Open | A Monthly Starstruck Mingle!!

[theroadwarrior]

Who: The SS Starstruck's crew and visitors...!
Broadcast: N/A
Action: Aboard the SS Starstruck
When: November 1st—31st!

Everyone get your mingle on for November! This is a quick post for the Starstruck, have at it.

Comments

open | finally his work in october pays off (depending on who you ask)

[theroadwarrior]

Max has had quite a wild end of the month in October, so he's been taking it relatively easy — that mostly has to do with a colorful variety of bruises and cuts on his face and torso from getting the shit kicked out of him by some vengeful scavengers-slash-slavers. Who knew Max would go pissing off the worst people? Everyone, is the answer. Everyone knew. But regardless of that, Max has come away with new thoughts:

One, he really should just shut himself up in the ship forever.

And two, he was genuinely worried people would think he left them on purpose.

The intrusive thought is not going away anytime soon, and it's one to really ponder on, when he's not completely preoccupied. The fact of the matter is, Max has come to accept this place he's at. Yeah, he's restless when they're not stationed or docked anywhere. And yeah, he has his bouts of monk-like silence. He has his distance measured not in miles, but in the faraway look he'll sometimes get when he thinks nobody's paying him any mind.

But he's — he's something. He's trying to pinpoint when it happened, but it feels unidentifiable. He's settling in a way he didn't anticipate. He's... almost okay, minus all of his baggage and issues. Vexing though it is, he's found a protectiveness in him as well that he didn't intend on ever finding. It's terrifying, and of course he wants to flee, but he's also learned that he can't just run from this one.

For better or worse, he's here.

He can be found with something rather peculiar, today.



An old record player. Yep, an old record player that is slightly busted up. He's been spending his time while healing working on this bad boy — in fact, he'll be ignoring a lot of his fellow crew in favor of trying to make it properly work. Max may be a simple man, but he's a lover of repairing, because it feels like there's something in his existence he can fix, if not himself or his mistakes.

A little cheesy Elvis'd never hurt anybody.

Can't help but wonder how many people back home even know what this is, let alone who sings it.

Is that something that's gonna die with him and the others like him?

He hobbles to stand and plays the record. Grainy but relatively maintained music pours into the vast, echoing chamber of the cargo bay. There's not a lot of records with it, but this is something he was actually able to recognize. It's probably not even an original from Earth — probably a remake of a remake of a remake of a remake, but he had been dead-set on getting this. In fact, he spent an obscene amount on it, for all that it didn't work.

Maybe there's something symbolic in that. Or maybe he just wanted to hear some goddamn music that wasn't Atroma-approved hogwash. You decide.

Re: open | finally his work in october pays off (depending on who you ask)

[kill_switch]

Of course Furiosa is stopping by to check up on Max. He'd been through a lot, and she knows how stubborn he can be about recovery. And, maybe, she just wants to sit with him, still unsettled by the thought that he was almost successfully taken. It'd been close, and every time she thinks about the sight of him hanging upside down like she'd found him, her stomach drops as she's reminded of Immortan Joe's Citadel. She needed a reminder they'd succeeded, to see him happy and healthy (or, as close to happy and healthy as Max would ever get) to push out the sour visions.

The music coming through the cargo bay catches her attention almost immediately, since she associates him with silence more than anything. She finds a wall to lean against while she listens to it, curious, a small, bemused smile creeping over her features.

"Hey.finally got it working?"

[theroadwarrior]

Admittedly, while he's found good revelations about his capture, he's also been a bit skittish — as to be expected, one supposes, for dealing with something that had scarred him so outwardly back home. The tattoo burns a hole through him sometimes, makes him feel like it can always be seen by the naked eye.

He startles only minutely, connecting her voice with her name without delay.

Glancing back, he relaxes, nods. He's still a sad sight, but he's infinitely better not hanging by his ankles. "Mm, yeah. Took me a while. You, ah. Wanna see?" It's entertainment, at least. Something rarely found in their world. Antiques of the old world, they are.

[kill_switch]

Yeah.

[There's no easy way to approach Max, especially given current circumstances, and Furiosa had made it a point to hang back until invited. She pushes off and makes her way over, but before focusing her attention on the record player, she makes sure she catches his eye and gingerly rests her hand on his shoulder.]

[of anyone here, she knows how deep these scars go. Her own brand sometimes burns and itches add if it were newly applied. This whole situation had it acting up more than usual.]

You want me to stay here for a while?

[He didn't need it, his crew was here, but they had an understanding and she at least wanted to offer herself, for silent emotional support if nothing else.]

[theroadwarrior]

[He looks at her, seemingly at ease, and gives a small nod.]

F'you want.

There's a box of records, f'you want to see, uh. If you like anything.

[He flicks his fingers through said record box, moving through each vinyl disc.]

Some of these're familiar. From before the fallout.

[The complete fallout, anyway. Max was lucky to have known any of this.

