him over her shoulder]

You look plenty safe to me. [she says with a raised eyebrow. Maybe she wasn't the best judge of that, though, considering she felt right at home on the waystation. Still, she shrugs]

Do you like piloting as much as you like building things?

[she gives the quiet a group a passing glance, always alert for when people start to gather, but - as the man behind the stall draws her attention away to argue prices, she misses that a few more have joined the group]

PART B | the slaver ship | open to whoever goes in to help

[theroadwarrior]

[It's a decent-sized ship — smaller than a drift fleet ship, and yet far more cramped full of expendable crewmembers. Some of them are surprisingly young, clearly bought or dragged into the life to be taught how to be slavers themselves, someday. But the majority of the crew are the usual dastardly lot you'd find, shuttle oil under their fingernails and stolen goods littering the interior. They clearly keep up stock well.

There's no sign of Max in the front section of the ship, not in the cargo bay, but one may find a handful of trapped men and women who are no doubt about to be sold off themselves. Unlike Max, they're more fragile, clearly picked for being weaker and easier to steal away than for the revenge they'd sought against the wastelander.

Feel free to help release these poor souls. Maybe beat up some terrible slavers, yourselves.]

PART C | closed to whoever... to be determined mkay (i'm great at plans)

[theroadwarrior]

[Max is near the front of the ship, where they apparently have their lounge room — or inspection room, in Max's case. Bruised and bloodied up, he was easy pickings for their wandering hands to come across the strange writing on his back — it was easy to see, then, that Max was quite familiar with being a salable object, something worth a good amount of credits. They've left him hanging in quite the familiar way: update down, his arms bound behind him and his feet hooked by chains on his ankles around an old hook, gagged and properly left to easily read aloud when the attacking started elsewhere. Blindfolded, for extra insult to injury.

Max keeps an ear perked, listening and straining to understand.

Help, maybe? He squeezes his eyes shut and attempts to swing right off the hook, but to no avail. He'd spent so much time struggling earlier, he feels like he's entirely made of weights. The old rag in his mouth tastes of blood and oil as he grits his teeth against it, half-conscious. He's not badly hurt, not like Tempest likely was...but he's disoriented, getting far more lost in himself the longer he's stuck here with the blood rushing to his head.

Waiting for help seems like the best choice, and he's doing his best to not get swallowed up in his own mind, his own memories. Jiggling the chains reminds him of times he wishes he could easily cram in his pocket and lose track of. Heavy footfalls echo down the hall toward him: one of the crew members, clearly outdone by whoever attacked the place.

He hears the cock of a gun, feels the muzzle of it against the brand on the back of his neck.

Maybe an attempt to take people out with him.

Max swallows hard, wriggles uselessly, and expects to be dead, sightless and voiceless.

Maybe he'll come back, like Wanda.

Maybe.]

[kill_switch]

[Furiosa came into it late, but she hit the ground running as soon as she got the location from Makie. They had attacked the slavers in a group effort, and Furiosa brought to the fight the fierce, raw, ruthless nature of a Wastelander in a bid to survive.]

[Except it's not her hide she's saving this time, but Max's. He'd saved her, she owed him, in a way that was eternal and everlasting; it's personal, and lights her with a brutal fire.]

[As that dust clears, she catches the sight of someone sneaking off from the fray and she immediately follows after, reloading her shotgun and raising it as she steps around the corner, right hand over the trigger and left nub propped under it for stability.]

Back off, schlanger!

switchin to prose bc this is a very prosey scene!!

[theroadwarrior]

"Whoa whoa whoa now—" The battered man uses the poor hanging wastlander as a meatshield, his gun still aimed at the blindfolded Max, whose bare back is directed at Furiosa before he's spun haphazardly around. He grunts as the chains at his ankles bite his skin, his bum knee radiating pain from the pull.

But he's at least in one piece. Bruised, cut, but apparently only given a beatdown more than anything else; after all, he'd be a pretty worthless slave if he were dead or in poor health. Max isn't able to see Furiosa beyond the strip of cloth around his eyes, nor is he able to speak anyway, but he can almost feel her chaotic energy radiating in front of him.

"You're gonna get him killed. Pretty sure being sold off is a better fate, huh?"

The gun metal presses against a button on his spine.

"Put the gun down or I'm gonna blow a hole in his throat."

He flinches only minutely when calloused fingers grip the side of his face to steady him from swinging.

Re: switchin to prose bc this is a very prosey scene!!

[kill_switch]

"He dies, you die. You really want to throw your life out on a slave?"

Furiosa would prefer to have Max alive and in one piece, but she doesn't usually negotiate and is trying to figure out how to play this. She doesn't lower her weapon just yet, but she also doesn't close the distance.

"He's not even a good slave. Knee is shit, he's willful. See that brand on his neck? That guy is dead now. You want to live you'll let him go."

Hopefully he buys that, but she's tense; ready to act just in case.

[theroadwarrior]

"Seriously?" The guy wrinkles his nose, but doesn't move. He must figure that the moment he steps out from behind Max's hanging form, he's going to get blasted. He cocks his head to the side instead, trying to understand this woman and the people who've invaded the ship. "Why're you risking your neck over an old dysfunctional slave? Why go to all this trouble? Anybody's replaceable in a universe like this. Hell, I can find more men anywhere. Why not just get yourself a new slave, teach that one better? I'll kidnap y'one, if you want. I got connections."

[kill_switch]

"He did the same for me."

This guy had assumed she was on the other side of slavery and that was a mistake. One step too far and she's got him; she just has to goad him out. She keeps her aim on him but risks a glance at Max; he looked pretty bad off but not dire, and there wasn't much he could do to help her out from there.

She needed to provoke this guy into engaging her.

"So what's it going to be? Cut your losses and live or insist on dying here for him?"

