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

Entry tags:

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

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.)

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[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!

"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.

"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.

"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."

"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?"

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.

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.

Edited 2016-10-29 16:18 (UTC)

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.

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."

Edited 2016-10-29 19:08 (UTC)

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.

Edited 2016-10-29 21:08 (UTC)

"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."

Edited 2016-10-29 22:54 (UTC)

Max winces just a bit, but he at least is able to get upright quickly enough. If there's one thing you could gleam from Max in the throes of danger, it's that he's amazingly resilient. He'll run a mile on a bum leg and not sweat it until he's at the finish line with a grapefruit for a knee. Looking at Furiosa, he sighs softly.

"Pact, then," he says, holding a hand out. His own method of agreement, as it's always been. "Won't leave for good. Not unless we tell each other."

Then there'll be no doubt.

Because she's the link, too, and he's not about to let her slip away when he could do something about it. Not that he sees Furiosa as a runner, but it quells his fears to know that she'd never walk away without letting him know.

It doesn't take a second thought to clasp her hand in his in a firm grip; pact sealed. It was comforting to now this; that he could trust him, that he wanted her there, that they shared this deeper connection from the Wasatelands, even if they were from different parts of it; she wanted to settle, to be with her people, to create a better environment, and he - he was a loner. She's even a little surprised that he's open to this; she still remembers the way he slipped off without comment back at the Citadel. But, things were different here; the rules for survival were different. As infuriating as it might be, sticking with the Fleet and around people held its own security with it. That, that human connection, was the key to survival here.

Eventually, she lets go of his hand, finds a bottle of water, and tosses it over to him. Then, she finds the slaver's discarded pistol and hands that over to Max as well, before recovering her own shotgun.

"Stick behind me."

He's not in any condition to engage if they meet up with slavers on the way out, and while she trusts in Makie's abilities and the others who had stepped up to help, she doesn't want to assume anything and run into some errant hostile while Max was compromised.

He catches the water, drinks a healthy few gulps to quell his thirst. He has to adjust his shirt to fall back semi-naturally into place, though judging from a few tears in the fabric and some blood stains, there's not much chance for it to be recovered.

... To a normal person, anyway. Likely he'll use it as rags after; waste not, want not. He limps after her, forcing his battered knee to keep up with her speed, regardless of the pain. He's sweating from it after even just a quick pace down the hall, but he's determined, biting his already bruised lip hard enough to draw blood.

He'll stay behind you, not gonna fall back.

No running at all now, he supposes. Not ever.

Furiosa tries to keep the pace a little lighter for him, in recognition of his condition, but she is pushing them to make it back to the shuttle as quick as they can. She's on high alert, a sharp tension that keeps her taking the little moments before rounding corners or coming to an intersection in the corridors to pause and listen.

The closer to the cargo bay they get, the longer get moments become; she wants to know add much of the climate before stepping in.

She glanced back at Max. "Holding up?"

"Been better."

He's pretty beat up, but nothing is broken, and he isn't nearly concussed enough for it to be a problem. That's the nice thing about Max — for all the issues in his head, he seems to be able to navigate his thick-skulled state of mind fairly well in crisis.

The knee is mostly the problem, and even though he's sweating and a bit pale from the pain, he forces himself forward and will continue to until he collapses and needs a moment. Whenever that is. He trusts Furiosa to keep an eye out for anymore violent surprises while he focuses on trying to push the white lancing ache to the back of his mind. It's all in one's head, huh?

He breathes in through his nose, hesitates for just a moment before pushing onward.

"Never a dull moment."

"Not with you around."

Furiosa will try and stick back to catch him before he hits the ground, and let's him take the time he needs to recover; true to form keeping a vigilant eye and ear out. When he is ready to go again, she's at his side this time; right hand manning her shotgun and left arm coaxing him to lean against her as they make their way through the remainder of the ship.

"We're almost there ..."

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

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

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

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