the veil is thin . . .

[thespaceopera]

[ On the night of the 16th, the feeling of tension and horrid anticipation comes to a head. Everything stops when the sun goes down-- even the ever-present music in the hoppingest part of the city center. One by one, everyone turns their eyes to the skies. The young and old alike pour out of their houses, some in bare feet, and they point to the velvety blanket of stars.

It takes a second to find it, especially if one is unaccustomed to the starscape. But even a casual observer can see it.

A brightly-shining star, larger than the others, and growing larger.

An announcement cuts across all communication channels that encourages people to evacuate to the space station, but it’s clear that these are just people and they’ll need some help. Supplies, equipment, organization, there’s something for everyone to do.

Civilization is disrupted by a panicked stampede of people vying for limited seats aboard spacefaring craft. Within hours, there will be crushed glass, looting, and chaos.

The clock is ticking. Will you help? Or would you rather watch the dying gasps of a Singing Planet from a safe distance? ]

[OOC: Please see this post for plot details. Phase two has begun! Feel free to use this post as a reaction post, mingle, etc. or make your own!]

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[kill_switch]

She sees the impact and reacts without really thinking, yanking back on the yoke and pulling the shuttle into a sharp angled lift, then arcing off to the side and diving to miss the schrapnal. She wasn't as close as Max, and was able to maneuver her way out of disaster -- but the moment she sees Max's shuttle plummeting in a trail of fire and smoke, she's jerking her own shuttle around to follow.

And that's really the most she can do. She's having to dodge not only the continued incoming debris, which is at her back now and not as easy to see, but also the pieces coming off of Max's shuttle.

Hoping she doesn't see a piece of Max himself flying by her.

cw for gore/blood

[theroadwarrior]

Max does manage to get the ship slow, slow enough to perhaps not kill him on impact, but he knows by the fact that parts of the shuttle have crumpled in and busted apart that his old nine lives trick may not help him in this one; not really a lot of time to think about the fact you might be dead, really, just enough time to clamor with the knowledge you've got and hope it works. The ground approaches fast and he braces for it -- Peggy is gonna be pissed at him for ruining this shuttle, huh? -- and it's about as unpleasant as he knew it would be. There's man-made thunder as the steel and rock connect, and he jerks forward, and it all goes black.

Stays that way for a while, too, and it's actually kind of peaceful.

Pain is what wakes him again, though. Not a violent pain, not yet, but the kind that throbs in your temples to the beat of your sluggish heart. He smells the stench of fuel and blood intermingled in the tiny space, and the air is hot, suffocating, as he peels open his eyes. There's blood in one, and he reaches to wipe it -- sideways? He's hanging in his seat sideways, and the movement of his arm sends ripples of agony through his shoulders and ribs. Lots of broken things, and something hot and wet is seeping from his side. Okay. He wriggles one foot, tries to push off.

Seatbelt. Ahh. Seatbelt.

His numb fingers fumble at it, and he's tired, really tired. Sore. Hurts to move.

Something feels wrong with his leg, because his brace is bent off him at a weird angle. And the controls are all smashed in, like his nose had hit first, had absorbed the impact and gave in just enough. Maybe his leg's pinned. He reaches to feel along it, still confused by -- everything, really, but his instinct is to check. Something doesn't feel right -- no, something's not, right, his leg ends early. Why does his leg end early? His fingers touch an open wound and he recoils weakly, looking to his hand. To the twisted wreckage and broken off pieces.

Ah. His leg's stuck somewhere in that twisted mess of wire and circuit board. The other leg had just narrowly missed getting sheared off, sitting in the middle of bent and sharp metal sheets of scrap. That's... not great. Not good. Pain is sharp and electric on his side, but his eyelids are heavy, and he's pretty sure he can't pull himself free on his own. Ahhh. Fuck. He blinks, glancing up at the small hole torn through the front. Passenger ship's going, going, disappearing into the stratosphere.

He rests his eyes.

Let me know if this works.

[kill_switch]

Furiosa is screaming in her own shuttle as she can do nothing more than watch Max's crash into the surface. She's landing hers in short order and throwing it into standy mode, leaping out before it's even settled. She clambers up the exposed bottom of the craft in order to reach the cockpit windows, tearing at the damadged metal with her prosthetic to get it loose. Fortnately, at least, it's undergone enough stress that she's able to pull a full window off and toss it aside, before reaching down to grab for Max's jacket.

"Don't you fall asleep on me." She barks at him, giving him a little shake to jog him awake. Her eyes rake over him, quickly assessing damage. Not good. Not good. She forces herself to breathe, grimacing like an angry beast. "I'm going to haul you up. Shuttle, medkit." Get him in there, get them off this rock. She can hear the continued barrage behind them, and if anything it's getting stronger; larger rocking explosions of super-heated rocks, to say nothing of the looming threat in their midst.

They were ticking down on literal minutes, maybe even seconds at this point. She doesn't want to wait for his approval; she braces herself with her other hand and pulls, dragging him through the mangled cockpit to bring him to rest beside her on the side of the shuttle.

[theroadwarrior]

Max's eyes peel back open, and then panic flitters across his expression at the sight of her. No, no, this wasn't part of the non-plan. He was supposed to be alone if he was going to get smashed to bits by a smegging meteor, and he was more than alright with that, and — fuck. Not completely coherent yet, he tries to weakly bat away her hands. "Whad'r'you doing— What— Y'not supposed to be here—" But she does get her hands under his arms and pulls, and his side spills blood and he screams out, unable to clench his teeth fast enough. She's strong, even with someone as compact and muscular as him, and she's inching him out of his seat as she goes. He feels something pull away more from his bad leg; some tear of fabric that has stubbornly clung to his sheared leg.