[theroadwarrior]

If there's any way to get at Max's brittle old heartstrings, it's reminding him of the past - of relatively decent things from the past. He feels a swell of something he's too afraid to label in his chest, and when he feels the gun moving from his neck he knows he has to focus. A split second can be life or death, even for Furiosa, armed and ready.

It's reckless and could get him shot, but he fears more for what he knows is the man moving to retaliate against Furiosa; he throws his head backward with all the force he could muster, surprising the man and hitting the gun itself with his skull. It fires a shot, narrowly scraping along the crown of Max's head and leaving his already partially deaf ear ringing.

But it's good. He can't see from the blindfold but it's good; the man's thrown off balance, his aim ruined. Furiosa can handle him no problem, he thinks. He hopes as much, anyway. Hopes he at least helped her evade death - because like hell is he letting her die on his behalf. Not for someone like him.

[kill_switch]

Everything seemed to happen at once; the slaver moved, Furiosa moved, Max moved, the gun went off - Max - but Furiosa's already closing the distance, flipping her shotgun around, and slamming the butt of it into the slaver before he can regain his stance. He drops his gun, but he grabs hers, and what ensues is a grappling contest not much unlike her first meeting with Max.

They're down on the ground and throwing punches and each fighting for superiority of the shotgun, fingers grazing along the barrel, the trigger, she pins him and it goes off over her shoulder - Max - she looks back at him and the slaver takes advantage, connecting a fist to her jaw that sends her reeling. He reloads, she recovers, and they're at it again. The shotgun gets pinned between them, she's got her hand on the trigger and he wedges his over it, trying to shove the muzzle under her chin

"Goodnight, Sweetheart." He says, but in that last moment she's able to get her left nub over the barrel and shoves it down, letting him squeeze her finger into firing, and he goes limp. The sound rings in her ears, the stench of gunpowder, blood and gore overwhelm her, but it's not unfamiliar. She can't say it is.

She rolls off of him and staggers to her feet, then stumbles over to Max and immediately tugs off the blindfold and the gag.

"Fool ... next time stick with fighting nature." There's something of an underlying affection to her words, though, as she puts her shoulder under him and lifts, trying to free his ankles from the hook.

[theroadwarrior]

He waits with bated breath as the skirmish happens, putting faith in Furiosa's fighting prowess — and while he's startled by the gunshot, by the sound of a bullet whizzing by his ear, he finds comfort that the shotgun blast and subsequent sound of Furiosa's labored breathing means she's come out the victor. He squints into the light as Furiosa removes the blindfold, revealing a face of many colors thanks to forming bruises. There's a plip-plip of blood from the back of his head where the bullet had narrowly avoided entering his skull.

All in all, they've been worse. Much worse. A sore body, no matter how miserable, is a victory. His blue-gray eyes flick to catch her, scanning her and still revealing him to be on high-alert. He's strung up with his shirt yanked down and — well, it's something one doesn't want to relive for very long. Every fiber of his being wants to flee and claw and rip himself away, right off the hook.

But he's more concerned with Furiosa, so he looks her over.

"Usually do," he grunts, and then clenches his teeth in pain as she moves to try and get him down. It's not the most pleasant experience of his life — he can't really help her, either, exhausted and dizzied by being hung for too long. When he's successfully freed he flat-out collapses, his muscles aching and weight uncarryable for the moment until he can get his wits about him again.

If one didn't know any better, you'd think he just said ow under his breath.

"You — okay? How're you here?"

Aha.

He didn't think he'd be getting away.

[kill_switch]

Furiosa is sporting her own collection of fresh bruises from the fight, promising to get darker in the next few days. Her lip is split, but overall that's the worst of it. She looks back at him in concern, but doesn't hold his gaze long in preference to getting him down.

Once he's on the ground, she pulls her knife and cuts his bonds, works off the chains from his ankles.

"Makie put out a call. A group of us attacked together and overran the ship."

She sits with him on the ground and touches her forehead to his, reaching up to cradle the back of his head, not minding the blood and hoping not to upset his wound; but she has been worried, furious, a deep, instinctual panic that she hasn't felt since they arrived.

"Fool."

[theroadwarrior]

Max startles only from being too dizzy to tell what's what (and maybe because he almost expects a slap upside the head for just being him, let's be real), but then all the tension drains out of him and he relaxes into the forehead touch. He's exhausted, but this is the most relieving thing — freed, in decent health, and not being carted across space, away from everyone else. He closes his eyes and focuses on that.

"Mmhm. That's me." A pause. "Didn't think I'd get out. Was worried..." He hesitates, opens his eyes, half-lidded gaze directed to the floor, where there's a smudge of blood. "Was worried everyone would think I left on, um. Purpose."

Bound and faced with death or worse, and that was one of the biggest concerns, beside the first — that the woman was potentially killed because she was around him by chance. He frowns deeply. "Nobody died? From - our side?"

Because he couldn't handle that. It's too much, for people to die on your behalf.

[kill_switch]

"I don't know." She answers honestly, keeping the contact for a moment more before leaning back, her hand still at the back of his head, fingers lightly pushing through his hair. "They were still fighting when I left."

She leans back further to look toward the door, pausing to listen for sounds of a fight. She's still mulling over his earlier comment, because he's not wrong; she wouldn't have faulted him for leaving. But once she had any inclination he'd been taken? Her presence here is just a small indication of the fury she would have thrown into trying to find him.

"Let's make a pact, then. Let's not leave each other behind."

She looks back at him, and there it is. He's her only remaining connection to the Wives, the Vuvalini, to that world she left behind. He's the catalyst to its survival. She wouldn't have faulted him leaving, but she's glad he's here.

Gently, she retrieves her hand and stand, looking to get him a cup of water.

"We should be going. Get you to safety."