Max Rockatansky (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
interception) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
entrancelogs2015-08-24 10:50 pm
interception) wrote in entrancelogs2015-08-24 10:50 pm
please don't eat the fish in the fountain
Who: Max Rockatansky & Everyone else who feels like making frends
Where: The Garden, The Kitchen, The Library
When: 08/24
Rating: Mature content primarily because of Max's canon. Potential triggers can be found here that may or may not be brought up either in character discussion or Max's internal monologues.
Summary: Max kind of having religious experiences all over the place over all the food and water and green stuff tbh.
The Story:
OPTION A: Seriously put the poor goldfish down
WHERE: The Garden Part 1
(A man is situated at the edge of the fountain at the front of the gardens. His entire body is tense as a spring and he looks filthier than the dirt piled up under the several heads of flowers poking out around. His attention is wholly on the glassy surface of the fountain in front of him and should he be approached, he will show no immediate attention to whoever has decided to near him.
Bafflement of everything aside, Max had come into this world like he had left his own: hungry and thirsty. The water was a bit much to take in. He'd drunk enough to get himself a little sick upon arrival but it hadn't made him sick sick, dead sick, so it was okay. Must have been okay. Which meant that maybe these golden fish darting around under the water must be all right to eat. He didn't think to find a kitchen. Not right then. Not yet. It didn't matter that he had woken up in a mansion. Luxury was hard to adjust to and to Max, basic food and water was a luxury.
In a single movement, his hand snaps out, quicker than any human's ought to be and it crashes through the water. A moment later, he's holding a wriggling gold fish in the palm of his hand. His eyes remain dull and he raises the fish up towards his mouth, fully prepared to eat it.)
OPTION B: Yes Max those are real flowers
WHERE: The Garden Part 2
(After his fascination with the fountain has subsided, the very same man can be seen prowling skeptically through the garden. He's not very considerate of the carefully plotted flowers. He's completely crushed entire heaps in his wandering though it doesn't seem at all intentional. His eyes are a bit glassy, detached, like he's still in a fog or a dream perhaps. He stops to pick at the flowers. Rips them out of the earth and turn them up towards his face, looking almost unnerved at the sight of them and yet wholly in awe. Like he could scarcely believe what he was holding in his palm. He'd drop each one shakily, snapping his head around as if about to panic. He doesn't though. He just keeps ripping out flowers, occasionally sniffing, and on the even rarer occasion- slipping them into his mouth and actually chewing at them.
Eventually he squats down by a rose bush and digs his fingers into the bright green earth near its base. His fingers scrape it up, peeling away the grass and gouging out a small hole in the ground. He digs his fingers in deeper, completely enraptured with this process, whatever in the hell that he's doing. His hands are already caked with filth and so the dirt piling up under his nails barely deters from much that he already didn't have going from him. He tosses the dirt aside and hunches down over his legs, working his fingers deeper into the dirt until he's pulling out what looks like some kind of beetle. No, he doesn't eat it, but he does stare in complete and utter fascination as it scurries over his hand. He turns his hand over to watch it before gingerly lowering his hand down and letting it crawl off his hand and back down into the muddy earth.
He sits back with a huff, just staring at the hole in the ground before he looks up at sky. Like it might have answers he was trying to find.)
OPTION C: Eat til you puke- Wait, not literally. Shit.
WHERE: The Kitchen (puking ahoy)
(The thing about people who were legitimately malnourished was that eating, at some point, became kind of difficult when you finally got the chance to- well- eat. Some innate part of Max understood this when he discovered the kitchen but a bigger part of him had known hunger for such an intimate length of time that he nearly cried when he discovered food. Food food. The kind of stuff that came with green things and grew up out of the grown and could be put into your belly without making you sick. The kind of food that if he scraped at his brain for long enough, he could kind of remember. Potatoes...and carrots. Apples and broccoli. So many more things than just that. He doesn't think to cook. Warm food had died out a long time ago. Always too risky to light up a fire just so you could roast a lizard. Might as well be sounding the trumpets as to your location.
He's squatting on the kitchen floor by an entire sack of potatoes. He's got his gun resting on his lap and his hand wrapped around it. His other hand is vanishing into the sack repeatedly, pulling out potato after potato and crunching into it. His eyes dart about a bit nervously every now and then. A suggestion to his paranoia and really, the fact that he was pretty sure he was stealing. No one just had....food laying about for everyone to take.
He's only a couple potatoes in when his stomach begins to aggressively reject the onslaught of long forgotten nutrients. The roll of flavor and the amount of food being consumed in one time. Something that wasn't just a scrabbled bite of protein from a reptile, from maggots. He was raising a potato to his mouth when he felt the first sweep of nausea. He covers his mouth for a moment with the back of his hand, staring at the sack of potatoes for a moment, waiting for it to pass. As it did, he started to eat again but then it slammed into him full force.
