driftfleet | Open | A Monthly Starstruck Mingle!!

[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?

[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.]

[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?

[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.]

[she got him to talk on the waystation when it came to building things, so she figures this is similar - and as he explains she listens closely, nodding slowly as it makes . . . some sense.

Certainly more than it did before, anyway]

But how does one record the vibrations into . . . this round thing is made of plastic, yes?

Mm, just depends on how the grooves are carved out.

Sound bounces differently off them, makes different pitches.

[He raises his eyebrows.]

Could just call it magic, make it easier to explain.

[she raises her eyebrows as well and can't help but grin]

But then I don't get you hear you explain it. I think that is the most I've ever heard you speak.

Besides, calling it magic to a mage is a bit silly, yes? I know it isn't magic, I can't sense any.

[teasing and ruining the joke, she's in top form today]

[HUFF.

He is mildly grumpy-old-man at that. Like hearing him speak this much was totally an accident and he curses his lack of dedication to silence. But he relents enough, because she did risk her neck for him, so he supposes he owes her that much. He relaxes a bit.]

Guess so.

Is music magic, in your, hn... world?

[one day he'll catch on that grumpy old men are her favorite kind. Especially the ones who try to be serious. She shakes her head at his question]

It can be, in that bards skilled enough can turn their songs into spells, but otherwise it is likely the same as everywhere else. People play instruments and sing and all that rot.

[Wait, huh?]

... Bards?

[Look, he wasn't into fantasy stuff or general medieval history.]

Traveling musicians. They go from town to town playing for anyone who will pay them.

[and if they do anything else, she doesn't know much about it. She's gone out of her way to avoid them]

Hnn.

[Clearly his first thought is the Doof Warrior. Of course, he doesn't know that anyone calls him the Doof Warrior. To Max, he's the insane warboy who loved his flaming guitar far, far too much. But anyway...]

So... nothing like this.

Nothing like this exists where I am from, no.

[she shrugs a shoulder with a smile] The music is very different, too.

[Hmmm. He considers the record player, memories hidden in his distant stare.]

This doesn't really exist where m'from, either.

Not really. Not anymore. Most of it's gone.

Gone? Do things like that just - disappear?

The world folded in on itself.

[He glances at her, frowning.]

Ended with war. Not much left but sand, blood, fire... Water's hard to come by, and the ocean's hard to find. Not great.

[It's sad, but it's what Max knows now.]

[she frowns as well. It's one of those times where, as much as she hates her own world, she realizes that it can be much better than others'. She remembers he mentioned it, and Furiosa as well, being a wasteland]

It does not sound great.

[He shrugs.]

Is what it is.

[Says the guy who was recently nearly kidnapped and sold into slavery. Even if he's skittish from the ordeal, it doesn't seem to bother him as much as it probably should have. Maybe that has something to do with the thick scar poking out from the collar of his shirt — a brand of a skull and flames, some kind of odd signature from many months passed at the nape of his neck.]

Ahh... When it's normal for you, you don't think about it.

Mmm, that makes sense. It is the same for my world - most things I do not give a second thought to here, because it is normal.

[she glances over at him and - her frown deepens, and it's only because she doesn't know him well enough that she keeps her hands to herself. But she can't help but stare at it, before she has to address it]

The mark on your neck - that is not magical, yes?

[what an odd question]

[His jaw twitches, eyes focused on the record player.]

No.

[He tugs on the shirt, to mask the hidden portion. Apparently his way of cutting off dialogue about it — but then, quietly, he does give her some semblance of an answer as he puts away scattered tools he should have already moved.]

S'a brand.

So I see. That's why I asked.

[her tone is a touch gentler than she'd normally use, but it is a touchy subject. But the answer is enough for her and she crosses her arms, humming quietly in acceptance]

I have one on my shoulder. [she offers after a moment. May as well explain why she asked]

[... He glances at her, a sort of up-and-down judgement. Shoulder to face, shoulder to face. In the meanwhile, he considers what to say. She did help him incredibly, but she's also still a stranger to him in many, many ways. He wodners what prompts her honesty. Perhaps she's just far more open about things than Max, who keeps his memories and self shut tight as a clam.

The offer of information to compliment his own is nice, though.

It soothes him, just a bit. He touches his neck, palm against risen skin.]

It was for ownership. I gave blood.

[He'd told Peggy. It was... strange, to tell someone. Furiosa already knew, never had to really talk about it. Because she understood without words. He forgets that not everyone can simply comprehend him with just a look.]

[she doesn't expect him to elaborate. In fact, she expected him to change the subject, or say nothing at all, and she'd be the one looking to change the subject. But instead, she's wrinkling her nose in disgust - not at him, of course, but the reasoning behind the mark]

Gave blood. [was he forced to? Probably. Ownership sort of implied that] I did not know people were branded for that.

[after a moment she shrugs, as if to herself, and reaches up to tug down the collar of her shirt, enough for her brand to be seen. It's not as big or elaborate, but there's a circle with lines through the middle, burnt into the skin of her shoulder]

I died. This was left behind by the man who brought me back. Forbidden magic.

.... Branding property. That's all.

[Didn't matter if it was for being a bloodbag, or being their soldier.

The tattoo that went with the brand is far worse.]

Why's it forbidden?

Ah. That sounds a bit more familiar.

[don't show her the tattoo, she'd very likely lose her temper very quickly.

She purses her lips, eyes darting away briefly. This was sharing information she'd only shared with a few others willingly. And even then, only the barest of details. She lets out a slow breath]

It is an old kind of sacrificial blood magic. For it to work, one must sacrifice a piece of oneself - or another. The bigger the spell, the bigger the piece. It's very powerful, and very dangerous.

[she touches the brand before letting her hand drop] Among other reasons, the cost is much greater than the outcome. All magic comes with a price, but it's balanced. Blood magic like that isn't.

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