Catchall log for June!

[crapbearer]

WHO: Max & Anyone
WHERE: Anywhere
WHEN: Month of June
WHAT: Catchall Log
WARNINGS: ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

--

A. SHOPPING TRIP - early June, closed to Max, Duncan, Tommy and Marty
Max had been noticing his own clothes getting a little... short and tight as of late. And Tommy needed new clothes, too, to replace what he didn't bring with him. And Marty had promised a while back to help Max pick out a new guitar...
To heck with it, Max eventually decided. It's an excuse to hang out at the mall with some of his friends - why not make a day out of it?

A1 - Clothes Shopping
"Jeez, teens my age sure do wear really... tight stuff these days, don't they?" Max eyed a few mannequins as they passed by a department store window. "I'm really not good at this clothes shopping thing. Does any of this scream 'political intern' to you guys?"
A2 - Guitar shopping
When Max stepped inside the music store, he was met with the sight of instruments lining the walls and on the displays peppered throughout the store. He gazed around in wonder for a moment, before looking to Marty with a sheepish expression. "Yeah, I have... no idea where to start."

B. -1 GUARDIAN - Early June, OTA
There came a point where it finally hit Max that wherever Norman had gone... he wasn't coming back.
It wasn't a sudden realization, but a slow creeping dread that grew heavier in his chest with every dinner without him, every moment Max checked the man's room to find its contents undisturbed. When the truth had started to come together, it was met with denial — after all, Norman would never, ever abandon Max if he could help it.
But what if he couldn't help it?
Eventually, Max couldn't deny it anymore: Norman had been ported out. He was gone. With the realization, Max dropped off the map for a few days; Off the network, off the streets, not even leaving his room for meals. He stayed in his bed, crying off and on, not making any effort to engage with the outside world until he'd had a chance to work through his grief.
Norman's death had been hard enough the first time, back home. Feeling that pain twice in less than a year was devastating.

Other prompts in comments as needed!

Comments

lETS DO IT

[heymcfly]

Marty was at home in this shop. They had everything: guitars, care kits. Amps. Everything an inspired musician needed and more. He couldn't say he knew a lot of people who had an interest in taking up guitar, so he's going to suck up this moment as much as he can.

He strolls through the store, looking carefully at some of the guitars hanging on the walls. "I gotcha." Marty offers Max a grin! "Did you say you've played guitar before? Or you wanted to give it a shot?" Marty starts to inch for the electric guitars that look a little...simpler, compared to the others. "Maybe we should start you off with something kinda easy, right? It's a little hard at first, but it's totally worth it."

[crapbearer]

Max grinned as he watched Marty take in the store. He could appreciate that kind of contagious excitement.

"Sorta. My friend back home always wanted to play drums in a band, but with all the junk in my house, I never could seem to get my hands on a guitar." He rocked back on his heels, taking in the sights around him.

"But as long as you don't start me on a ukelele or something, I think we'll be good. I'm in your hands, Professor McFly."

[heymcfly]

Ooh, Professor McFly. He likes the sound of that.

"I'm not gonna start you out with a ukelele, don't worry." That would be just cruel. A slap to the face of an aspiring musician. Marty's quiet for the most part as he scans through the selection of instruments, looking for the perfect one. Which...is kind of difficult. He never really had someone to teach or anything. When he was given a guitar, he just went with it.

He hums. "I kinda want to start you off with a regular guitar instead of an electric. That way you can hear the notes you're strumming instead of just weird stuff. And you don't have to worry about amps." Those were a pain sometimes. Marty turns to Max, tilting his head to the side. "Sound good?"

[crapbearer]

"Sounds great!" Max's gaze followed where Marty had been looking, wandering over to the line of acoustic guitars. He ran his hands down the neck of one, feeling the strings and plucking at them half-heartedly with a thumb.

"You know the first time I ever wanted to play guitar..." He turned to look at Marty, then glanced away, feeling is cheeks get hot. He lowered his voice, not wanting the others to hear - "It was, you know... during that movie. The one you're... in."

Max was no stranger to meeting heroes he once thought fictional - he'd met Superman already, after all. And back home, he'd met Beowulf, Hanuman, even Jules Verne. He knew it must be strange for Marty to hear this, but Max had been wanting to say it for a while.

"There was a scene at the school dance, the part with Johnny B. Goode?" Max beamed. "When I first saw that, I thought it was the coolest thing ever."