He makes a low, choked sound, potato dropping before he slaps a hand over his mouth but it's too late. Puke crashes out of his throat, through his fingers and his eyes squint shut. He removes his hand from his mouth and proceeds to puke up onto the floor in front of him. It's not violent and it's really not a lot but it's....Shitty and leaves him heaving a bit, eyes squinting.
All in all, starving sucked.
Feel free to stop him before he actually pukes.)
OPTION D: WILD CARD IT
WHERE: wherever you want it to
Where: The Garden, The Kitchen, The Library
When: 08/24
Rating: Mature content primarily because of Max's canon. Potential triggers can be found here that may or may not be brought up either in character discussion or Max's internal monologues.
Summary: Max kind of having religious experiences all over the place over all the food and water and green stuff tbh.
The Story:
WHERE: The Garden Part 1
(A man is situated at the edge of the fountain at the front of the gardens. His entire body is tense as a spring and he looks filthier than the dirt piled up under the several heads of flowers poking out around. His attention is wholly on the glassy surface of the fountain in front of him and should he be approached, he will show no immediate attention to whoever has decided to near him.
Bafflement of everything aside, Max had come into this world like he had left his own: hungry and thirsty. The water was a bit much to take in. He'd drunk enough to get himself a little sick upon arrival but it hadn't made him sick sick, dead sick, so it was okay. Must have been okay. Which meant that maybe these golden fish darting around under the water must be all right to eat. He didn't think to find a kitchen. Not right then. Not yet. It didn't matter that he had woken up in a mansion. Luxury was hard to adjust to and to Max, basic food and water was a luxury.
In a single movement, his hand snaps out, quicker than any human's ought to be and it crashes through the water. A moment later, he's holding a wriggling gold fish in the palm of his hand. His eyes remain dull and he raises the fish up towards his mouth, fully prepared to eat it.)
WHERE: The Garden Part 2
(After his fascination with the fountain has subsided, the very same man can be seen prowling skeptically through the garden. He's not very considerate of the carefully plotted flowers. He's completely crushed entire heaps in his wandering though it doesn't seem at all intentional. His eyes are a bit glassy, detached, like he's still in a fog or a dream perhaps. He stops to pick at the flowers. Rips them out of the earth and turn them up towards his face, looking almost unnerved at the sight of them and yet wholly in awe. Like he could scarcely believe what he was holding in his palm. He'd drop each one shakily, snapping his head around as if about to panic. He doesn't though. He just keeps ripping out flowers, occasionally sniffing, and on the even rarer occasion- slipping them into his mouth and actually chewing at them.
Eventually he squats down by a rose bush and digs his fingers into the bright green earth near its base. His fingers scrape it up, peeling away the grass and gouging out a small hole in the ground. He digs his fingers in deeper, completely enraptured with this process, whatever in the hell that he's doing. His hands are already caked with filth and so the dirt piling up under his nails barely deters from much that he already didn't have going from him. He tosses the dirt aside and hunches down over his legs, working his fingers deeper into the dirt until he's pulling out what looks like some kind of beetle. No, he doesn't eat it, but he does stare in complete and utter fascination as it scurries over his hand. He turns his hand over to watch it before gingerly lowering his hand down and letting it crawl off his hand and back down into the muddy earth.
He sits back with a huff, just staring at the hole in the ground before he looks up at sky. Like it might have answers he was trying to find.)
WHERE: The Kitchen (puking ahoy)
(The thing about people who were legitimately malnourished was that eating, at some point, became kind of difficult when you finally got the chance to- well- eat. Some innate part of Max understood this when he discovered the kitchen but a bigger part of him had known hunger for such an intimate length of time that he nearly cried when he discovered food. Food food. The kind of stuff that came with green things and grew up out of the grown and could be put into your belly without making you sick. The kind of food that if he scraped at his brain for long enough, he could kind of remember. Potatoes...and carrots. Apples and broccoli. So many more things than just that. He doesn't think to cook. Warm food had died out a long time ago. Always too risky to light up a fire just so you could roast a lizard. Might as well be sounding the trumpets as to your location.
He's squatting on the kitchen floor by an entire sack of potatoes. He's got his gun resting on his lap and his hand wrapped around it. His other hand is vanishing into the sack repeatedly, pulling out potato after potato and crunching into it. His eyes dart about a bit nervously every now and then. A suggestion to his paranoia and really, the fact that he was pretty sure he was stealing. No one just had....food laying about for everyone to take.
He's only a couple potatoes in when his stomach begins to aggressively reject the onslaught of long forgotten nutrients. The roll of flavor and the amount of food being consumed in one time. Something that wasn't just a scrabbled bite of protein from a reptile, from maggots. He was raising a potato to his mouth when he felt the first sweep of nausea. He covers his mouth for a moment with the back of his hand, staring at the sack of potatoes for a moment, waiting for it to pass. As it did, he started to eat again but then it slammed into him full force.
