My name is Max. (
theroadwarrior) wrote in
driftfleet2018-01-17 05:55 pm
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ACTION / ANONYMOUS TEXT.
Who: Max and you.
Broadcast: Fleetwide.
Action: Iskaulit, SS Starstruck.
When: Throughout the month and stuff.
Introspection and whatnot.
[Max has had a hell of a two years, eh? Though one supposes he's had a hell of a last two decades, really, but for him this place has been better and worse than home in ways he'll never be able to particularly prescribe to paper. The visions are lesser. The social ineptitudes are still so-so, though one could say he's at least warmed up to the idea of having a name and people he particularly gravitates towards. He doesn't... know a lot of people in the fleet. Not know them, not like he knows his crew, but he doesn't seem to particularly mind how limited he's left his pool of trusted.
Because he only just figured out how to trust people, like... a year ago. Not counting Furiosa, for whom he'd grapple the imperator of Hell itself over, but that's a whole 'nother series of strange emotions he can't put to pen and paper. Anyway. Big two years. Gained faces, lost most of a leg, figured out how to not always fly with swinging fists when the memories seep out from his brain and into the veins of his eyes and whatnot.
He's still the weird guy who sits, silent, in almost any situation, but... at least he's wearing different shirts and doesn't have a beard down to his nipples. These are entirely big improvements.]
Iskaulit Gym Action.
[Now that he's got his fake leg, courtesy of one Howard Stark, he's started getting back into shape. Because suddenly having a prosthetic doesn't mean you magically are the bionic man, yunno? Gotta actually learn to use it; use it or lose it. He's in the gym aboard the Iskaulit, training himself — running, weights, tripping on his own two feet, the works. One can find him here, wiping his face with the hem of his shirt before leaping right back into motion.
Nothing better than to have this to focus on, when you're Mad Max. This is far better than what he could be focusing on, all of which are hallucinatory and far out of date. Still, Peggy's talk of marriage has managed to dredge up a few things that he has a hard time shaking. Things like pillow talks and burping ankle biters and curly hair he had to sweep to find eyes. High school lovebirds. Picnics n' stupid shit that don't actually feel so stupid. The past.
He goes to the punching bag when he gets to the end of the film reel in his head, the one that ends the home movies and starts the terrible trek across the desert to find a place to die. He's getting better, though. Really. His brow is always creased like that, like something's offensive.
He stops to take off said leg for a bit, because even if it's science fiction garble, it's still a stump and it still hurts when you walk on it for a long time (or run on it, or jump on it, or curse on it). Anyway. Come visit the idiot in the gym, whatever he's doing.]
STARSTRUCK. | cw: PTSD episode (but coping strategies, thanks Sam)
[A darker night, at some point, brings him to the lounge. Or rather, you're brought to the lounge by the sounds of the record player, playing one of those old vinyls. It's a low tone, low enough that it would make sense — the sounds of someone not wanting people to know the record is playing, instead of inviting the company openly.
Max is sitting on the couch there, head bowed low, one hand rolling the pieces of a bracelet on his wrist compulsively, an open bottle of whiskey opened beside him on a table. He's apparently still in his night clothes - an undershirt and sweats, something of which is a new thing, the concept of putting on 'sleeping clothes' instead of being hyper-alert in his regular battle garb - and has foregone putting on the leg. The crutch leaning on the couch explains how he got out here without too much fuss.
Judging by the fervent but inaudible mumbling and the careful fidgeting of the bracelet, he didn't come out here enjoyably, though. If one listens closely enough past the music, they could hear the repetition of names, names of people aboard the SS Starstruck, and then the names of the other fleet ships.
Reminders of where he really is, instead of where his mind tortures him with.]
TEXT. | ANONYMOUS.
what's changed you here on this ship?
how's it changed you?
you think it's for better, or worse?
[OOC: Or...! If you have a wildcard or prompt you wanna do, hit me up at
simpledog, because I'm down for anything!]
Broadcast: Fleetwide.
Action: Iskaulit, SS Starstruck.
When: Throughout the month and stuff.
Introspection and whatnot.
[Max has had a hell of a two years, eh? Though one supposes he's had a hell of a last two decades, really, but for him this place has been better and worse than home in ways he'll never be able to particularly prescribe to paper. The visions are lesser. The social ineptitudes are still so-so, though one could say he's at least warmed up to the idea of having a name and people he particularly gravitates towards. He doesn't... know a lot of people in the fleet. Not know them, not like he knows his crew, but he doesn't seem to particularly mind how limited he's left his pool of trusted.
