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 This is far better than what he could be focusing on, all of which are hallucinatory and far out of date.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
no subject
Can I ask about what sort of things?
[ because a person can have bad dreams or sad dreams or the sort that confuse and disorient. or all three. ]
no subject
The dreams are always so vivid, that even if they may be just fabrications, they would so easily fit into the world he had driven through back home. This dream was a particularly ugly one that was very much real; one of those kinda dreams that burns in your retinas and never leaves you alone. Especially when you've changed so much and it's hard to think about those 'zombied' years.
And of course, there's always the thought that Peggy would look at him differently, if she knew some of the shit he'd ignored, or took part in. Things like taking what wasn't his, or letting someone die without offering a hand to help, because it'd only get your chances of living down in the end. In the end, he chooses honesty.]
... Going on a week without food. Being tired.
[There were definitely years or months in-between where he wasn't quite so solidly packed and stout. If you hovered around a place with more settlements, you could fight and barter yourself into fullness again, gain back that weight. But when you're just out there, living from bird to bird and boiling what water you scrounge, you sort of run that risk of shrinking down and showing off the fine lines of your ribs. It's especially bad when...]
... There was a famine at the time. About ten years back. Everyone clawed up everyone else, killed and stole a lot to keep from turning into well-fashioned skeletons... Can't say I was innocent of taking when people weren't looking.
[That's just how it was. That was how you made it out. He shrugs.]
Certain groups, they started rounding up any scavengers and villagers they found in the dunes or elsewhere... I couldn't stay close to the living, so I watched from far away while they tore through the small villages.
[His expression dims slightly, hand curling on his perched forearm.]
Still had my fair share of close calls. Deserved 'em.
no subject
she knows what she risks. she's ready to fend off another growl, another lunge, another whatever-he-throws-at-her. ]
Did you?
[ deserve them. ]
Because that comes awfully close to espousing some belief in karma or -- fate, even.
no subject
I used to be a cop, remember? Used to have a sense of justice.
Karma or fate, sometimes people deserve it.
[He doesn't flinch, doesn't look at her with shadowed eyes. He seems comfortable where he is — it's just another example of why he's not home, why his mind is just playing tricks on him when he thinks he is. It's a large step, one he's comfortable making for once. But the iciness in his stomach isn't abating, when he thinks of the year of famine; the memories are still there, anyway.
Surprisingly, he's not finished; the story, there's more to it.
The reason behind the nightmare tonight.]
I was walking through the remains of one of those pillaged villages, and I found a woman. Still breathing, still awake. No chance of her making it through the night. [He runs his fingers along the bracelets.] She didn't have anything left. Was in considerable pain... She asked me to — help her.
no subject
[ peggy guesses darkly. it's the first place to where her mind leaps the moment she hears max describe the woman's plight: a mercy killing in the ruins of that woman's life, echoing (she's sure) ruins that max had witnessed over and over again.
she doesn't ask. he'll tell, if he wants to tell. instead the brushes the backs of her knuckles against the back-half of his cheek, before she drops her hand to his forearm. her grip is light. i'm here. ]
no subject
[He takes a swig of the whiskey, because it's there.
As long as he doesn't get drunk, he'll entertain it. The question tickles his mind.]
... What would you have done?
no subject
[ with every weight and intention behind the word that he had used originally. she leans away to let him swig; she leans back in the aftermath. ]
If there truly wasn't anything else to be done? Then, yes, I would have. [ she has before. there's call to say it out loud -- but war gets ugly and sometimes you're staring down the spilled guts of an ally, not a stranger, and you're called upon to administer that final mercy. you do it quick and you do it as painless as you can.
and you remind yourself, later, that he would have done the same for you. ]
no subject
He's killed a lot of people for a number of reasons, but... The ones like that woman, those are the ones that get to him most of all.]
I had to choose how to kill her. So I used my gun — was... tactically a stupid thing. They could hear it if they were close by; they were close by, and I had to kill more that day. But... I didn't want to risk, aaah. Cause any more pain.
[He shrugs his free shoulder.]
Guess it's like being a soldier in a world-wide war you'll never see end.
no subject
she curls her fingers tighter into his elbow and leans forward -- keen to catch his eyes. ]
Did they come for you? Once they heard the shot?
no subject
Was an ugly scene. Took some of 'em out.
I'm pretty good with explosives — to avoid too much hand-to-hand.
no subject
[ she leans in closer closer closer -- until, sweet and sisterly, she touches a brief kiss to the high point of max's cheek. peg had scrubbed away her lipstick before bed; she doesn't leave a smudge. ]
And I am so glad you did.
[ she won't tell him that the way he's lived his life has been virtuous. she know it hasn't been. but she can tell him how happy she is that he's alive -- she can express how much that means to her. ]
no subject
He'd say cut it out, but it doesn't bother him nearly as much as the huff makes it sound.]
You sure about that? Your pantry's in constant danger.
no subject
[ they're crew. family, maybe, although she won't dare to say it aloud. peggy sinks back with a stern (playful) frown in place of a smile. ]
no subject
[... He's a little amused, he admits. Ah, but this calms the situation, doesn't it?]
Feels kind of like I cheated, when you say I survived.
[He did kick the bucket after all. He just was hard to keep down, like bad beef.]
no subject
For someone to cheat, my dear, there has to be rules in place. And I quite suspect the rules got tossed out rather early on. Didn't they?
no subject
The record playing ends, leaves the room quieter, and Max breathes in.]
I kind of miss rules. Like to know how to work with or, ah, around something.
... I guess I can't complain too much, now that I'm almost human again.
cookie tin* omg
-- And if it's rules you're after, just say so. I can always give you more.
no subject
... He looks at ease, though, and his eyes are drifting elsewhere. He huffs instead.]
Now you're really evolving into a schoolmarm.
no subject
[ that jab turns into a shove. then, soon after, she slaps her hands on her knees as though preparing to leave. ] Are you going to alright? I can stay a bit if you like. The ball and chain can live without me for a little longer.
no subject
And then, with some semblance of humor:]
... I don't think I'll be punching anyone.
Harder to do now that the crew is made up of easier people to deal with.
[Yeah, he'll probably be okay.]