He makes a low, choked sound, potato dropping before he slaps a hand over his mouth but it's too late. Puke crashes out of his throat, through his fingers and his eyes squint shut. He removes his hand from his mouth and proceeds to puke up onto the floor in front of him. It's not violent and it's really not a lot but it's....Shitty and leaves him heaving a bit, eyes squinting.
All in all, starving sucked.
WHERE: wherever you want it to
no subject
Evelyn sympathises, narrowing her eyes in speculation for another long moment.]
...Do you want to be shown around?
[Truth be told, it reminds her uncomfortably of the first time she met Rick: ragged and wild behind the bars of the prison, covered in God knows what. Patronising speeches will do little for this particular resident, however, and Evelyn has long since abandoned that sort of talk in favour of pragmatism.]
To know where you are?
no subject
He can't really find any reason to say no to that. So he gives a certain but slow nod, eyes steady on the woman. Though he does want to at least know before he goes with her-)
Been here long?
(It seems like she has. He can't tell entirely how, yet, but maybe it's just her overall set. She didn't seem as scattered about things as he felt and he'd already met another new person here and though he had been calm, there had still been that uncomfortable tension of someone thrown into an unexpected situation about him. This woman didn't have that.)
no subject
Two hundred and fourteen weeks. One-thousand, five hundred and two days. Thirty-six thousand and forty-eight hours. Two million, one-hundred sixty-two thousand eight-hundred and eighty minutes. Time passes slowly in a place where time doesn't pass at all.]
A little over four years.
[There is no inflection, impassivity claiming her expression for its own and grateful to be able to say something so simple. Its implications are somewhat more convoluted. Getting to her feet she seems content with the diversion, unopposed to playing the part of the welcome wagon once more, for someone in need.]
I'm Evelyn.
no subject
Didn't change that he was glad to know the answer. If only because it gauged what he ought to expect. Four years. It should sound like a lot and to most people, it likely did. To him, it sounded less than a handful of minutes.
When she introduces herself, Max merely nods in acknowledgement. Evelyn. It was an old world name though nice to the ears.)
Did you want to...now?
no subject
Mh. Follow me?
[It is phrased as a question, but there doesn't seem to be much choice in it unless he wants to wander aimlessly like a disoriented homeless person.]
These are the gardens, as I'm certain you've already realised. To the west is the dunes and the beach, north is the forest.
[His clothing catches her eye once more, and she hazards a guess based on years spent with the Bedouin.]
...did you come from a desert?
no subject
He catalogs all of the information being given to him in an unusually precise and immediate fashion. Not that it's obvious by any means but there's a new clarity on his face as Evelyn speaks to show that he is most definitely listening to everything that she's saying.
He only breaks the temporary focus to give her a look at the question, not certain as to how it could possibly be relevant. A glance down at his clothes and then back up at her and gives another nod.)
Yes.
(Australia to be exact but he doesn't bother to elaborate. His accent was a Cultivated one and could often be mistaken as a nice Queen's English if it weren't for some of the pronunciations. As it were, it wasn't completely obvious unless someone was more in tune with accents.)
You said a beach.
(Which is Max's way of requesting that she elaborate, of course.)
no subject
He sounds oddly foreign. English, but not quite.]
I did, yes - it's just over those dunes on your far right.
[Evelyn stops next to a waist-height boxwood, idly running her fingertips over the new growth at the top. Her regards toward the beach are ambivalent in nature, seeing as the last time she woke up on one, she had recently been stabbed to death.]
Would you prefer to see it before the rest of Wonderland?
no subject
(His answer is curt and honest. Seeing the beach, the ocean, for the first time in....God, he wouldn't even begin to put a number to it. Either way, it wasn't something he wanted to do in front of a stranger. The whole thing was far more daunting to him than just being plucked out of his world and put into another.
Still he was hardly oblivious for all that he was quiet and he subtly noted the woman's own regard to the ocean. Though it wasn't exactly easy to pick apart and he wasn't about to try but there was Something There and he figured it'd be best if they just start somewhere else.
So he points away.)
The forest?
no subject
[It's a fair response; Evelyn herself wouldn't want to go back with company, not right now. Grateful for the diversion she nods and starts toward the northern edge of the gardens. Over the crest of a low hillock a line of dark trees, tall pines that thin out with more temperate flora, starts abruptly beyond a stretch of reasonably-manicured grass. At one of the far ends is a makeshift shooting range, cans on fences and targets left behind by people intent on improving their skills.]
There isn't much that lives in it, in spite of how verdant it is. And no matter which direction you take while you're in there, it will turn you around until you come out again.
[Evelyn explains, arms folded over her chest as she frowns at it. The woods are lovely, dark, and deep. She then looks to The Unnamed Man, and adds,]
We cannot leave.
no subject
People shoot here often?
(He points to indicate what he meant.
But then something far more interesting takes his mind away from the shooting range and is pegged on Evelyn.
We cannot leave. He blinks at her almost owlishly before he begins to frown.)
What?