welcome aboard, space marine

[bloodbathing]

WHO: Agent Maine
WHERE: South Village fountain & inn. North Village ... everywhere.
WHEN: December 27th-30th.
OPEN TO: Everyone!
WARNINGS: Language. (Please note that Maine has a violent temper. For permissions and a link to his opt-out, check his info post.)

---

Fountain: Just Keep Swimming (CLOSED: first come, first served!)

When Agent Maine opens his eyes, he's underwater.

It's not the most disorienting way he's ever woken up. That "honor" probably belongs to one of the times he came out of cryo, or maybe a time when he hit the ground and rolled for cover before consciously registering the sounds of an attack. Still, it's pretty high up there. He kicks hard and surfaces with a gasp. Treads water as he looks around, trying to figure out where the hell he is.

Did he blackout at a party or something? He doesn't feel drunk. Last thing he remembers is killing the target and taking the briefcase. Carolina and York arrived to retrieve him, and ... then he woke up underwater.

What the fuck's going on?

The massive Freelancer shakes his head and starts swimming for the edge. He'll figure it out after he gets solid ground beneath him.



Inn: People Are Friends, Not Food

Socialization isn't a strength of Maine's. He's taciturn to a fault, preferring to speak through body language, facial expressions, and grunts rather than using words. He's picky about his personal space; he's distrustful and unfriendly towards strangers; he has the opposite of an approachable demeanor. Oh, and there's the not-so-trivial fact that he's seven-feet-tall, four hundred pounds, and built like he could throw a car. (If there were any cars around, that is.)

But the shitty thing about being in a strange place with archaic technology and little information is that Maine has to gather intel. And, unless he's beating it out of someone, he's really bad at it.

So here Maine sits in a chair that looks like it might snap beneath his frame — or else catch on fire, given how close he's pulled it to the fireplace. He's wearing what looks like every single piece of clothing from his pack (minus the peacoat; that's draped over the back of his chair), including a black baseball cap to cover his shaved head. Everything about his attire screams 'Newbie,' and yet he's not approaching anyone for help. Instead, he's eyeing people. Sizing them up. Silently debating how to approach.

... So maybe saying 'socialization isn't a strength' is a huge understatement.



North Village: Mine! Mine! Mine!

The house that Maine decides to claim as his own is a large one with far more rooms than he knows what to do with. But its location is defensible, it's removed from the general population, and it has a fireplace. As far as the cold-loathing space marine is concerned, that makes it the best antiquated, poorly insulated, low-tech hovel around.

It's easy to spot Maine moving around the North Village, familiarizing himself with his surroundings and carrying supplies to his chosen house. Anyone who approaches will be greeted with a flat look and a low grunt of acknowledgment. Not exactly friendly — but he does pause what he's doing to see what the person wants.



Wildcard

( ooc: None of these look good? Come at me with something else! For TDM continuations, click here. )

Comments

tdm continuations

[bloodbathing]

( ooc: Continuing threads started here! )

[morphogenia]

Kamala blinks up at him as she realizes that Frank missed this charity case. This guy must really be new. She ducks her head, letting her hand fall down to her side, and sighs loudly. Clearly this is something she needs to solve for him. Her head whips back up as she resumes pointing. It's rude, but she's gonna power through this. "I am going to get you a hat, mittens, and a scarf from my house. I will be back so don't you dare leave until you get what you need not to freeze to death!" She puts down her hand. It's starting to dawn on her he has probably been holding onto that wood for a reason.

"Also the firewood goes over there." She tilts her head in the right direction before starting to head out. Great talk, Maine. BRB.

[bloodbathing]

It's far from the first time that a small and authoritative woman has given Maine orders. His current commanding officer back home fits that description to a T. Thing is, Maine usually knows said women — or, at the very least, can tell their rank at a glance. But this girl?

This girl is a girl. A teenager at most. He's a Freelancer, and he's getting scolded and ordered around by a kid.

Before Maine can do much more than stare, she turns and starts marching out. Mutely, he watches her go. Looks at the bundle of firewood in his arms. Looks back at the door. Looks at the place she indicated.

... Dammit.

The massive man strides over to deposit the firewood. Then he turns and frowns at the door.

If an adult stranger were to shout orders at Maine, he'd respond by snarling and likely shoving them out into the snow. But a kid? ... He can't get mad at a kid. Besides, he really needs some warming clothing. So he folds his arms and waits, scowling at the door all the while.

[morphogenia]

Kamala treks through the snow for the short walk to House Six. As usual, she's grateful that Frank made it here first. He would pick the best location to stay in touch with people. He'd have a variety of stuff for her to pick from too as far as winter gear goes. She's back in twenty with a bundle: a black hat, gloves, and a scarf with teal stripes. She's all smiles if only because he's actually here like she asked. She's bossy, but even she can't be sure that's enough to convince a guy with muscles the size of her head to wait for her. "Sorry for the wait! I couldn't figure out what color would look nice on you since we've only known each other for like five minutes tops."

