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!]

Comments

[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.