driftfleet | Glitch Log; Open to All, God Help You

Entry tags:

Glitch Log; Open to All, God Help You

Who: Max... mostly. And you.
Broadcast: N/A
Action: Iskaulit or Starstruck.
When: September 1st until... whenever I'm tired of writing this LMFAO. warning DOGS, DOGS, DOGS--!!!

I. STARSTRUCK

Max is busy today, alright?

The Starstruck will find themselves with the usual business from Max; he hangs out primarily in the cargo bay with Rock -- eating Rock's food of course, because nobody can get him to eat human food... unless, you know, you leave it on the counter. Sorry, did you make a burger? In this kitchen? Shame on you, it's gone now. Wastelander rule 101: you leave it unattended, he's gonna make sure it doesn't go to waste. Max also hobbles into his room and naps a bit restlessly; he mostly still goes into his favorite shuttle; he hangs around Peggy's room, anxious for her to wake up from her coma; he grumbles and growls at unwelcomed company; he skips out on bathing, skips out on using utensils, chews on his own leg, barks for attention--

Okay, yeah, you get it.

Max is a dog.

It might not be the most obvious thing in the world, for his crew, not at first. Sure, there's a pitbull in the cargo bay wearing a scarf and hobbling on a bum leg, but Max's actual pet dog Rock... also wears a scarf and has a bum leg. He's a short and stocky fellow, though, and if he's investigated enough one will find he's got familiar scarring on his head and around his arms.

Hell, maybe this is the most obvious thing ever.

Either way... act as you would normally around Max.

Hide your food.

Don't leave anything laying around he'll take for a bed.

Don't startle him awake.

And don't you even think about muzzling him.

II. THE PREQUEL; THE ISKAULIT

A day earlier, before his return to the Starstruck, Max had turned into a dog thanks to the most gracious kind Atroma aboard the Iskaulit -- so if you happen upon him, he'll be at his most flummoxed here. He's not... quite aware of the issue at hand, but he does know something is wrong. Something very wrong, and while a large part of Max is in this dog... there's not exactly a human brain working in there.

Good luck with the wandering, cautious dog.

(Basically, a wildcard that happens first for those who don't visit the Starstruck.

Feel free to hit me up for plotting something different than what's listed, of course!

Tags will be from theroaddog account. Ha. Hahaha.)

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~~but why not thedogwarrior~~

Now, isn't that interesting. She's never seen a dog with echoes before. Animals don't really tend to that sort of thing.

Of course, it doesn't take her long to recognise these particular echoes. Glory's far too unique. She dusts the last of the snow from her jacket and eyes the dog trotting down the hall with a thoughtful hum. To his senses, she probably smells like an odd mix of human, cat, and fox. (But also, chocolate milk. Because delicious.)

Atroma and glitches, huh. Either that, or he's always been a werewolf. She doubts it very much, but it's extremely fun to picture.

"Well. No wonder we don't get on." Cats and dogs, ha. Ha ha. She crouches down, holding a hand out. "Max. You aware in there?"

She wakes with a start and a knot in her belly. Last time, it'd been with Daniel Sousa's name on her lips -- confused in the wake of someone with a leg-brace at her bedside. But this time her heart is all wrapped up in Jarvis. There are tears in her eyes, still, as she considers the pain inflicted and the callousness shown. And there is a moment where she suffers a dry heave, not quite comprehending where she is. Or when. Or why.

Bewilderingly, there's something (someone?) warm beside her. At first she thinks it's Steve, but a blind grope brings her fingertips in contact with fur and she begins to wonder whether Rock somehow wandered into the room --

"Oi," she mutters, struggling to sit up. But when she sets her eyes on the strange creature she freezes. "Good God, who the devil are you."

It isn't a question. Indeed, when she glances around the room, she finds Rock settled by the door. Her first reaction is to wonder, silently, what Steve thinks he's playing at.

Hesitant, she holds a hand out to the strange dog's nose.

Things have more or less returned to normal for Furiosa since the calibrations. The whispers still come at her at night, but that's nothing new; just more material for the nightmares. Waking hours have her returning to her old habits, a large part of which includes periodically catching up on Max.