Most places in Australia had long since fallen, by the time home was wiped out.

He'd been gone before then, of course.]

[kill_switch]

[That settles it. She'll stick around for a few days until he gets his feet under him. She'll have to let Tyrion know, but she can do that later.]

[For now, he catches her attention with mention of the fallout. She hadn't known anything else; either it happened when she was too young to retain memories or possibly before she was even born. Maybe the ruins were new when she was growing up in the Green Place, but the world that came before was almost alien to her.]

[She peers over his shoulder into the record box, looking at the covers and the people, their clothes, the surroundings.] What about that one?

[She's basing it solely off of the cover]

cargo bay.

[mucked]

"Damn, I thought I'd never see one of those beautiful contraptions ever again," Peggy announced from the far side of the cargo bay.

She stood with a cup of tea nestled nigh-affectionately in her hands. By all accounts, she looked well -- better, certainly, than Max did. Her blouse sleeves were rolled up to her elbows and she was in trousers. But that had been a common look for her, lately. Smart, but useful. Even so, she still wore the heels and they sounded as clipped as ever as she crosses over to inspect his work. She doesn't talk about his bruises, or about where he disappeared to, or about the slavers. She's waiting for him to talk about it first.

"It's beautiful," she breathed. Part of her wanted to turn on a heel and find Steve -- show him this treasure. But no, this wasn't about Captain America. This was about Captain Carter in communion with her crew. She set aside her tea and leaned down to scoop a handful of record sleeves into her arms. "Where did you get it?"

cargo bay.

[theroadwarrior]

Max spooks just a bit, like a dog woken from a deep sleep — he turns his colorfully purple and green and pink face toward her, eyes rounded, eyebrows raised. He's been easier to startle here in the last few days, the events of his temporary kidnapping a bit troubling on his mind; it brings back some less savory memories, it does, and part of him expects to just wake up and find he's dreamed his entire rescue up. Perhaps he's truly gone mad and he's still hanging by his legs.

His knee isn't as painful as before, though, and though he clearly has a hard time putting weight on it — it's better. He uses a single crutch to hobble around until the swelling's down and the medication does what it's supposed to. It's here that he gets up from his chair at the sound of her, as if it's a requirement of her company.

"Someone had it. Junkyard. Worked down there for a few weeks to get it."

And maybe spent some pre-existing credits he had tucked away.

Lord knows he never spends it; why not have this be the exception?

"You familiar?"

It's Elvis, man. Who doesn't know Elvis?

[mucked]

"With the music? Not at all." -- But it sounded nearer to her decade's tunes than anything else generally does. And so that was something of a comfort. Peggy considered the song a moment longer before waving him back into his chair.

"But I know the tech."

[theroadwarrior]

Ah, right. A bit earlier, then.

"Had to repair it, but I like repairing."

He slowly sits back down, his wince only reaching the corners of his eyes. Sooner or later, the leg's gonna outright fail him, he knows. But today is not the day, and he has no plans to slow down anytime soon. He looks at the box, something pleasant (for the likes of Max, anyway) about his features. For all the tension he'd had the past few days, there is at least little in the now, as he listens to the tune.

"Maybe there's a record in there you know." A box of records, surely there must be a copy of something from her era. "... This'll be something you listen to. This song — the singer. Controversial, one of the biggest of the time. Just a kid when you're from, I think."

[mucked]

"That's what I'm hoping for," she admitted as she flipped through the sleeves. Something familiar, which might soften a bit of her oft-panging nostalgia. But as for Elvis: "And while I look, you ought to tell me what makes this fellow so controversial?"

Once upon a time, she might have been able to hear it: the rockier notes, and the cribbing from earlier genres. But she's been a woman too often exposed to 21st century noises. By comparison, this was downright soothing.

[noprophecies]

[she wasn't the type to hover and worry, which is why it takes her a few days to actually visit the Starstruck to see Max. He was in one piece and that had been enough for her, especially when she needed a few days to recover herself. But she had never been good at it, and she'd quickly grown restless enough that she'd given in and healed herself - mostly. She'd healed her ribs, okay, and that had been the worst of it all. She would survive the black eye and split lip, both of which were half-healed anyway.

She isn't expecting music, though, and when she wanders from her shuttle to the cargo bay, she finds herself a bit surprised that he's the one behind it. It isn't familiar to her - no surprise, there - and she tilts her head, listening to it for a few moments. And then she heads over to him, steps deliberately loud so she doesn't accidentally startle him]

What in the world are you listening to?

[theroadwarrior]

[He glances back in all of his bruised and scraped glory — not the best look he's adopted here, but he's at least not horribly injured or anything. Worst part is his knee swelling up, but it's not new to him. His knee drives him nuts routinely.

He'd known she'd gotten out alive and in decent spirits, so he'd given her space; after all, it had been his fault for her injuries, or at least that's what he believes. If she hadn't been around him, she would have been without a mark or wound, and that's kind of guilt-stirring.