[heymcfly]

Marty's still not used to hearing that his life was broadcasted as a movie.

It's touching that Max was inspired by Marty playing on the movie, but was that even really him? Every second, every moment of his life influenced by time travel was played by some short squirt of an actor. How could his life be reality, but then in someone else's world it was just a movie? It was mind boggling. Doc could explain this all he wanted, and Marty still wouldn't get it.

But he makes himself smile, shrugging sheepishly. He can't lie- hearing Max talking about how great his performance of Johnny B. Goode was stroked his ego a bit. That was pretty great, considering how sudden it was. It was more of a celebratory song, almost manic in a way.

"Aah, it's nothin'." Marty smiles to Max, a hand rubbing the back of his neck. "I had a blast though." He points to one of the guitars, one of the super heavy electric ones. "Maybe we can get a few other guys together and have you do it. I can teach you how to play it if you want. After you learn the basics, I mean."

A1

[greenisthecolorof]

For his part, Tommy's just looking over the clothes and shrugging. "I don't know what 'political intern' looks like," he admited. "Suits, maybe? I think of suits when I think of politics..." Honestly, though, Tommy doesn't have too many preferences on what he wears as long as it fits his three main criteria: 1) It's comfortable, 2) it fits, and 3) it's green. He figures that it won't be too hard to meet his goals, but clothes shopping was always such a chore. Not for the first time in this day, he wished that Kimberly was here, too. She'd have a field day picking out clothes.

[crapbearer]

"Bleah, suits. What is it girls say? Gag me with a spoon?" He inspects a dress shirt in the window with crinkle-nosed scowl before glancing down the line of mannequins. "Super-skinny jeans. I don't understand how I'm even supposed to put these on. With a paintbrush, maybe?"

He glances over at Tommy again. "You think anyone would notice if I just started wearing pajamas everywhere?"

[greenisthecolorof]

Tommy gives the skinny jeans a critical eye. "Maybe if you break your feet?" He pauses, then adds: "Not that I'd recommend that." He turns his head to look over at Max. "I doubt 'pajamas' will work if you're going for the political intern look." He tilts his head and considers. "On the other hand, you could push forward a new look if you did..." (He's joking, mostly.)

[crapbearer]

"The Pajama Party, running on a platform of staying up late and playing video games. I think." Max threw him a thumbs up. "Can I count on your vote, Mister Oliver?"

[greenisthecolorof]

Tommy laughs. "I'll be the first in line," he says, shaking his head in amusement.

[crapbearer]

"Good to hear," Max said triumphantly. "Fetch me a baby to kiss!"

He laughed at that, but it trailed off as he looked at the suit in the window again. "You know, growing up, I never even thought about getting into politics. But it's starting to look like an option now, helping out with Dooku's campaign and everything. Who knows, maybe I'd enjoy boring legal stuff."

[greenisthecolorof]

"You should definitely think about it," Tommy says, sliding his hands comfortably into his pockets. "If you're liking it so far, then who knows? Maybe you've found something there." He gives the suit a critical eye for a moment, then glances back at Max. "And if you ever run for office, you can institute Pajama Day."

At Gold's Shop - closed to Doc and Gold

[crapbearer]

The first time Max had walked into Gold's shop, well... he'd promptly eaten his stale old words from their first meeting. Max had no idea what an artisnal broom was, but one quick glance around the shop and he suddenly had an intense respect for what Mr. Gold could do.

Max's communicator buzzed not long after he arrived, though, jarring him from his thoughts and appreciation for the craftsmanship to glance down at the text. "...huh."

Max glanced up from his phone. "Hey, Mister Gold, do you like pizza?" He glanced back down at his comm, looking over Doc's text. "My friend wants to treat me to some today. Maybe he could bring it over here. I mean, if you're okay with it."

[cantwalkwithoutit]

When Gold was given his job, he took to it with the full extent of his efforts and seriousness. They designated him an artisanal broommaker, and with all his knowledge and skill with his hands, this was exactly what he became, drawing on familiar and classical styles. Each piece on display was unique in color -- the bristles sometimes solid, sometimes with multiple hues (some even with a few bristles seemingly made of solid gold) -- broomstick composition, even overall shape. Some were akin to the common household broom (with perhaps just a HINT of home and hearth magic added in), others to ceremonial pieces.

If one asked him if any were built for flying, he would have charmingly replied that he had none of that sort on the floor today, but to check back another time.

