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theroadwarriorWho: Max Rockatansky and you
Broadcast: Voice Broadcast
Action: The HS Marsiva
When: Upon waking this week (MERRY CHRISTMAS, MAX.)
[The last thing Max recalls is marching quietly through the thick green underbrush of a planet that certainly wasn't earth — it was where the Tranquility had crash-landed, a place that was at least better than the endless captivity of space. Out there in the jungles he could stretch his legs, out-walk the ghosts as best he usually could. The issues with the acidic water and tainted meat aside (which was close enough to home to not even faze him proper), it was a welcomed new world to hide out in.
So it stands to reason that when he wakes up, he's not humored by the scenery. Unlike his awakening from the pods in the Tranquility, though, he isn't violent and wild and frantic in his escape. His mind is in a good place this month — he's not greeted by illness and a barrage of angry spirits condemning him. It doesn't mean he's happy about it, though, and he's certainly as on edge as ever. Sitting up, he finds his new brace still strapped on, courtesy of Tadashi — and he's got his jacket, but the supply pack that he had so carefully hoarded and withheld from prying eyes is gone. And that is plenty to sour his already snappy mood.
And he's torn. On the jacket. On one hand, it looks — brand new, looks like the jacket the 20-something wore, back when he wasn't a psychotic, a vulture on the roads outrunning himself. And Max is also someone who, out in the sands with nothing new to speak of, appreciates when things are in better conditions than not. On the other hand... someone changed his jacket, and that's not their jacket to change, and he doesn't like when people touch his things.
So here he is, familiar enough with the network style to use it, social enough by the power of being unimpressed and insulted by the obvious violation to his person by changing his fucking things around —at first it's incoherent little mutters, as if Max turned on the voice function but didn't care much to use it right away (hint: he didn't).]
Where is my pack.
[He's so sweet tonight, ladies and gents.]
(Below is potential action; warning for self-harm, though slight and re: the augment.)
[He feels something stretch his skin, something on his head, behind his ear. When he feels along and finds the bulge there, something in his chest tightens and his stomach flip-flops. Aboard the Tranquility, there was a tattoo on the arm. In fact, it's still there on his — scrambled, ugly and indecipherable, a reminder of his time on the other ship. Just as the hand-shaped burn on his forearm is. But this, this is different. This makes his hackles rise, makes him rise up and anxiously begin to pace through the ship. Little slivers of incoherence pokes through, tinny voices stifled by his own attempt to keep them at bay. Mind games. Something's under his skin, and he needs to get it out. It's putting things there that he doesn't remember knowing before.
The utensils in the kitchen will do, got to get this thing out of him, like scalding scorpion poison on the edge of a spear.
He gets one slice into the flesh there before he stops, blinks, and lowers the barely bloodied tool on the counter. No — stupid idea. Think harder, Max. He rubs his eyes and thinks about trajectories and switches and sliding into the seat of a ship and piloting it. Out in the stars. It's different from the small shuttles aboard the Tranquility. He knows more than he should. It must be this place. Must have inputted this invasive thing in his system. Could kill him if he tries to mess with it anymore. Control yourself. Relax.
He instead leaves the soiled knife on the counter and instead finds something (it doesn't matter what) to eat from the many areas in the kitchen, sits down on a counter with a loud grumble-huff of air, and begins the easier task of shoveling canned meat into his mouth while he settles his nerves and redirects his mind to a sharper, finer point that he's grown more capable of achieving. The voices vanish under the mechanical chomp of his jaws.
As he relaxes, he reviews the different mechanics of piloting out loud to himself, down to each use of buttons, levers, and gauges.
Probably helpful for what he considers a sure-fire attempt at escaping his new prison, for later.
You know how it is. Rough day, new place. Conjuring different ways to steal shuttles and fuck off into space.]
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