Max is good at being guilty.]

... Record player.

Bought it on the station.

[He seems a bit sheepish. Gruff, but sheepish.]

[noprophecies]

[she raises an eyebrow at the sheepishness, but decides against commenting. She tilts her head and steps closer, peering at the strange thing before glancing up at him. She was vaguely familiar with other technology because of Kyriakos - projectors, cell phones, DVDs - but this? This was brand new]

I have never seen one before. They are meant for music?

[. . .]

How does it work?

[theroadwarrior]

[He nods, placing the needle carefully onto the record, letting more Elvis play — Hound Dog this time, a boisterous and good ol' time.]

Not too complicated. There're grooves — here. [He points to the lines around the black disc.] Recorded vibrations. Currents generated through a magnet attached to the needle sends those vibrations through a loudspeaker to make sound.

[He seems far more comfortable explaining the specifics of the thing than, like, normal human interaction. Go figure.]

Open

[kill_switch]

[Starstruck, you have a temporary crewmate; Furiosa is crashing with Max while he gets over his recent bout with slavers. She mostly keeps to herself, but now and again you can catch her in the galley making something to eat, or using the gym equipment in the cargo bay.]

[She's still without a replacement prosthetic, and is recovering from her own wounds sustained while retrieving Max, but none of it seems to bother her any.]

[theroadwarrior]

[Max can be found eventually, out of bed and wandering the ship; there's an obvious edge to him, an anxiousness that would have obviously come from such a close encounter. He needs to re-adapt to his living situation after thinking he would, perhaps, never be in it again. It was a close call. He had been just hours away from being a slave, something to sale, and it would have been the Citadel — the Wastelands — all over again.

But he exists, he deals, he tries to assimilate again.

It doesn't mean he isn't jumpy around even familiar faces popping up while he's in deep through, though. Furiosa can find him staring a hole into one of the far walls of the kitchen, his thumb rubbing a red spot into his opposing wrist. Clearly, he's not really 'here'. Not right now.]

[kill_switch]

[Furiosa has seen that look before. She steps into the kitchen, trying to get within his field of vision before audibly clearing her throat. She needs to get him to stop worrying his wound like that, but if she touches him now she'll just startle him.]

[This, this right here, is exactly why she's needed on the Startruck right now.]

Max.

[theroadwarrior]

[No matter how gentle she is at stirring him from his own inner captivity, he still startles just a little — but it's infinitely better than spooking him so hard that he hops up swinging. His glazed eyes gain some color and energy as he looks at her, tension in his jaw before it smooths out.]

... Furiosa.

[The name still sticks a bit to the roof of his mouth, but he's working on it.

Saying names is still very much new to him.]

Still here.

[He's never sure who to expect where. He's been a bit spaced out to keep track.]

[kill_switch]

[Now that she has his attention, she walks in and nudges her hand into his in order to draw him away from worrying at himself.]

You'll make it worse.

[She's firm, but not harsh, and there's a softness to her look amid the concern. She couldn't even begin to imagine reliving those horrors from home.]

[outstandingbalance]

[Natasha and Peggy's firing range project has been coming together well. Well enough that the pair of them can take advantage of it when they have some free time, a little healthy competition to blow off some steam.

And Natasha would say she acquitted herself respectably. She ought to, with her training.

Afterward, there's a moment of hesitation when Peggy invites her back to the Starstruck. The moment of caution passes quickly, though, and she agrees, accompanying Peggy back to her ship companionably.]

[mucked]

[ when they make the starstruck, peggy detours only briefly to her quarters so she can leave her jacket draped over the foot of her bed. otherwise, it's a straight pop to the kitchen. peggy doesn't mince words nor actions when she has natasha here as her guest. like a knee-jerk reaction, she first pops the kettle on the hob.

then, at the same time as she offers natasha a chair: ] Wait. Let me guess. You'd prefer coffee? [ once upon a time, she'd hated making coffee for anyone. the act had become well-entrenched with her low rung on the office ladder. but these days, she's made her peace with the gesture. it's about being a gracious host, now.

and it's about catching more flies with honey than with vinegar. ]

[outstandingbalance]

If you have it. I'm not about to be too picky, but I'm not much of a tea drinker.

[Natasha takes a seat when it's offered, crossing her legs easily and leaning back.]

[mucked]

Nor was ninety percent of the New York office -- [ she quips. distance makes it a little easier make the joke. and although there's a perfectly acceptable personal coffee-maker on the counter, she defaults to what looks to be a mild variation on a french press. after all, if she's boiling the water for tea anyway... ]

[outstandingbalance]

Well, I appreciate the offer. Guessing not everyone can say they had the ship's captain making them coffee.

[There's a dryness in Natasha's voice as she says it; one that suggests she can imagine why Peggy might be over making anyone else's coffee.]