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

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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.]

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[If she wasn't busy trying not to break her neck on the way down she might have commented on it. As it is, she realizes she's in no better position than he is. Eventually, however, she feels confident enough to let go of the shuttle and kneel down next to his chair.]

[Joking aside, she studies him; his face, his chair, the blankets that don't quite hide what he's missing.]

How ... are you? [Namely your missing leg. She feels partly responsible for that. Maybe if she would have left him in the shuttle there would have been something for Atroma to reattach.]

M'about as good as you, right now.

[He says it with some measure of lightness, though. Despite how much like shit they both feel, Max feels... alright. The terrible aftereffects of the reconstruction... they're not that bad, to a madman. He figures for the leg he's missing right now, he's got a leg up on the mental side of all this. Haaa. He gives a shrug, head listing a little like his neck is still trying to relearn how to carry the weight.

The weight of what happened slowly comes over him, thick in the air.

He grips the sheet in his lap in a weak, guilty fist, not quite looking her in the eye.]

... I really, ah... screwed that all up.

[Maybe if he'd been better. Maybe if he'd noticed the trajectory of that rock before it met the other. Maybe if he'd just... not told her to be there to meet him. No, that's definitely one sin of his, and he knows deep down he had aided in her death.]

[All things considered she has felt worse before and that was when she was slowly bleeding out and running risk of a collapsed lung. But, she was only partially cognizant when it had been happening. Right now she rather wished she had a blanket herself, but she's not one to complain. Besides, there are more important things to think about; seeing the way he's not looking at her, how he's worrying the blanket.

She won't try to chase eye contact, but she will reach out - perhaps somewhat hesitantly, expecting him to pull away - and lay her hand over his.]

No, no you didn't. [Their lives had always been wrought with near-misses, it was only a matter of time until something actually managed to kill either of them. She was at least grateful that she was able to make her own choice in the matter - and it wasn't one she regretted at all.]

[His skin jumps a bit under her palm, but only minutely. It's expected but not the worst case -- he looks at her finally with that frowing crease in his brow, age lines in his forehead, and he looks conflicted. If this is her way of making him feel better, it's not terribly effective... but it's hard to convince a Rockatansky of anything once their mind has settled for something in particular, one figures.

There's a haunted concern, one of a man who has carried -- rather unnecessarily, in a lot of cases -- the deaths of people on his back. Perhaps Furiosa's is enough to pop a few discs. He's not sure what he would have done if she didn't come back with him. Rough and disused, his voice is low, relenting as he slowly moves to cup her hand back. A weak but no less available offer of solidarity.]

... M'glad you're safe.

I'd tell you not to pull stunts like that, but... don't think you'd listen.

We've got that in common.

[Meaning she's not going to tell him to stop because she knows he won't listen, either. She continues to hold his hand, quietly. Things were somehow awful and still - somehow - calming at the same time. She hated that they were both in this compromising situation, hated how weak they currently were. Even just kneeling here beside him was trouble on her knees and her thighs and she knew she'd be opting to settle back or see about relocating somewhere she could sit down or - hell - lay down and rest and close her eyes because it was a struggle even just staying awake right now.

But at the same time, she was filled with calm and relief. He was back. He wasn't whole, but she knew that wasn't going to stop him in the long run just like being down an arm hadn't stopped her. At the end of it, he was here.]

Glad you're safe too.

[Not ... sure what else to say. Leaving it to a network exchange was out of the question, though; she had to see him with her own eyes, to ensure against any shadow of a doubt he was here.]

[Aaah, yes, the strange silent dance of the Wastelanders. Talking, interacting, being casual, what is that? Even worse when they're both really just messes. He observes her with a careful eye and a furrowed brow, his hand shrinks back and he feels some strange sort of discomfort with the realization of how relaxed he is in her company; not a bad kind of discomfort, not the kind that makes you feel like danger lingers around a corner, but those impatient kinds that reminds you you're not as feral as you thought you'd become, so many years ago.

He's never sure how to feel about how he's fallen into the way of life here now.

Or how, only recently, has he began to note his gnawing worry or concern when Furiosa's involved -- his one link to home, but more importantly, the turning point of his humanity returning to him. He clears his throat.]

Tired? Could sleep here since... ahh.

[He glances at the shuttle, skeptical.]

[Furiosa pulls her hand back after he disengages. It's an odd sort of comfort that's fine until the moment she's aware of it. For now she's better at ignoring it when she's cognizant of it. She settles back and lets out a heavy sigh, looking over at the shuttle. It was sobering, to think what might have happened, and was pretty damning evidence of how she shouldn't be flying anything right now.

And sleep, now that she knew Max was safe, the panic and adrenaline was fading away and leaving her with a heavy exhaustion.]

Yeah ... probably, for the best.

[He gives a little nod, hands moving to the wheels of his wheelchair; he gets tired quickly, but he's pretty sure he can make it back to the room in one piece. Relatively. He glances up to her with his own exhausted sort of expression, fond but weary. They've really been through the grinder.]

Mm. Good.

Don't want your crew to airlock me, f'I let you go as is.

[Furiosa stands, wavers, and grabs onto the edge of his chair to steady herself. It's just a small moment, but no less damning to her of her condition. She looks back at the shuttle and scoffs.]

Likely Tyrion will airlock me when he finds out I left, like I am.

[Snort. He lets her use him as a crutch as much as she'd like; not like he's going anywhere very quickly, so why not be of use to her while they go?]

