My name is Max. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
theroadwarrior) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
driftfleet2017-10-05 12:42 pm
theroadwarrior) wrote in driftfleet2017-10-05 12:42 pm
Entry tags:
Action/Voice | Dated October 6th | this didn't remotely fit on a mingle sobs
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.]
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.]
Voice
["dropped back off" . . . ugh] Are you resting?
Voice
[That's the equivalent, you know.]
Voice
[in a tone that says there is no room for argument]
Voice
[He's gonna try anyway. Are you surprised.
He just doesn't sound as believable when he sounds like garbage.]
Voice
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]
no subject
But it ends in his knee buckling and dropping him right back into the seat.
Just stop, man.]
no subject
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.
no subject
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.]
no subject
[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]
no subject
Huff.]
Haven't decided anything lately.
no subject
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]
no subject
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.]
no subject
[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]
no subject
Like he's trying to hear her a little better.]
Brought...?
[Buddy, you're a mess.]
no subject
[the curious look sharpens just a little as she gestures to the bag] See?
no subject
... You came to point at a bag?
no subject
[bedside manner: next level]
no subject
[Go for it, he might get some sleep proper.]
... What is it?
no subject
Tea. It'll help you sleep.
[it's like she knows what going through this is like]
no subject
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.]
no subject
[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.
no subject
Supposed to keep track of.... my crew.
[He said it, he said 'my' in there. He owns his place. Damn you.]
no subject
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.
no subject
Is it yelling if I tune it out.
[But he knows when he has no decent response -- at this point, he's just being bullheaded as usual, only he has far less energy to spend doing that. His shoulders sag slightly and he nods. Give him a mirror, he'll feel tired just looking at himself.]
... Fine.
Little rest... never killed anybody.
no subject
No, it didn't. [...] Do you want me to help you to your room?
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