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

[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.)]

[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?

[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.]

[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.

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.

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?

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.

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?

[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.

[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?

[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.]]

[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]

[Max wouldn't say he's safe, but alright.

He snorts, though there's a tickling unease at the back of his neck.

He's not unused to it, in places like these, and a shifty glance around leaves him simply seeing the wandering crowds here and there, nothing out of the ordinary, no familiar faces. He tries to quell the unsettling feeling.]

... Like going fast, for long distances.

[Hnn.]

I build to pilot.

Not much for walking, hm? [its a tease, mostly turned on herself. She walked everywhere back home, forgoing horses and carriages and anything else. Going "fast" meant a brisk walk to her, not - whatever fast he meant]

Though considering where you are from, I imagine it is necessary, yes? To go fast.

[she glances over again and - pauses, frowning at the men milling behind Max. It's only with a bit of hesitation that she draws her gaze away from them to her company]

There is not a lot of that called for here, hm.

[He's about to reply, but that nagging unease sets him off again, and it's easy to see the metamorphosis in his posture — from mildly at ease to tense in his rounded shoulders, chin tucked even further against his scarf and eyes narrowing at the sudden departure of one of the salesmen. He knows something isn't right, knows from living aboard the station for too long that he's about to step out of what most would see as a crime.

Max is looking over Tempest's shoulder, though, his eyes moving from hers to them, trying to alert her first to her own predicament. He recognizes one of the faces. Two of them. Three. He breathes out his nose.]

You should go.

[It's probably all the time alotted to warn her, to make her leave if these men'll give her the chance. He's hoping they don't associate her enough with him to cause her harm, too. Or worse. There's a defensive, protective twist in his gut that he tries to always keep smashed down — such feelings aren't useful in his world, not if it's not for your wellbeing at the cost of others.

But this is kind of his fault. He knows them.

And they are closing in with caution, but with certainty that they're going to get what they came for. Hell, some of them look excited for the work to do.

"Remember me? I remember you, traveler," one says, tapping a heavy steel pipe against the floor. The others have guns, phasers. They don't wanna kill him; they'd've already done it.]

[it isn't the men gathering that make her tense up, but it's watching Max's body language change that triggers her own. This isn't an entirely unfamiliar situation to her, judging from the way she keeps her expression even, almost neutral. This was why she was comfortable here; this was she expected of people.

She tilts her head just a bit, eyebrows raising, silently indicating that she's seen the warning. And then her focus is on the men behind him instead, listening to their steps of the ones behind her as they close in. Taking stock, in a matter of speaking]

Oh, I probably should. [is her casual response. But she makes no move to go.

Her lips keep moving after that, the barely whispered words for a spell. When one of them speak up her eyes narrow on him]

[He cocks his head to the side as an exasperated frown graces his features for a moment; why does nobody ever listen to him? He really wanders if he just has the face of someone that nobody wants to listen to. If she plans on sticking around — then he'll at least try to take survey of the people around them, stepping closer toward Tempest.

The man with the pipe whistles, grinning even with bruises marring him from his last meeting with Max. "Your girlfriend willing to duke it out for your stupid mistakes? Fine then. But you're comin' with us either way, Nameless. Bet you'll fetch a pretty coin for labor somewhere."

Max isn't sure he should draw his gun just yet. His new ally seems to be doing a little something of her own, and if that works — that magic — then maybe he can get the jump on them well enough to stop it from getting any worse. Pull his phaser and shoot to kill.]

You gonna demonstrate?

[He looks at them but is really just directing it at her, voice low.

"Demonstrate this, you shit-" the man finally growls impatiently, moving to swing the heavy weapon at Max's head, as Max had done to him not too long ago.]

[she wishes she had her sword at hand, the one taken from her that would've allowed her to have one spell already to go while she could cast another. She's limited in that sense, but then again she has before as well. Her fingers twitch at her side as she feels the magic pooling there.

She scowls at the girlfriend comment, before glancing briefly up at Max. "Demonstrate", sure, that's what she was about to do.

Briefly, she smiles at him, the corner of her mouth quirking upwards in answer.

The man swings and Tempest moves as well, her hand shooting out, palm flat. She hisses out something and the spell explodes from her hand, right in the face of the attacking slaver. It erupts on contact, fire engulfing his head and torso almost immediately.

She doesn't wait; she's already spitting out the words to her next spell]

[ (゜Д゜;)

WELL FUCK THAT WORKS FOR ME.]