Because he only just figured out how to trust people, like... a year ago. Not counting Furiosa, for whom he'd grapple the imperator of Hell itself over, but that's a whole 'nother series of strange emotions he can't put to pen and paper. Anyway. Big two years. Gained faces, lost most of a leg, figured out how to not always fly with swinging fists when the memories seep out from his brain and into the veins of his eyes and whatnot.
He's still the weird guy who sits, silent, in almost any situation, but... at least he's wearing different shirts and doesn't have a beard down to his nipples. These are entirely big improvements.]
Iskaulit Gym Action.
[Now that he's got his fake leg, courtesy of one Howard Stark, he's started getting back into shape. Because suddenly having a prosthetic doesn't mean you magically are the bionic man, yunno? Gotta actually learn to use it; use it or lose it. He's in the gym aboard the Iskaulit, training himself — running, weights, tripping on his own two feet, the works. One can find him here, wiping his face with the hem of his shirt before leaping right back into motion.
Nothing better than to have this to focus on, when you're Mad Max. This is far better than what he could be focusing on, all of which are hallucinatory and far out of date. Still, Peggy's talk of marriage has managed to dredge up a few things that he has a hard time shaking. Things like pillow talks and burping ankle biters and curly hair he had to sweep to find eyes. High school lovebirds. Picnics n' stupid shit that don't actually feel so stupid. The past.
He goes to the punching bag when he gets to the end of the film reel in his head, the one that ends the home movies and starts the terrible trek across the desert to find a place to die. He's getting better, though. Really. His brow is always creased like that, like something's offensive.
He stops to take off said leg for a bit, because even if it's science fiction garble, it's still a stump and it still hurts when you walk on it for a long time (or run on it, or jump on it, or curse on it). Anyway. Come visit the idiot in the gym, whatever he's doing.]
STARSTRUCK. | cw: PTSD episode (but coping strategies, thanks Sam)
[A darker night, at some point, brings him to the lounge. Or rather, you're brought to the lounge by the sounds of the record player, playing one of those old vinyls. It's a low tone, low enough that it would make sense — the sounds of someone not wanting people to know the record is playing, instead of inviting the company openly.
Max is sitting on the couch there, head bowed low, one hand rolling the pieces of a bracelet on his wrist compulsively, an open bottle of whiskey opened beside him on a table. He's apparently still in his night clothes - an undershirt and sweats, something of which is a new thing, the concept of putting on 'sleeping clothes' instead of being hyper-alert in his regular battle garb - and has foregone putting on the leg. The crutch leaning on the couch explains how he got out here without too much fuss.
Judging by the fervent but inaudible mumbling and the careful fidgeting of the bracelet, he didn't come out here enjoyably, though. If one listens closely enough past the music, they could hear the repetition of names, names of people aboard the SS Starstruck, and then the names of the other fleet ships.
Reminders of where he really is, instead of where his mind tortures him with.]
TEXT. | ANONYMOUS.
what's changed you here on this ship?
how's it changed you?
you think it's for better, or worse?
[OOC: Or...! If you have a wildcard or prompt you wanna do, hit me up at
no subject
[...she might be kidding. But hell if she knows.]
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because your hair doesnt seem to stop changing lengths
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Besides, I started with long hair. We're just returning to form.
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And if it has it's for the worst, probably.
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starstruck »
maybe the volume isn't meant to invite company but peggy doesn't think of herself as merely company. she walks into the lounge, herself wearing only silk pajama bottoms and one of steve's t-shirts. her curls have long since come undone and her hair is plaited into one braid. there's not a lick of makeup on her.
she watches -- listens -- for a moment before speaking up. ]
-- Pour us a glass, hm?
starstruck »
He doesn't seem manic, though he does seem a little more tired.
With careful fingers, he grips the bottle.]
Don't really use this for drinking. Could — make exceptions.
