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)
driftfleet2018-01-17 05:55 pm
theroadwarrior) wrote in driftfleet2018-01-17 05:55 pm
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 This is far better than what he could be focusing on, all of which are hallucinatory and far out of date.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![[plurk.com profile]](https://plurk.com/favicon.ico)
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
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