Action/Voice | Dated October 6th | this didn't remotely fit on a mingle sobs

[theroadwarrior]

Who: Max and you.
Broadcast: Voice (see down a ways)
Action: SS Marsiva and SS Starstruck
When: October 6th, and it spans through the following week as well.

[Closed to others on the Marsiva if desired! October 6th]

[Max is spit up by the Marsiva a bit earlier than his other counterparts. Not much earlier, but he figures it might have to do with what they left behind on the planet -- but not before a nightmare of twisted images, of shadows he can't quite place and memories of his youth, of his adulthood, of what he lost that had made him less than human for a very long time. He's fortune; he knows how to handle the feeling of vivid nightmares and paranoia, of fears and iciness in his stomach. Perhaps it says terrible things about his way of life before the fleet, but death and the sense of dread afterward feels like living.

He wakes up in the Marsiva's healing deck, laid out on one of the cots with a sort of sensation that he's been pumped full of drugs, his body is so exhausted. He tries to swing his legs over the side of the bed to sit up, and it's a herclean effort aided only by the fact that he's been dealing with an ineffectively shit leg for twenty--

He staggers and collapses, arms braced on the bed, as he glances down. No brace. No anything, actually, from the thigh down. Terrible whispers caress his ears as he flat-out ignores them as he always does in favor of reaching out to touch the loose fabric of an empty pant leg. Alright. Alright, alright. It's not there. It hurts, but it's not there. Okay. He blinks hard, and reassesses the situation, pushing it all out of his mind for the moment. So his leg's gone. There's nothing he can do about that right now, other than work around it; it's just a step above the day it'd gotten shot. Work around it.

He looks around, sweat beading his brow and a constant chill shivering his body. At least they were nice enough to give him back his normal clothes, right? A copper-skinned woman holding an older man's hand passes his peripheral vision before he takes note of the pair of crutches leaning neatly against another cot. Time to see if anyone else is here, he supposes. But really, his heart is thrumming for the sight of Furiosa. If he's here, then surely she would be. There's really no logical reason why they would pick someone like him over literally anyone else to return to life.

He ventures forward, sluggish but determined to not be a sole survivor.

He refuses the thought.]




[Starstruck, October 6th]

[There's a pop on the bridge, a little spray of confetti.

Max is just as disoriented as ever when he is abruptly dumped into one of the chairs. He curses, foul words that should never be uttered by a civilized man, tiredly wiping confetti out of his slight beard and feverishly pale forehead. Now that the complete turmoil roiling in his gut over the survivors is a bit more appeased, the terrible, awful mental problems are just a drop in the bucket -- the physical, he could do without, but he's used to it. Really, he hasn't mentally processed losing his leg. Could they not have dropped the crutches in with him?

Pop, clatter. One crutch falls in, and then another, clacking loudly across the room.

...

He growls under his breath.

But on the bright side, his comms device is with him. So he just settles for wearily stamping in the voice command with his finger, vision too swirling and hands too jittery for text. Alright, so. Don't think about the dying part, or the fact that people really do just come back to life at all here, just work on the information part:]




[Voice.]

M'back.

What happened after the planet went out?

[What a wonderful public speaker. You missed this, right?]




[And again, Starstruck action.]

[And yes, eventually he can be found in his room. He's not in bed like he damn well should be, but he has at least gotten himself a wheelchair so that he's not just fumbling and collapsing on a sickly single leg. Or worse, sometimes he's not in his room. Sometimes he's in the cargo bay with Rock the dog (what a good dog), patting his head distantly and looking at the spot where his shuttle, newly resurrected, resides. He grumbles a little more, discontent with the fact that he can't actually use the damn thing in his current state to hide out.

The leg that isn't there anymore hurts. But he finds something... he can't quite explain in the absence. Something illogical for any other person than himself. A sort of... strange relief. Hell if he knows how to explain, so he just sits, patting the dog's head, lost in a swirl of thoughts. If he falls asleep in his chair, you'll be kind and not startle him, okay? It's not like he's got the energy to swing at you this week.]

Comments

voice;

[noprophecies]

[she has died and watched others die enough to know what it sounds like. And how unpleasant it is when one is brought back, through whatever means. She makes a noise, an attempt at a weak huff]

From what I have been told, it is still there. I passed out shortly after everything happened. But I could hear it as we were leaving the area. [...] Are you back on your ship now?

Voice

[theroadwarrior]

[A hummmm, as he looks around the Starstruck's bridge. Gonna have to figure out a way to get to those crutches, huh? If he even has the energy to use 'em. He loathes the thought of fishing out a wheelchair.]

... Mmm, yeah. Dropped back off...

Think they can go back?

[To the planet. He imagines it must've looked... a lot like home.

Worse off, but home.]

Voice

[noprophecies]

Probably not for a while. Though you are better off asking someone who knows more about that sort of thing than I do.

["dropped back off" . . . ugh] Are you resting?

