maskormenacelogs | Catchall log for June!

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Catchall log for June!

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

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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!

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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."

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.

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."

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."

"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?"

Edited 2016-06-22 07:54 (UTC)

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.)

"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?"

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

"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."

"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."

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."

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."

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?"

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."

"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."

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?"

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.

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.

He knew who Dr. Brown was; it just didn't seem especially prescient to make it known when for once he was not thinking about an angle to work, an advantage to take.

...Though knowing as much as he did, thanks to cursed memories, the idea of "time travel" came unbidden back to his consciousness. For all the trouble it had caused him before coming here.

"You flatter me."

It was so...easy, slipping into this role -- the quiet, lonely craftsman. To hear people speaking of him with courtesy and respect, asking his opinions, all in a way he'd never really known before. It was enough that the smile on his face, one that was grateful, if abashed, was at its core still genuine. Such a change from guarded decorum, people giving him only as much respect as was necessary when he answered their questions, provided solutions, even miracles. Always as much as only needed, because what horrors would he unleash on an ungrateful host or a dishonest client? Better even than what came before, people who took his wares knowing he had a son to feed, that for all their dislike of him and the rumors that surrounded him, they couldn't get what they needed anywhere else -- embarrassed any their own inability to reconcile their admiration for his work but still remembering to hate him because everyone else did.

A few people had inklings of what he was, if they didn't know him outright. The latter did little to try to oust him, and for now it gave him room to attempt to build some goodwill. He'd need it, here. This place with its heroes and villains -- it wouldn't be like Storybrooke. His magic was not entirely what it had been.

And...if Pan could be here, after he personally handed him into oblivion, then that meant others could come. Right?

He needed allies.

With that in mind, he accepted Dr. Brown's hand firmly. "I'm quite fond of odds and ends, myself. No doubt if the ones that brought us here saw fit to assign you, then you must have more than a talent for it."

Doc could feel himself warming to Mr. Gold already. Manners were always appreciated, and he had a certain fondness for works of art. Some aspect of the creator's personality always shone through, and that would make the study of these brooms quite interesting.

"I've only had a few that work as intended, of course, and inventing's messier than you might expect, but that's just life, isn't it? Naturally falling into chaos, well...not here. Your work is beautifully ordered."

Relative to his, anyway.

Max grinned, watching as the two got to know each other. Their flavors of crafting couldn't be more different, but he had a feeling the two of them might get along -- nothing like being proven right to brighten an already great day.

He leaned against a display table, eyeing the pizza boxes Doc was holding. "Speaking of orders..."

"Trial and error until success seems to be the way of all creation," Gold remarked in a way that was meant to seem warm. He hoped. Pessimism could ward off just as many as visible deformity, after all. "Even for these," he added, glancing back toward the nearest display. "I was woefully out of practice when I got here, and not accustomed to making so many when it was something I had a mind to do."

Max kept things focused in the way that only children could -- by cutting into gentle adult banter with honesty and direction. Gold checked the piece he was working on to make certain he could be free to stop here before taking a full step back from the table.

"Yes, your lunch. Please don't let me keep you, Max," while the boy had asked if he liked pizza, he made no real assumptions about himself, "you've earned your break, I think."

Ah yes, of course. They needed to eat before the food got cold. Doc laughed, clutching the box a little closer.

"Right, of course. The whole purpose of today was to feed you," he says warmly---but there's a seriousness to it too. He'd really scared Max last week, that much he knew, and that meant he needed to work even harder at helping him now.

"But there's a whole pie, Mr. Gold, I can't see why you shouldn't join us. If there's a convenient location for us to eat together...?"

"Yeah, come on, Gold! You don't think I had Doc come all the way here just to let you smell a delicious pizza and then take it away, do you?" He propped a chin on his hand and grinned. "What kind of asshole do you take me for?"

A small hiss at Max's remark. "Language, if you please." He swallowed. "...and if you insist, I suppose. Let me clear the table then." Which wasn't much of a task in itself, just tucking away his work tools and the as yet unfinished project in a secure place.

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Page 1 of 3

Catchall log for June!

lETS DO IT

A1

At Gold's Shop - closed to Doc and Gold

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