Max's request for lessons had been somewhat hasty and took some time to make good on, clearly, but today lessons were of more of an impromptu form. While time had passed since their first meeting, encounters in between had been rare. So for now, Gold taught him by letting him observe and aid in his work, allowing him to touch on many of the basics from there: carving, weaving, etc.

While they had been at it for a little while, the question caught him. Normally, he would have expected him to use a friend's invitation as a way to beg off and get away. That he wanted to share was something of a surprise.

Meeting new people -- much as it was something he never seemed to feel like doing, it still had some advantages here. "Well...I don't see why not."

[4thdimensional]

Doc was on his merry way, pizza box in hand, when he received a message to change course. He was now to meet Max and a friend at a...broom shop? It was sure to be an interesting place, so he happily answered in the affirmative and turned around. Now he only needed to locate it...

And soon enough, he did. He slipped inside, setting down the pie at the nearest flat surface. "Max! Mr. Gold! Good afternoon, I hope you're hungry."

[crapbearer]

Max was a curious kid, always searching for knowledge, skill, and something for his hands to do. And, with the incredible whirlwhind of things happening in the last month, Max had been desperate for something to take his mind off everything.

The shop was cozy and inviting, and the smell of warm, dry wood permeated the air. Max couldn't quite articulate why, but something about the atmosphere radiated a sense of home that even his house in Heropa couldn't convey. Standing here in the shop, Max could finally feel some semblance of peace for the first time since Norman's departure.

It helped, of course, that he had Gold's lessons to keep his mind off the negativity for now. Though usually talkative, Max watched Gold work with a quiet fascination. The sound of crafting — tools scratching wood, bark being woven — against Gold's low voice and practiced movements was almost hypnotic. In moments when Max did look away, he'd eye the tools and supplies at Gold's side, trying to guess what each one would be used for.

Though the text from Doc had broken the trance, it hadn't taken long for Max to fall back into that rhythm. Maybe the ornate, rustic crafting all around him reminded him of his mother's artifacts back home? He'd never been here before, but something about this place felt safe enough that it was easy to relax.

Of course, when he heard Doc's voice in the shop, he snapped out of it in an instant and grinned. "Doc, this is my friend, Mister Gold. Gold, Emmett Brown."

[cantwalkwithoutit]

Dressed in one of his ubiquitous dark suits -- perfectly tailored, not a hair out of place -- but for the apron he wore over the top of it, one might have thought him very ill-suited to the environment. The sort who should probably be in an office somewhere, behind a desk, or at the bench. Still, he'd always been very good with his hands, so at the very least this place had given him something simple to excel at.

Max took to the tasks he gave him fairly quickly; it pleased him to be able to tell he was watching and listening intently to Gold's words, even when direct had a certain softness to them, owing to the accent he still labored over -- one people in the Land Without Magic would have identified as Scottish, even if that was a word he never heard, connected to a place he'd never been, before going there.

When the door opened, a little bell rang up near the top of its frame, and Gold's first instinct was to expect a customer, only remembering Max's request as he laid eyes on the man and what he brought with him.

Gold finished the task he was on and pulled off and pocketed his gloves.

"How do you do, er -- when he says Doc, I'm to assume he means Doctor, yes?"

[4thdimensional]

Doc took a few seconds to study the environment. The product on display was beautifully detailed, easily worth a fair fee. Each piece had its own character, and he could spend quite a while studying them all. He noted with a smile that Max was working diligently, and he'd have to ask questions about the process later.

The man's accent shook Doc out of his wayward thoughts. So this was Mr. Gold the broom maker. He stepped forward with a smile, offering his hand. Hoping that was correct.

"I'm Dr. Emmett Brown, yes. Trained nuclear physicist, but largely an inventor of odds and ends these days. But none bear quite the craftsmanship you have on display here, Mr. Gold...color me impressed."

And as an aside: "Max, you clearly have the patience and dexterity to build. I like it."

He'd have to plan to take Max aside for a building day of their own sometime. But for now he had quite the interesting man to meet.

[crapbearer]

Max grinned, always happy to accept a compliment. "Heh, well, we'll see about the patience thing. I'm only starting out, after all."

Still, it looked like they were getting along so far. He idly wondered if Gold had seen the Back to the Future films, though there wasn't much point bringing it up if he hadn't recognized Doc already.