She lands her shuttle in the Starstruck's hangar bay and walks out with a sack filled with some soups an stews she's been preparing, with the intents of storing them in Starstruck's freezer for Max. While she's not specifically looking for Max himself, she's absolutely not expecting to see a new dog in the bay. She draws a pretty quick conclusion that Max has picked up a friend for Rock, and kneels down to hold a hand out.

Oh, and she brought something for Rock but he can share. With her prosthetic, she reaches into a side pouch and pulls out a strip of jerky, then snaps it in two and hands a piece towards each snout.

"Where'd he get you from, I wonder?"

Victor still is mostly unaware of how glitches work and the powers that Atroma have, but he does know what dogs look like. He even misses his dog back home terribly, so seeing one that seems wary and lost on the ship makes him instantly want to do something to help.

"Oh, aren't you a little lost?" he asks, bending very carefully has to not frighten what he thinks is just a normal dog more than needed. "Are you hungry? Do you have someone looking for you?"

~~It had to match my other stupid alternate accounts~~

Max looks wary, when he looks at her — because he definitely knows this woman, it's very clearly Katie, yes. But, hmm. Different. Different smell. Or a smell he never noticed before. How'd he miss that stench? For some reason, cat he's familiar with. The ??? scent, less familiar. He's interested in understanding ???. So he wanders over cautiously with his bulbous nose working in overdrive.

He only perks, just slightly, at his name.

Yes? What reason are you using the name? Is there something he needs to do?

The scarred dog stops near her hand, looking expectant.

Waiting. Max hates waiting, people always making him wait. Wait for food, wait for door — wait for eyes to open up so he can wait for them to stand up and be alive again, move it, Peggy. His floppy ears twitch to attention, or as best they can under floppy guise, one with a bit taken out of it, littlest offense.

The hand touches him, and he shoves his head under, sets her palm on the wider space between his eyes; grayish-greenish-bluish somethings. He snorts, scoffs. Who is he? She knows who he is. How can she not? She's the one who says his name like clockwork. Max this, Max that, Max, stay out of my tea. Well, maybe if she didn't leave it on a space he could amble up on with these paws of his. Maybe it wouldn't be slobber-clean of tea, eh? You all, he swears. Not an instinctive bone in your two-legged bodies.

He pats his nose against her palm, practically smiling with loose jowels.

Hey. Heeeey. You're awake, is the look.

Furiosa, he immediately focuses on. He feels like it's been a while since she'd visited, stopped by; always with something for him, really, even if she's empty-handed. He moves to stand, balancing more on his good three legs than the one bad, and pants in eagerness for the smell in her hand. Food, he thinks. Food is important, don't let Rock have his, don't let it get out from under his nose. Food is instinct, it's life or death, but he can't quite comprehend them. He just wants the food, sweet-smelling, meaty. He hobbles toward her with less caution than the others; trust, oh, he trusts.

Got him from the wastelands, you know. His tail whip-wags, patient -- then gobbles it up. He almost forgets her for a moment; sorry about that. This is just too good, and it's gone before he really knows it. Mmmhm. The taste lingers. He glances sparingly, a large pink tongue whipping up onto his nose, as if there's more there.

Hey.

A little lost? No, not quite. He knows this place. But he doesn't know it the same way he used to, is all. The scents and smells all lead him different places; he wants to get into the bar because the smell of bar food is all-encompassing, and he's going to drool at this rate -- but then a voice cuts through his urge to scratch down big metal doors, and he turns toward the man. There's immediate caution, needling skepticism that the man wants anything else than to hurt or take.

He doesn't step closer yet, but he watches with an intense pair of gray-blue-green eyes. Muscular, this dog. Looks sturdy, though he wobbles on a limp. Old wound, old infliction, and Max hardly remembers how it came to be; it's natural now, just how he's built. He doesn't second-guess his body.

Hungry. Buzzword. He looks drawn to it.

The dog is a stranger to her. But, it would seem, the reverse isn't true. This mutt (mutt?) nuzzles close with a kind of affection she's unaccustomed to receiving from any old creature. Rock, even, doesn't pay her quite this much mind. Even so, her thoughts are nowhere near the reality of the moment. Why should she ever believe this isn't anything other than a real honest-to-goodness dog?

