driftfleet | Text/Action.

Who: Max and you
Broadcast: Fleetwide
Action: Starstruck
When: Now-ish! Potential talk of mental health, but who knows! PTSD always, anyway.

[Max is not really social, in the days that follow the calibrations. In fact, he's downright hard to find — even for the Starstruck crew. Not mysteriously so, as there's always a shuttle missing and one can assume Max is marooning himself nearby in space itself, but he's still even more out of sigh than usual. He mainly just checks in to make sure nothing much has changed. Finally, after so much avoidance, he wanders back in and appears to seem... semi-manageable as company.

Or maybe he just got sick of space. Feel free to find him around the Starstruck; he's not leaving it much, if at all. He likes napping on the lounge chair, leaving the record to spin without the needle or a tune. If your character is really quiet they can sneak around him and play something. Or maybe try to stir him. But — wait. What's that? Written in Max's handwriting, there's a little note on the spot beside him.

Such a pleasant note. He's apparently learning after the last few punches or near-punches he's given people.

Or, you might find him with his rather nicely-crafted knee brace off; it's sitting beside him as he sits at his desk, and he's carefully working on a busted part to the shuttle with a melding gun. His bum leg is stretched out, relaxed, with a little TLC — one of those nice icy hot packs to quell the ache. Is that a single solitary beer bottle on the desk? Shucks, he's just having a nice cold one while he works. Or, you know, maybe a cuppa tea he took from the kitchen. Maybe. Maybe you find him in the bathroom, trimming his beard, because he hasn't been cutting it and it's getting way too out of hand. Like his hair, which is currently trying to go down his forehead and eat his eyes.

Anyway. He's had some things on his mind. What better way to ask than a text, so he can possibly ignore replies or disconnect early or take his time building his social gauge again?]

medication.

how far has it advanced for you
back home.

doesn't really exist anymore in my world. not a lot other than some natural remedies.

no pharmacies to visit.

anyone need to take them here?

[Just... wondering. He's got a bad knee, after all.

And, well. A bad brain. But he's not about to go into detail about that being a reason he's asking.]

if you were in my head

leave it alone. don't want to talk.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[It genuinely throws him off.

Someone calling him functional. When did he become that? Has he always been?

Functionally like an animal, one would say.

He stares with his arms crossed for a long moment. Thinking. Then nods slightly.]

....

Okay.

Okay?

[He needs Peggy here to translate from Max to English.]

[He looks entirely unsure of his life choices, and shifts uncomfortably, but... He thinks of Peggy with blood on her brow. Beverly with a black eye. Steve, having to grapple him, knock his lights out. Days of floundering awake, panicked a moment too late, and the quiet relief nobody had been there to take the blow.]

How does it work?

We'll have to talk first, so I can find out what's happened to you. Plus talk about the present and the kind of things that trigger your reactions, and combine the two to come up with a plan. It's called cognitive behavioral therapy, or CBT; basically, you retrain your brain's thought patterns from the rut they've been in.

[Sam pauses for a moment, then adds:] There isn't a cure, you know. You just get better because you're trying to get better. It's gonna be a lot of work, and there'll be times when you think you aren't making any progress. But you just gotta keep going. You'll always have some problems, I'm not gonna lie to you about that. There are still nights when I don't get any goddamn sleep. But if you compare it to where you were at your lowest point, then it's always worth it.

[Max's gaze draws away, unable to keep eye contact while he speaks — what's happened to you. The thought of even saying the words out loud... it makes his hackles rise, makes the hairs on his neck stand on end. The hand sitting across his crossed arm clenches fabric. Of course there isn't a cure; he wants to get up right now and run off, hop in a shuttle and drift in the middle of space. At least he's stopped wishing he could drift until there's nothing; that was a darker time, back when the hallucinations were at their worst. When he saw Angharad in every crowd, around every corner. When Glory would tickle his eardrum.

He glances sparingly up.

That's true. The guy's honestly right, because his lowest point was forgetting his own voice, standing and looking out over the Plains of Silence and quietly daydreaming of getting so far out, so lost, that he would finally just die. He clears his throat.]

If it makes me more reliable.

[More reliable. It's kind of depressing that's the catalyst for this, but at the same time, a lot of people need that kick in the pants from an outside source. So he can't really blame Max for that.]

I hope it'll do more than that. But reliable's a good start. How long you been here, Max?

[He considers for a moment; this part's easy, really. He doesn't mind listing off facts, but of course, there's the problem of him being terrible at knowing what's when... He drums his good fingers on his good thigh.]

Not used to keeping track of time anymore.

... Probably... Almost two years soon. Hnm. Something like that.

Was on another ship for a year, too. Called the Tranquility.

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