Maxwell Carter (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
freedomsuitsme) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
come_sailaway2023-11-06 12:24 pm
freedomsuitsme) wrote in come_sailaway2023-11-06 12:24 pm
The Seasons Turn [mostly OTA]
Who: Maxwell Carter
What: Picking up the pieces of last month and putting things together
When: November
Where: Various
Warnings: Some light sexual themes, comedic cannibalism
The devil gets his due [Stellar]
What: Picking up the pieces of last month and putting things together
When: November
Where: Various
Warnings: Some light sexual themes, comedic cannibalism
The devil gets his due [Stellar]
Ever since his meeting with the demon Nepeta, Maxwell's been thinking more and more about the wide range of contracts that are probably active on the ship. He's been thinking about it so much, in fact, that he's decided to start making his own chart. He plans to include forces outside of the ship, too, anything that he can tell as having played a hand in the lives of the other passengers, but for now the chart only contains those who are physically present. There are more than a few lines going from himself to others- to Wilson Higgsbury, his nemesis; to Johnny Summer, his rival and sometimes ally; to Grace, kindler of his last sparks of hope; to John Watson, his doctor.
And it seems at last the summer's fading [various]
The Codex hasn't been quite the same since he retrieved it. It's... leaking. Everywhere Maxwell goes with the spellbook in tow (which is everywhere the magician goes, as he's not letting the tome leave his sight until he's sure Ava Starr harbors no more bitterness towards him), the smell of damp, dead leaves and the lethargic drone of late autumn crickets trails behind him, like a lengthening shadow. Vaguely, he recognizes this as the echoes of a Contract, but he's not sure where it's coming from- he's fairly certain the Erda Flow has not deigned to make him more like the Lost than he already is. And yet, the smell of autumn and the ennui of the fading light clings to him like an ache in his bones.
And it seems at once the hounds are baying [Sports Deck]
He's idly fidgeting with the mangled figurine of his daughter, the Deerclops, when something clicks in his mind's eye. All at once, Maxwell is inundated with visions of other horrors, his creations made into empty husks and used as puppets by the lunar Gestalt. He knows without a doubt that what he's seeing is real. He knows that his world, and his Queen, are under threat.
Again and again and again, his sword falls against the training dummies on the sports deck. Blow after blow after blow, he pours grief and futility into his strikes, wearing himself down motion by bloody motion. His gaze is cold and dark, and he doesn't even notice that his limbs are trembling with exhaustion. This is the fight or flight of the Constant, re-awakened after months of dormancy, where the need to rest and the need to stop are easily forgotten in the face of cosmic horrors. Rise and fall, rise and fall, his arms can scarcely lift their own weight anymore, but Maxwell hasn't noticed.
And it seems at once our passions rise [by the pool]
He wakes in the middle of the night, drenched and sweat and feeling ashamed.
At first it had seemed like one of his nostalgic dreams, where he and Charlie would be lying together, warm and alive and human and so intimately close. But when he ran his fingers through her hair, ran his hand along the curve of her body, he realized in surprise that her hair was too soft, her hips and thighs too shallow. The smell of roses was absent, and instead, he could smell sour sweat and formaldehyde and greasy remnants of bacon and eggs. But instead of pulling away, he'd just continued to hold the scientist close, ravenous for contact.
Now, he's standing out on the pool deck, staring off into the distance and wondering if he should feel more shame or less than what he's feeling. It feels wrong, it feels right, it feels like he's acknowledging he's hungry for the first time in ages and actually entertaining the idea of sating that hunger. But he has no idea how to emotionally process any of that, never mind know if Higgsbury would feel any of the same feelings.
And I see the bones of the world in their splendor [Outside Grace's Cabin]
And I see the bones of the world in their splendor [Outside Grace's Cabin]
At the end of the month, the suit is about as good as it's going to get. It's not perfect; he out of practice, and the fabric is of a texture he's unaccustomed to, but once Grace tries it on, he'll be able to make the little corrections and adjustments that will hopefully result in something the both of them can be happy with.
He messages her, letting her know to meet by her cabin for a surprise.
And it's just more meat for the fire [various, with Wayne, Siffleur, Wilson, and possibly Maximum]
"Higgsbury. We need to talk. I don't suppose you're up for a somewhat unconventional experiment?"
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Bee Queen has a respectable pile of Wilson skeletons to her name, perhaps even more so than theoretically fiercer monsters like the Dragonfly. He has a bad habit of trying to goad her into fighting the seasonal giants, which almost never works, and every time he's tried to organise a fight against her with less than three other armed survivors backing him up it's ended with them scraping each other off the ground. He knows enough to run for his life if the Dragonfly gets up from her lava pools to chase him.
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A conversation he had with Siffleur a few months ago pops into his head. "The least delicious giants."
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"That's why they're the least delicious. Siffleur and I got onto the topic when we were on the sinking boat, because it was better than thinking about what was happening."
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A pause.
"Wayne and I have been constructing a sort of experiment that might involve yourself and Mr. Siffleur. A sort of... exploration of the ship's culinary mechanisms. I don't suppose you'd be interested? We have charts."
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Wait a minute. "Siffleur's... Well, he's not dead, and he's not in the Nothing. Probably. But he's not around right now, and I don't know when he's coming back."
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He scowls.
"Well, I'm sure we'll find some way around that. I certainly need to better familiarize myself with the kitchen before we get too involved in experimentation."
Don't look at the timestamps
"I do actually have some raw meat that didn't come from Siffleur. When I say I got a dead Dragonfly from Sundries, I meant the entire Dragonfly. Disassembled, but complete."
"There's an automatic slow-cooking pot that works almost exactly like a Crock Pot," Wilson informs him. "So there's a data point for you. I made some pierogies in it."
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"Uuuuuuugggggghhh, don't remind me." Wilson's whole posture scrunches up in annoyance, except for his arms flopping loosely to his sides like he's too irritated to hold them up.
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