[More importantly — time to shake off the surprise of just... y'know, fire imploding nearby. Max is quick to draw his handgun and knows it's a longshot, but it's better than nothing. He fires twice, this time aiming to kill, unlike his prior attack against the thugs. One bullet makes it through a guy's forehead, between the eyes. Another hits the guy in the left side of the chest, but Max thinks maybe he's got some sort of — enhancement.

Space. He hates space.

He kind of expects them to try and kill him on the spot. Instead they descend in like rabid vultures, ready to attack with what weapons they have; Max grabs a barbed bat with his hand, hissing but pushing back against the white pain thrumming up his arm. It's nothing when you've got adrenaline. He slams his forehead into the man's chin, and yanks the bat from his hand, not yielding even when he feels a vicious swing to his lower back that nearly knocks him to his feet.

Through spittle and grit:]

Run!

[Once again, his sad attempt to make Tempest go.

Foolish drift fleet personnel. They always do this kind of shit with him.

He hates it.

Even if he... does it sometimes, too.]

[she visibly startles at the sound of a gun, wincing a little as she isn't used to how loud they are, and that close - she scowls as it breaks her concentration and takes her anger out on the next nearest slaver, planting a boot in the center of his chest and kicking him into - and through - one of the stalls.

Rather than trying for the spell again this time she goes with one that's a little less destructive and doesn't need the words, more fire only this time smaller, hitting another slaver in the shoulder]

You run, you bloody—

[turning her head to yell at him was a mistake, and she's cut off with a yelp as one of attackers hits her in the side with - something, she isn't sure. Whatever it is it hurts, and for a moment she has to catch her breath.

In any case, piss off, Max, she isn't leaving.

Deal with it]

[And that's the worst thing about this place, right there.

He'd rather get his ass kicked sad, alone, and without a prayer in the world. Company just isn't fair. To anyone. His hackles rise near instantly when she's struck, because even if he doesn't know her well enough to care for conversation of his own accord, he really is useless in how human he can be. Someone trying to help him? It's ridiculous, it shouldn't happen, but here they are.

He launches himself at the person attacking her, jamming his gun into their gut and —

His foot is pulled out from under him, from behind. He hits the ground hard, and is—

Dragged.

A bag is dragged over his head, breathing suddenly difficult, and memories pulse in his mind of warboys and wet rags and chains. It feels scratchy, rough like burlap, and he kicks and claws and makes nearly inhuman growls of panic and rage. Something prods into his side hard, and he feels his body grow taut, white-hot pain lancing. Electric prod. His fingernails are splintering against the floor as they try to pick him up and carry him like a coffin at a funeral. Only he's quite alive and is thrashing like a stuck but raging boar.

They can punch and strike all they want; it only fuels his desire to flee against all pummeling.]

[she's knocked to her knees and out of the corner of her vision she can see him getting dragged away. All it does is fuel her anger further. One of the slavers leans down and grabs her by her hair and she shoves her palm up, hitting him as hard as she can in the throat. Another has his legs swept out from underneath him, and the momentum is enough to scramble to her feet and pursue the rest of them and Max.

She leans over to scoop up one of the discarded weapons just in time to take a swing at one of the slaver's heads, the dull sound of metal hitting bone loud despite all the commotion. But it seems like the closer she gets, the quicker they are dragging him away, as she gets caught up fending off the ones still standing]

[One of the tragically bruised men waves a hand at the men, moving them along. Telling them to get the cargo back to the ship — that they're going to deal with the all too literal fiery bitch. Max can hear bits and pieces, all of it whirling together in a mess of sound and a taste of blood from his bitten cheek. It's hard to fight when exhaustion begins to slow his arms and legs against a legion of tightly gripping arms, but he damn well continues.

Until something hits him especially hard, and the breath flies out of him before he sags heavily and they begin to move him away down the nearest alleyway. Leaving Tempest to her fate against half of the men who are more than ready to take on a tiring fighter who is struggling to beat their faces in.

"Kill'r."

Slavers. Dickbags.

Max is a heavy but motionless weight being dragged without care, further and further away, like a man fated to a strong ocean current.]

[how many times has she heard that? Is the taunt she wants to shout back, but instead she takes her aggressions out once again on a poor, unfortunate slaver who stepped wrong.

It isn't that she can't hold her own; she's a decent fighter and now armed with a weapon, she can at least beat the hell out of some and set fire to the others - her preferred method of combat, with people like this.

But she's slow and her side feels as though it's on fire, and even though she puts up a good fight, she's overwhelmed soon enough. One good hit sends her staggering back to hit a somehow still standing wall, her borrowed weapon skittering out of reach. Still, almost immediately she's gasping through the pain, working up to a spell to keep the men at bay as they descend on her]

PART A | Max and Tempest (and Makie)

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1/2

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