Voice

[theroadwarrior]

I'm sitting.

[That's the equivalent, you know.]

Voice

[noprophecies]

. . . in your room? Because I am coming by.

[in a tone that says there is no room for argument]

Voice

[theroadwarrior]

... I'm fine...

[He's gonna try anyway. Are you surprised.

He just doesn't sound as believable when he sounds like garbage.]

Voice

[noprophecies]

Yes, I'm sure you are. [flatly]

I won't stay long. I will be there in a few minutes.

[and she hangs up before he can try to argue further. Uh oh]

[theroadwarrior]

[Oh goddammit. He sighs, not remotely prepared -- but he's gonna... try to... what, crawl over to his crutches? He's tired after wandering the Marsiva for the others. For a moment, he sits defeated in the chair he'd been deposited into, one pant sleeve dangling like its his leg's ghost. He does try to get up a few times as is -- stubborn bastard that he is --

But it ends in his knee buckling and dropping him right back into the seat.

Just stop, man.]

[noprophecies]

[a few minutes really means ten to fifteen, but eventually she makes her way over to his ship, a bag in hand. It doesn't dawn on her until she steps into the cargo bay that she has no idea where his room is.

Welp.

So she's left to wander, and when she reluctantly eventually makes her way to the bridge to see if someone is there to ask—well then.

The missing leg only gets a single, long glance, her expression carefully blank]

Well. That's inconvenient.

[theroadwarrior]

[A grunt, as he glances at her. Maybe agreement? Definitely agreement.

He looks rather annoyed at the situation, but with a dash of 'I'm too sickly to do a thing about it'.

... At least she can relate.]

[noprophecies]

You lost the wrong part if you were trying to match.

[she'll do it, she'll make the joke] Is this where you've decided to rest?

[let's hear it, Max, what's the excuse]

[theroadwarrior]

[You schlanger. He scowls a little at the question, because that means he has to admit that he's entirely marooned by his own weakness right now. His good leg is jelly at the moment, fawn-weak, and he doesn't dare try to prove anything by attempting to stand again. He rubs a hand across a feverish temple, dusting away some remnants of confetti.

Huff.]

Haven't decided anything lately.

[noprophecies]

[ah, what a scowl. One she'd tease him about, if her heart was in it and this wasn't mere . . . who knows how long after he was brought back to life. If only this were a less serious situation, alas]

All I am hearing is "I'm a stubborn old man", dear. [she rolls her eyes and steps closer, then kneels down to rummage through the bag]

[theroadwarrior]

[He does his best to focus on what she's doing; really, there's a nightmare world going on all around here, hallucinations wandering and whispering and speaking at volumes that nearly drown her out. He shakes his aching head slightly and squints at her, his insides panging sharp, sharp like black icicles.]

What're you doing...?

[What're you doing here, too. But mostly, what are you doing?

He wonders if maybe he just imagined her and she's not actually here, come to think of it.]

[noprophecies]

If this is where you plan to "rest", I may as well leave what I brought here, yes?

[she words it as a question and also a threat, like yes I will leave everything here and make you carry it despite missing a leg, don't make me do it.

But she does stop rummaging through the bag to sit back and fix him with a curious look]

[theroadwarrior]

[He cocks his head to the side, looking a little lost, brow wrinkled.

Like he's trying to hear her a little better.]

Brought...?

[Buddy, you're a mess.]

[noprophecies]

. . . yes, that is part of why I came by.

[the curious look sharpens just a little as she gestures to the bag] See?

[theroadwarrior]

[And yet despite how he looks, he has the mental wherewithal to say, with devoted dryness:]

... You came to point at a bag?

[noprophecies]

I'm going to kick you in the bloody head.

[bedside manner: next level]

[theroadwarrior]

Mmmm.

[Go for it, he might get some sleep proper.]

... What is it?

[noprophecies]

[SHE'LL REALLY DO IT MAX]

Tea. It'll help you sleep.

[it's like she knows what going through this is like]

[theroadwarrior]

[Ahhh. Tea doesn't sound vomit-inducing right now. That's about as good as it gets.

He shifts uncomfortably, blinking down at the tea in question.]

... Can't sleep yet. Gotta... Make sure the others get back.

[But Max, you look like shit, and you can't get out of a chair.]

[noprophecies]

You need to make sure you rest too, you know.

[she gives his missing leg - or at least, the area it would have been - a pointed look before glancing back up at him] And I doubt you will be able to actually go to them to check on them.

[theroadwarrior]

[He glares at her, but he's so pale and awful looking, he's really no bark or bite at all.]

Supposed to keep track of.... my crew.

[He said it, he said 'my' in there. He owns his place. Damn you.]

[noprophecies]

[like a dog growling over his territory. She understands, more than she'd like to admit, but - ]

Message them and demand that they come check with you in person. [she says, as if it's that simple] Unless you want the lot of them all yelling at you to rest, too.