He's pale and shaking by the time she gets him to rest on the top side of the shuttle, his head collapsing into her hip, and it's there that the grizzly sight is left out in the open: one good leg, and then the other -- a bloody mess that ends at his knee, a trail of blood like paint from a brush following it. He strains to look down at it. His side aches, aches real bad, and his neck can't hold him enough; he drops back against her, a pained noise in his throat. Not good, not good at all. The ache in his side is shrapnel from the ship, holding in blood but tearing apart invaluable organs. His vision swims as he sees her assessing.

"Go," he rasps, "... Leave, get out of here."

What the fuck are you doing, Furiosa?

He's too mangled for an organ mechanic from this distance.

[kill_switch]

She's seen this all before; their world was painted in such visceral hues, the sight and smell of it all too familiar. There's a dim part of her that realizes he's not going to make it much longer - even in a best case scenario - but she ignores it for now, looking back to her shuttle and getting ready to hoist him down.

Then, suddenly, she twists and curls her body over him to shield what's left as a large rock collides head on with her own shuttle. There's a rocking explosion, threatening to tip over the shuttle they're currently on, and a rain of dirt and rocks. Once the dust settles, she looks back, and her heart sinks into her gut.

No more shuttles. No way out.

She readjusts her grip on Max; it's gentle this time, keeping in mind his wounds and trying to get him comfortable in her lap.

"I'm right where I should be."

By his side, and with that thought an odd calm falls over her. If this is the end he has to endure, she'd much rather be here with him than watching from space.

[theroadwarrior]

Max isn't cognizant of Furiosa's means of transport getting destroyed -- he swims in cloudy images and distant noises, his brain trying to drag him to the depths of unconsciousness to slow his heart, to try and combat that pumping of blood to his leg wound, but he's awake, struggling but awake, and he mumbles a stream of no's as he tries in vain to sit up. It's not going to happen, and he just as quickly slumps against her again, devoid of strength. "Wasn't s'pposed to happen, already saved you, already safe..."

But her grip is stronger. There's nothing he can do but turn his head, sweaty forehead turning defensively toward her stomach. Can't be his fault she dies; she's not going to die here, he was supposed to meet her up there, supposed to go back through the field of debris and get back to the ship, to Peggy and the crew. He scrabbles blindly until she finds her flesh wrist and grabs it.

"... You're supposed to go home..."

Wanda had died and come back. But Max is a realist -- he doesn't assume the impossible, not for all of them. Wanda was her own kind of special, had magic, and maybe -- maybe someone had waved her from death, because there are so many kinds of people on board who are capable of impossible things. No, risking Furiosa's life at that kind of blind optimism, it would have been bad. He can't conceive of an ending where they escape this. It's never that easy, and death in the wasteland is final, more final than this place and it's equipment...

Furiosa has to go home. The wives, the Citadel, he helped them.

He doesn't want them to die.

Doesn't want her to die.

He'd give all the blood in his body to prevent it, blood he sorely lacks now. Black spots dance in his vision and Furiosa is a flickering, unclear figure sitting over him. The sound over their heads is growing louder, the air more stifling, but Max can barely feel the change with the tang of blood around his molars, on his tongue.

[kill_switch]

As he grabs her wrist, she grabs his back. They're in this together - that much she wants to get across - but there isn't much time for words. There's not much time for anything else.

"I am home."

Because Wastelanders have to stick together, that's the lesson she learned, but here and now it's more than that. She's calm. She's okay with the incoming end. She's realizing she'd rather die with him then live without him. Each moment that one or the other of the two of them were threatened, she'd felt a rising panic; Max had become her world somewhere in their time here. His stubborness to ignore the good in him while increasingly letting it slip. The gruff loner who didn't mind her presence.

The air around them grows hotter and louder and it's a screaming beast bearing down. In the last few moments, Furiosa leans forward, curling enough to touch her forehead to his.

[theroadwarrior]

Max squeezes his eyes shut, reaching with what strength he could find to place a hand against the back of Furiosa's neck. The brand is barely felt, his hands feel so distant from himself. The other touches her warm and living flesh arm, along her wrist, a reminder her heart is beating.

He's sorry, honestly. Sorry she saw him crash - because maybe... maybe if she hadn't... She'd be safe. Her words are both welcomed and hated all at once; it makes his heart clench and his eyes burn under their eyelids, and clarity makes him feel like he's made some terrible slight towards her. Because he cares about her, enough to give as much blood as he has in his veins, and he'd push her to safety without a moment's hesitation right now, even at the cost of himself. Damn you, Furiosa, he didn't want to hear it. Or, hell, maybe he did --

Maybe he feels some soft flutter of fondness, crippled by the fact they're both going to die here.

She's supposed to be at the citadel. Not near him.

He doesn't say anything more. He doesn't have to -- and neither does she. He just holds on, clinging to her until he feels himself completely fading, shock trying to drag him into unconsciousness as the meteor crashes down above them. Maybe... this won't be it. That's the hopeful -- ha, hopeful -- thought he's left with. If there was anything for Max Rockatansky to be hopeful for...

Everything goes dark.