With a sigh -- long suffering -- she palms the creature behind the ear and offers up a friendly scratch.

"Does Steve know you're in here, boy? Did he bloody well bring you in?"

Steve? Ugh. His ears flatten a little, and that smile almost seems to fade. Steve's not so bad, but he's also not Peggy, so who cares about him right now? He's already practically here, the place is so Steve-smelling. Of course, he has absolutely no idea what she's asking — is she trying to find Steve? He's definitely not hiding him anywhere, if that's her concern. He's not buried alongside any bones. Yet.

... She doesn't seem too eager to jump up yet, and Max is getting scratches in hard to reach places. So he leans in defeat, sags really, and flops the entirety of his front half over Peggy's legs with a huffffrmmm. Don't stop, you're doing so well. You and your freakishly long paws. He's got nowhere to be, really, even if he feels like he should... have somewhere to be. He can't think that far, though. Not that far.

"You're friendly, huh?"

She doesn't pet a dog while its eating, but once he's finished and looking for more, she reaches over to stroke a flesh hand over the top of his head.

"Sorry buddy, the rest is for Max." She feels the scarring on the dog's head and wonders what sort of life Max had invariably pulled him from. She settles back on her heels, looking at him suspiciously.

... nah, she dismisses a half-formed thought and stands, heading in to deposit her stash in the Starstruck's gally.

"Guess I'll have to start bringing more jerky."

And then, all at once, she's got the muscled front of a strange dog draped over her knees. It's not her favourite way to spend a moment, if she's honest, but the mutt's friendliness can't be faulted. And the attention (hard-learned through her gradual connection with Rock) seems to win her the creature's appreciation. So Peggy scratches more, really digging her nails in behind an ear.

She sits up a little straighter and shoves some pillows behind her back so she can...relax? What's this? Peggy Carter, relaxing? It's almost a serene moment as she lets the lack of conversation settle into the situation and give her a chance to process a bit more of what she's remembered. Her heart is still tight for the Jarvis family, such as it is and will ever be.

And ever, as always, there's the Zero Matter puzzle rotating in the back of her thoughts.

"I wonder if anyone's bothered to name you, yet," she talks to herself -- using the dog as foil.

So the answer, then, is sort of. Probably. She sighs. Katie doesn't actually mind dogs-- she likes the one Max already has, content to carry around her lazy kitten ass. What to do, what to do.

"Hungry, boy?" She pats her pockets. She kind of fed the foxes a bit earlier, so maybe she still has some meat left. Not a lot, though. On the other hand, there's two bars and a cafe, she can sort something out.

By all means, go ahead. As much as he'll remember her words later (embarrassingly), he has absolutely no understanding of the English language, save for those crucial buzzwords. Food. Peggy. Furiosa. Hungry... and all manner of colorful curses towards creatures who take things. Well, certainly most things relating to him getting food, we all know.

He flops his head down and groans contentedly, the sound sandpaper rough and deep, sturdy. What? She's got very long and helpful nails, okay? He's not about to complain. He will happily let her massage his ears while she complains or otherwise gossips at his half-awake self. One thing Peggy can note, while he lays rested, is a few odd patches of fur missing, shaped like perhaps he'd been cut at; they pepper him here and there, and there's an obvious and thick hairless scar on his hind leg, on the fleshy spot.

Goodness, he's more scarred than Max, looks like.

Only friendly to a select few. But close enough.

He hears his name; that's him, that's his name, so clearly it's for him. And yet she's wandering toward the gally, so he quickly hobbles after her. He has more assortments of scarring, some more patchy than others, over his torso, and he seems wary of everything except for Furiosa; he smells along the ground, alert, attentive. Guarding, perhaps.

Can't let anyone strange into the ship; important to keep everyone safe, keep the territory preserved. It's his job, to defend this place. He'll do it with little complaint, silent but observant.

... Though, he keeps getting distracted by Furiosa putting away food.

Thanks, Furiosa.

She watches him as she heads through the corridors, noting the way he seems ever-vigilant and wary with the surroundings, in that way that guard dogs are. It's a curious thing, she thinks, because she hadn't met the dog before, but maybe it's just because she's here so often her scent might already be over everything, or maybe it was the jerky, or the way Rock had no qualms with her.