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cookie tin* omg
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text
This ship hasn't changed me any worse than being back home has, no. But it's been much more unpleasant.
text
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action;
She happens upon Max by way of hearing the sound of the record player; it's faint, but the sound carries just enough while the rest of the ship is quiet. She peeks in and sees him there, considering her options quietly for a long moment, then tiptoes away. She returns a few minutes later with two glasses of water, sets one on the mismatched endtable, and curls up in a chair with the other to sit silently with him. She's not too close - she knows better than to startle him by now - but she has no illusions about her presence going unnoticed.]
action;
Ochako, certainly not part of the wastelands.
He clears his dry throat.]
... Thanks.
[He carefully tastes a drink at last; there's some measure of trust there, because for anyone outside of this ship? He would automatically assume the worst of them. This could be poisoned, his mind tells him. Water offered without pay could be a trap. But it's not. He's on the fleet, and water's plentiful.
What should he say? He takes some time to think, his adrenaline stilling a little more despite how vice-like the pressure is on his heart.]
... Can't sleep?
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couldn't tell you if it's better or worse. goes both ways. maybe evens out.
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better than crashing and burning i guess.
seems like your stance is the usual one, so far.
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text
on the bad side my back got broken in the first place and that kind of fucked stuff up for a while and then i get bored all the time and think too much and that's less great because then i go pick fights or do other stuff that make my friends sad
but i think it's mostly better at least when i have stuff to do
text
learning to knit changed you.
guess boredom is a key component.
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action
the muttering, though, that's new. it reminds him of midoriya a little, in its repetition, and though he'd never admit it aloud he kind of misses his student. maybe just for uraraka's sake. ...no, fine, for his own sake too. he worries.
so against his usual judgment aizawa follows the sound and leans into view of the open doorway to see max huddled on the couch, the expression on his face more creased than normal as he fiddles with a bracelet and mumbles to himself. his prosthetic isn't on and he's in actual sleep clothes, so he must've been woken; it doesn't take a genius to guess the reason why.
again, leaving max would be the best course of action...but something draws aizawa in, instead of turning him away. hunched over and haunted like that, he reminds him a little too much of the looks he's occasionally seen on his colleagues' faces.
he announces his presence with a shuffle of his feet before tapping his knuckles against the doorway.]
action
... That said, it's been better. Since 'therapy'. Or whatever it constituted as, since Max is still a bit of a tightly sealed clam. He leans back. The liquor bottle on the table is apparently unpoured; not used for drinking, it seems?]
... You need something?
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She can't sleep either, wrestling with her own collection of demons and nightmares, and she wanders in to the lounge without word to pour herself some water and sit down near him. Not suffocatingly close, but just enough as to be considered companionable, to let him know she's there if he needs her.
Otherwise, she recognizes his own advice to keep himself grounded, and does not interrupt.]
She's got a blanket slung over her shoulders; habit from suffering cold desert nights. The ship's temperature doesn't reach extremes, but there are times she misses the heat.
It's one of the many things she'll ponder as she sits, and listens, and sips her water, sharing the moment with Max without feeling the need to interrupt it. If he wanted her to kn
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Now that's someone who could be either home or the fleet; someone who technically flies in the face of his coping strategies, that idea that home isn't here. But she's here, and she's from the wastelands (and thank god she's here, he was worried that...). A cough, as he clears his throat. His hands feel unstable, his gaze a flash and withdrawn, but — he's calmed. Settled.]
Just a bad night.
[That's all. Hey, how's it going? Me?
Just sitting in the lounge, having to remember what reality is; it's not a new shirt he's wearing.]
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text - anonymous;
text - anonymous;
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Gym
He ran laps, lifted weights, and practiced his hand-to-hand skills on one of the punching bags before finally moving to the thing he looked forward to each time he came here: the obstacle course.
He didn't run it through normal, instead he used it for his biotics, lifting and propelling himself with the blue energy of his power instead of raw strength.
Usually, he was perfectly comfortable sharing the space with others also there to train themselves, he even found a certain kind of comfort in having another presence nearby, almost like it could be home. But Shepard was also a nosy son of a bitch, so he noticed Max pushing himself, the fact he was clearly taking something out on that punching bag, the fact he was favoring one leg, all of it. When Shep was done with his last run through of the course, he stopped to grab his towel and some water and made his way over to the other man.]
You doing okay?
[He held out the thing of water as an offering.]
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M'fine. Building up lost muscle.
... I've got my own water.
[No, yup, he can't keep away that usual self.
You might've poisoned that, okay. Slim chances, but chances that could kill.]
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