IC Contact for etraya

[theroadwarrior]

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(Good fuckin' luck.)

Comments

[imperatour]

You trust the Romano guy?

What's the last guy need convincing on?

[theroadwarrior]

Romano's an asshole, but he's a reliable one.
Might be an organic mechanic, but he's not like the Citadel's.
Has an oath he follows.

... You ever hear of a 'robot'?

[Because that's the first weird thing to address.]

[imperatour]

Thinking machine. Some of them here, right?

[theroadwarrior]

Yeah. Weird to work with, but
you get used to it.
Connor's our fourth. He's one of those thinking machines, Robots. Androids.
Whatever you wanna call it.
So the way he thinks? Hard to change from his programming.

[imperatour]

But he's a machine.

[ She doesn't get the problem. When machines don't behave the way you want them to, open up the hood. ]

[theroadwarrior]

Might not be that simple.
He doesn't exactly have a hatch to open up.

And

[Ugh, he loathes to admit it. It's the worst feeling.]

Trying not to 'hurt' him.

[imperatour]

[ Eyebrows shooting up into space.

Okay, okay, maybe not that dramatic, but still a little surprised. But... a year is a long time, and she had him for a tiny fraction of that before he was pouring his blood into her veins. ]

Noble of you.

[theroadwarrior]

[Somewhat noble. But really, it was... trying to make things even.]

When I was under punishment -- he fed me.
Under the table. Alrys didn't know.

[He could be dead or worse off. It's... hard to shake his buried sense of honor in that. He will if he has to — will take out Connor if there truly isn't a way to change his protocol, or convince him. But. He can't do it without a fair shake.

Tch. 'Fair'. It's gonna be the death of him to entertain things like fairness, someday.]

[imperatour]

Sounds like he wants to help.

It can be... hard.
When you're a tool, following orders keeps you alive.
Also keeps you handcuffed.

[ Not that she knows anything about that. ]

[theroadwarrior]

Mm. Hard to fight it.
Hard to go against what you know.

[Max knows it in his own way. Not by virtue of being under the orders of others — not in the same way Furiosa had been, or Connor likely is. But changing from the safe status quo is... also it's own kind of troubling task.]

We'll do what we can.

Might call for back-up...
if it gets complicated.

[imperatour]

It's not already complicated?

[ She's kidding, a little. ]

Anytime.
I'll be there.

[theroadwarrior]

Good.

How're you healing?

[Sorry, he has launched immediately into hovering. Preambles are for losers.]

[imperatour]

[ Inside Furiosa there are two wolves: the wolf that is fiercely independent and has never willingly asked for help in her life, and the wolf that is trying to convince Max about the benefits of sleeping indoors.

We must all make sacrifices.... ]

Popped a couple stitches.

[theroadwarrior]

[She misses the groan of disapproval from him, thanks to text.]

You were supposed to be taking things easy.

[imperatour]

What's that mean?

1/2

[theroadwarrior]

[theroadwarrior]

not doing anything that could pull stitches out

[Says the most hypocritically overactive idiot in the universe.

Ask his knee what it thinks of its owner.]

[imperatour]

Mm. Don't remember making that promise.

[theroadwarrior]

[Ugh.]

Where are you

[imperatour]

Apartment.

[theroadwarrior]

[Why does this feel like some karmic being trying to force him to interact with an apartment? Surely that's what's happening here. Regardless, he's not about to drag Furiosa out of one, and he's not about to leave her to redo popped stitches with one arm. So.

B e g r u d g i n g l y:]

Tell me the number.
I'll bring the suture set.

[imperatour]

412.
Knock.

[ Don't break down her door... ]

[theroadwarrior]

An hour out.
Be there then.

[He'd never ruin a perfectly good barrier between them and immediate danger, Furiosa. That's just poor strategic planning for when this place inevitably goes into the shitter (which is what he thinks, because he has always been fatalistic, always assumed the worst will happen). For now, though, he focuses on this: Furiosa has stitches popped; those must be taken care of, for better healing time.

So he hobbles his way from the junkyard to the trolley system, mourning the absence of the motorbike he'd been glued to for a large portion of his time in Solmara — and inevitably makes it back into the more active area of the city. It can be a hell of a ghost town in places on the outskirts; he immediately pines for the extreme quiet, maybe foolishly so, considering the quiet is what births so many unpleasant dreams and images of long-dead ghosts.

Knock, knock.]

[imperatour]

[ A couple of sutures are no big deal. Furiosa's been through worse (pretty obviously), but the spot is just annoying enough to have difficulty managing it by yourself. Add a missing arm, and it becomes near impossible.

She checks the peep hole before letting Max in. He'll hear her click open the extra locks and chains she's reinforced the doors with. She may not be as paranoid as Max, but that doesn't make her trust her neighbors naively either. ]

Come on.

[ She seems well enough, gesturing him in with the jerk of her chin. He'll see the sticky blood, blooming into a stain through her shirt from her popped stitches. She gave up trying to fight it. A little blood doesn't bother her.

She's only been here for a few days, but Furiosa's started piles of eclectic scavenged bits. Here, a pile of scrap and sheet metal. On that surface, stripped wires and a pair of pliers next to a small collection of colorful glass. Her project isn't immediately clear. There's more utilitarian stores too, of course. Food and medical supplies stacked into piles into the kitchen. ]

Hospital supplies there.

[theroadwarrior]

[He had expected Furiosa would already have a collection started, when he walked into the — home? The living area. A place for living, that's easier to call it. Max's home had been a car, one that was only big enough to carry him and a few seats full of supplies, and so it already feels too big in this place. Cavernous. The walls bounce sounds, amplify life as it moves and speaks. But he wonders — what does it mean to her? Is the silence of this place compared to the frantic, echoing walls of the Citadel a blessing? Is she at ease here, a place where the walls are not metal and ragged rock, but instead smooth drywall that can have things hung from the walls neatly? No devotion or self-sacrifice needed to exist in this place. No brands necessary.

If it doesn't suffocate her, he sees no reason why he should let it suffocate him.

Well, too much, anyway.

He slowly puts down the travel pack over-stuffed with supplies, looking around in quiet interest. He reaches down to pick up some of the colorful glass, holding it up to the light that comes through one of the apartment windows; green and blue colors glide over the bridge of his nose and cheekbone, over the faint scar there.]

What's this for?