Furiosa gets to the kitchen and starts putting the soups in their freezer. Then, she goes through their cabinets and reclaims any of her old containers from previous stocked provisions. That task finished, she fills one with water and then sits on the floor with her back against the cabinets and sets the water down for the new dog.

"He give you a name, yet?"

Tempest doesn't wander the Iskaulit much anymore; it's to the library, and/or to the bar, and then back to her ship before anyone can really engage her. Only a few people can really make her pause and stay to socialize, and she can count that number one one hand.

Then again, animals are another story. When she spots the cautious dog she glances around for an owner first, but not seeing anyone she changes her direction to head for it, slowing once she's close. Careful and slow, she holds out her flesh hand.

"Are you here by yourself?" She asks, as if the dog will answer her. Who knows, maybe it will - that wouldn't be strange at all.

Merlan sits watching the surface of the pool, playing with the water with her telekinesis. It's calming, meditative, passing rings of water in varying sizes around and through each other. Little balls join them next, weaving slow, but complex patterns between the moving rings.

At the edge of her vision, she sees movement and a ball of water, which keeps its roundness, rolls off across the deck.

"Crap," she murmurs under her breath and turns to find it.

Oh, it's Tempest; Max is familiar with Tempest! She's the human who likes to give him a hard time and make him huff and puff and -- well, he likes her alright. That doesn't mean he's not going to look at her like he's stepped in his own dog poop.

... But he doesn't stray away from her, either. He huffs, but he sits there still, side-eying her for a moment until... he he stands up, wanders over, and bops her hand with his nose. A grudging hello for someone he secretly doesn't mind the company of, damn you.

Believe it or not, grumpy dogs do not fall into the same category as grumpy men. Though when the dog trots over and bumps her hand, it instantly gets her to crack a smile - it's the little things, really, that can brighten her mood.

She kneels down and, still careful, pets the top of his head. "Hello to you, too." She murmurs. "I guess that is a yes, then?"

A considering pause. "How in the world did you get here, I wonder."

His ears quirk, twitching at the familiar human terminology.

Hungry? He's always hungry, even when he's not. It's important to eat, eating is living, right? He steps closer, his nose getting dangerously close to her pocket to seek out the remains of potential meals. Oh, yes. That nose is snuff-sniff-snorting, saying why yes, Katie, he would love to take that stuff off your hands.

He quirks his head to the side. Name? Name...? He doesn't comprehend.

Watching the soups being put away still is more important, but he's trying to actually pay attention to the sounds she's throwing his way. His tail wags, heavy and strong, thumping hard on the nearby wall. He's quite a muscular thing, looking like a beast who has certainly seen darker days and exhausting nights.

Regardless, he's pleased by her companionship.

The water is drank eagerly, once he's sure she's not throwing him frozen soup.

And that's around when the big ol' dog goes running by to follow the ball of water; it's not so much the age ol' ball thing as it is -- okay, no it's pretty much the old ball trope. How do you not chase after something speeding away from you like that? It's practically begging to be leapt on; important to keep your skills sharp, to be a good hunter, good survivor. He wouldn't want to get comfortable now.

What happens if he tries to bite this ball of water?

Merlan laughs delightedly as she realises the dog is interested in her water ball. She lets the rest of the water slide noiselessly back into the pool but readies another ball because as soon as it's bitten into and with a little resistance, it breaks and there's water everywhere.

"Ah!" she calls, clapping her hands. "Such a mighty hunter! You want another one?"

Quite despite herself, she finds a smile. It's not one she's proud of or happy with or even would welcome if she thought a person was around to see it. It threads briefly onto her lips and settles for a second before disappearing again -- uneasy, unhappy, uncertain.

She thumbs a bald and scarred patch on his head. "Someone's took a chunk out of you, haven't they? Scrappy little bugger. Not unlike our Rock."

Our Rock. A little too inclusive, that. She'd never say it in front of anyone else.

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Glitch Log; Open to All, God Help You

Iskaulit

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Hangar Bay

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iskaulit;

II. THE PREQUEL; THE ISKAULIT

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