Believe it or not, but -- think he likes you too much to kill you off.

[He starts a slow pace of pushing his wheels with what limited energy he has, trying to get back towards his room as he speaks; he's been getting stronger. That's what matters.]

[She'll hold onto one of the handles, loosely, absolutely less trying to direct him anywhere and more just giving herself something to hold onto should she lose her footing again.

Max's words cause her to frown, though, as she thinks about her conversation with Tyrion after she arrived back; seeing his reaction, hearing that he'd drunk himself near stupid when she first died. She wasn't sure how she felt about that, that someone would so easily damage themselves in her absence.]

He worries me. He's going to drink himself dead one of these days, and I wouldn't be surprised if it's over something I did.

[It's scary, when people care about you.]

[He huffs, a bit out of breath as they go.]

Those're his demons. Not yours.

[So it's not your fault, is what he's getting at.

And really, he feels like Furiosa died over something he did. It leaves that old dusty muscle one calls a heart a little sore.]

True. But he's my crew, my responsibility. [She glances down at Max before looking back at the hallway ahead of them.] -- and Kaiden. He died, too, on the planet. What kind of Captain am I.

[It's more a soft musing than an actual question. She's never doubted her abilities before, and hells know she wouldn't have done anything differently ... no, scratch that. If she had known there was no chance saving Max, she would have kept going.

Just as she had with Angharad.

The only reason she hadn't stopped for Angharad was there had been confirmation; she hadn't had that with Max, and she'd trusted her own gut and they both wound up dead.

But no one else was effected in that decision, were they? It's a sudden, quiet, and almost insidious thought. She still had four other Wives to see to safety, going back for Angharad would have meant putting them all at risk.

She finds herself lost in thought, and unable to move forward; suddenly feeling an immense weight of guilt settle on her shoulders and in her gut - that she'd gone back for Max, but she hadn't for Angharad.

The ship doesn't feel so much like a ship anymore. The air is too hot, her throat is parched, she smells the fuel and the ripe bodies and she's back in that moment. The Wives are yelling, crying, she's yelling back that they have to go forward but damn in her heart she wants to jump from the rig and run back. Run so hard and so fast that her heart is a pulsating stone in her throat but she doesn't she sits and she makes that call.

Her grip on Max's chair tightens, white-knuckled, using it to ground herself and remind herself where she's at; standing, on a ship, in space. Cold, dark, space.]

Edited 2017-11-02 06:35 (UTC)

[Max, for all the issues he has, can be perspective enough. He doesn't even need to look first to know that something is unsettling her -- and when he cranes his neck to look at her, he recognizes that sort of haunted stare. He's worn it himself plenty. Turning slightly, he reaches out and grabs her wrist, firm but not forceful.]

Furiosa -- hey, look at me. Can't let it tear you down right now. Fight it.

[She looks down at him as he speaks, but he's driving, it's hot and bright and she grips the wheel a little harder, her tendons and muscles flexing underneath his grip. But why is she holding the wheel? Is she trying to turn them back?

Fight it. She grips the wheel. Something's off. She continues to watch him as reality starts to fade back in. She's holding his wheelchair. He's holding her. She's on the ship. First Breath.

No, no that's not right. She takes a sudden intake of breath and looks around, not letting go for fear of losing herself again. Starstruck. That's where she was. Space. She closes her eyes and spends a few minutes trying to come down from the inexplicable rush of adrenaline. She felt weak and winded.]

I should have gone back for Angharad. [Her voice is soft, steady, but even as she says it she knows it's not true. ]

[Max keeps eye contact with her, expression hard to read.]

And I should've been able to protect my family.

Can't change what's happened, Fury.

[That is -- a fucking step and a half for Max to accomplish.

But. He figures he could say something, anything, that could help appease the ghosts haunting her right now.]

It'll always haunt you. But it's up to you how it does.

[She watches him, unwilling to break eye contact either, her expression almost as unreadable, but there's a downward turn at the corners of her mouth.

She doesn't miss the importance of those words coming out of Max's mouth, though, and finally lets go of the chair; turning her hand so she can grip his wrist even as he grips hers. She pulls in a breath and lets it out in a measured sigh.]

Thanks.

[There's a nuance of emotions in that one word, but farbeit for a Wastelander to actually voice anything more than the absolute bare minimum.]

... S'fine. Might as well put what I know to good use, right?

[His lips twitch, as he taps a finger to his temple. He's still holding her wrist, her hand over his own, and it's a fine tether.]

Nice to, ah... know that the madness comes in handy.

[She's willing to keep holding on, if he's able as they continue. She's starting to feel exhaustion settle back on her like a thick blanket.]

Lucky me. [It's a little dark humor to see them along, but while she may feel for him and how he came to possess this timely advice, she appreciates it nontheless.

And beyond all that, she appreciates him. She gives his hand a little squeeze, even as they fall into silence. Having someone she was this comfortable around - it's something she never thought she'd achieve.]

[He jerks his head slightly toward his room.]

Get some rest?

[He's not particularly planning to climb into bed with her; number one, that's dangerous with the likes of him, and number two, he wouldn't want to put her into that kind of screwed up predicament. He's not a complete moron. But... if he can get her some shut-eye, might as well.]

[They've both made amazing strides since they've been here, but there is still so far to go. Furiosa disengages and heads in once they reach his room, grateful that once again he's given it up for her recovery.]

I'll do my best. [She sits on the edge of the bed and goes about unlacing her boots.] You need anything, wake me up.

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

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