B

[inchesofevil]

Even though it took Duncan days to realize they had a new roommate, it didn't take him long at all to notice Norman's absence. People like Norman, they just had a presence about them that permeated their space. It'd been a nice familiar comfort for him, because it reminded him of growing up alongside the quiet strength of his father, and the feeling of security that came from having someone like that around.

Norman being gone left a sort of...emptiness in the house's atmosphere. Duncan found himself knocking at Norman's door the day after he'd vanished, opening it when he got no answer to find everything exactly as it had been left. The next day, the same, with nothing having been disturbed in between.

He was worried. Not so much for Norman, because the big guy could take care of himself and Duncan was confident he'd contact them somehow if he was in trouble. No, he was worried for Max. Once he suspected Norman was gone, gone gone, he started paying attention to Max without calling attention to it. Though Max may have noticed Duncan being a little more gentle, a little less coarse, trying to give Max whatever space he needed, Duncan never actually brought up Norman or the idea that anything was wrong. A silent understanding. That was what seemed best right now.

He gave Max his space to grieve too, once it finally sunk in and he retreated into his room. Duncan dropped off meals for him, checked up on him every now and then, but gave him the better part of a week before finally trying to engage him. He knocked, leaning in close to the door so he didn't feel like he had to shout through it. "Hey, Max? Can I talk to you for a minute?"

[crapbearer]

Max stirred when he heard the voice on the other side of the door, taking a moment to turn his head just so to glance at his door.

"Yeah," he managed, bed creaking as he sat up to wipe his eyes with the base of his palms. He hadn't showered in two days, and probably looked a mess from crying, but he couldn't bring himself to care too much. "Come on in."

[inchesofevil]

Duncan eased the door open, smoothly slipping himself into Max's space like he didn't want to disturb it. He saw the condition Max was in, but honestly, he'd seen a hell of a lot worse when his friend Lindsey's son had gone missing. Max wasn't plastering his walls in maps and pins like a PI on a case and drinking week-old coffee, so he wasn't too concerned.

He closed the door and leaned back against it, folding his arms. "Shit just doesn't feel right without the big guy around." Leading with a statement, with his own feelings, instead of putting that pressure on Max. It's a lot easier to commiserate than to pour your heart out.

[crapbearer]

Max looked at Duncan with tired, wet eyes, sitting on the bed in shorts and a tee shirt, tangled in his sheets. His expression was neutral as he took in Duncan's statement, an obvious invitation to open up about his grief. Max wasn't sure he was ready to just yet - he wasn't sure he even knew how.

"Yeah." He dropped his gaze, averting his eyes before he continued. "It's... it's tough. I miss him." He sniffed, wiping at his eye again with the back of his hand. "We went through a lot together. It felt like he'd always be there."

[inchesofevil]

That was an experience Duncan didn't quite have. Both his parents were still around. Any family members who were dead, he hadn't been very close to. There was Missie, but in the end her death had only been temporary. He'd never really had to cope with losing a role model--a father figure--the way Max just had.

What he did have, though, was the feeling that his parents would always be there, and the deeply rooted existential dread that gnawed at him whenever the thought that they would die one day managed to sneak its way into his conscious mind. As if he needed any more reasons to want to end death.

He dropped his hands into his pockets, slouching against the door, a slightly less confident, less assured posture. "You know if he had any control over it whatsoever, he would be here. The best I can give you is," shrug, "at least you'll have him back whenever you do go back home." Completely unaware of what Norman's eventual fate was.

[crapbearer]

Max's neutral expression didn't change, save for maybe the smallest wince at Duncan's words. But his lips were still pressed together, gaze distant, eyes blotchy and wet from tears that he couldn't seem to run out of.

Under normal circumstances, Max would bury the truth and his feelings under a smile, but he couldn't find the strength now. That cold weight of dread he felt in his stomach, knowing the fate awaiting Norman back home... he felt it burn, of all things. The tiniest spark of anger flared inside him — at Duncan, who was only trying to help, Max knew, yet he couldn't deny its presence or its source. What did Duncan know about losing Norman? About losing him twice?

It wasn't like Max to try and spread his pain to others. If he were more emotionally stable at that moment, he might have tried to explain the situation gently - or hidden the truth. Rationality long gone, Max clutched the sheets and scowled, brow heavy over narrowed eyes. Duncan would hear this and Max wouldn't sugar coat it, and maybe someone would hurt right now as much as he did.

"He's dead."