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.]
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?
no subject
[The sound of a man who hates relying on help in any capacity. A stubborn jackass, one could say.
But also, he feels like complete shit, so... that does help give him more incentive.]
I just need... the crutches.
[He glances at them, across the way. He's by no means good on his feet right now, but.
He's gonna try before he fails, okay.]
no subject
So at least this time, there's no snide comment. She just gets up so she can go over and get the crutches, bringing them back and holding them out to him]
Take it slow. [she picks up the bag she brought so it's no longer in his way, setting it down nearby.
You know. Just in case she has to catch an idiot]
no subject
But he does obey, a little, because he'd rather not fall on his face and prove her right in any capacity; she might hold it over his head in the future. He stands on a calf-weak leg as he slips the crutches under his arms, biting his lip hard at the dizzing motion from sitting to standing. He does sway, but his sheer stubbornness keeps him from toppling from the motion.
His stomach flip-flops, lost at sea.]
... M'fine. Got it.
[He says, mostly to himself. He blinks hard and tries to dispel ghosts.
Starts forward shakily -- haphazardly.]
no subject
She watches him sway with a frown and makes an executive decision - one he'd surely veto if she offered - and slips under his right arm, taking the crutch and pulling his arm around her shoulders. The prosthetic hand clicks and whirls quietly as it moves, metal fingers closing carefully around his hand. The crutch is dropped behind them so she can get her other arm around his waist.
She's reminded of his calibration, but quickly shakes the thought from her head.
Before he can protest she gives him the gentlest nudge, a silent "just deal with it"]
Go on, then.
no subject
By the time he gets to his room he's sweating from the effort, shaking and pale.
Guy should really lay down before he faints. Sure, sleep's the ideal goal, but not by way of collapsing.]
no subject
She makes sure to stay at his pace, though, not hurrying and not slowing him when she really should be. It's a little awkward, what with her concentrating on both moving forward and making sure not to crush his hand between metal fingers, but she's more than happy to (carefully) deposit him on the bed as soon as they're within reach]
Goodness you're heavy. [is the only smartass remark she's going to make.
. . . maybe]
no subject
... Must be joining your club, then...
[Nevermind, he's still working it, flopped over on a pillow in defeat.
This is around the part where his wife would smack him upside the back of his head.]
no subject
[he knows which one. But she does "pat" him on the shoulder with her metal hand. Perhaps just a touch harder than necessary.
She disappears from his room to grab her bag and brings it back in, setting it within reaching distance]
If you run out of the tea, let me know if you want more and I will bring it over. [...] If it doesn't work, I have a spell that will put you to sleep as well.
no subject
... Weird shit...
[Even while terribly ill and troubled, he's such a kind soul.]
no subject
[her bedside manner is impeccable as always, as is her maturity. But she does lower her voice when he notices how close he is to passing out] Get some rest, Max.
no subject
... Sure thing, Jessie.
[The confusing comment (or perhaps not remotely confusing comment) is followed by him sinking more into the mattress, and some lines of pain do smooth out as he drifts.]