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
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.]
no subject
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.]
no subject
[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.]
no subject
Furiosa -- hey, look at me. Can't let it tear you down right now. Fight it.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
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.]
no subject
[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.
no subject
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.]
no subject
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.]
no subject
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.