There was also this problem which Kamala only divulges after she stomps out her boots and walks over to offer the bundle of homemade wool items. "These are the biggest ones I could find. Sorry if they're a little snug, but at least you'll stay warm-ish until we can make some new ones."

for wash

[bloodbathing]

( ooc: continued from here )

Given his sheer size and his dubious (at best) skill in stealth, Maine's been easier to spot around the Village. However, he's stuck primarily to the North Village, which is almost entirely vacant. Might not be the most convenient choice, but that doesn't bother Maine. Better to deal with inconvenience than live surrounded by people he doesn't know or trust.

So Maine's not surprised that he and Wash haven't seen each other. He offers a nod of acknowledgment, then watches his friend's face as the other man thinks.

It's strange. Wash doesn't just look exhausted; he almost looks like he's older than Maine remembers...

At Wash's question, Maine blinks in surprise. Gives the other Freelancer a curious look before answering, "Sarcophagus. Secured briefcase."

'Secured,' he says. Like he locked it in a safe, rather than leaping onto the hood of a moving vehicle and slaughtering the safe's former guardian.

Re: for wash

[notyourrookie]

The sarcophagus. Fuck. Wash's hands clench against the edge of the table. That mission, that one mission which had changed everything. And that's what Maine remembers? How isn't sure how this is possible, even after hearing about it. Isn't sure he'd believe any explanation anyway.

"You sure? Nothing else? Nothing- nothing afterwards?"

[bloodbathing]

Maine's eyes dart down to Wash's hands, watching the way the knuckles grow pale. Then his gaze returns to Wash's face, concern etched in the furrow between his brows. He's trying to make sense of Wash's reaction. Trying to figure out what's wrong.

Mutely, Maine shakes his head. He secured the briefcase and started approaching his teammates. Next thing he remembers?

"Woke underwater."

Offered with a minute shrug. He has no idea what happened in the interim.

It doesn't occur to him that Wash might remember something more. Instead, Maine wonders if Wash is trying to fill a gap in his memory. Trying to figure out how they got here. Maybe that's why he looks so troubled.

With no idea how else to help, Maine folds his hands on the table and tilts his head with a questioning grunt: "theories?"

That's right. With no enemy for them to pummel, and with Wash so physically jumpy, Maine's attempting to Talk Things Out with his friend. Talking about shit is supposed to make people feel better, right?

... Look, he's trying.

for frank

[bloodbathing]

Fortunately, Maine isn't looking to provoke reactions. If anything, Frank's generally unfazed demeanor has been rather refreshing. Maine is accustomed to strangers cowering at the sight of him. He's used to conversations where the other person's nervousness bleeds through, and they wind up stammering and awkwardly trying to get Maine to speak more. It's sort of nice, talking to someone who doesn't seem to give a shit.

However, unlike Frank, this is Maine's first interdimensional trip. His eyebrows raise in surprise as he gives Frank a quick once-over, focusing now on the man's attire rather than his face.

With a gesture to their surroundings at large, Maine asks, "Know this tech?"

Sorry, Frank. Maine's no history buff. He knows the technology here is old, but he doesn't know how many hundreds of years.

[oorah]

Whether he wants to get reactions or not, the fact remains that Frank has been irreversibly changed by his experience in Reims. And he knows by this place as well. Whether his body experienced all of those things or they're merely the memories he carries now doesn't seem to matter. He notes Maine glancing him over and looks down at his own clothes to see if anything's amiss. He generally dresses like a hobo here, layers of secondhand clothing in varies stages of disrepair, and today is no exception. It almost makes him miss the handmade cotton jumpsuit he always wore in Reims.

The tech. He shrugs a shoulder, understanding enough what he's being asked. "It's older than what I'm used to. Maybe from 1920, tops."

[bloodbathing]

The layered clothing says more to Maine about how long Frank's been here, comparatively, than it does anything else. Of course, Maine's running on the assumption that everyone shows up in scrubs. No one has given him strange looks for wearing them. Just the usual wide-eyed looks at his size.

1920. Maine looks up and to the side, trying to recall why that time in Earth's history sounds familiar. Something about a World War, he thinks. Maybe the first one? He's more familiar with the weapons than the dates — but unfortunately, he's yet to find any proper weapons here.

After nodding in acknowledgment, the Freelancer belatedly holds out a big, calloused hand to shake.

"Maine."

for nida

[bloodbathing]

The quiet is appreciated. Maine doesn't have a helmet that he can use to deaden unwanted noise, after all; if Nida were to start chatting, Maine would have to listen. And that's not something he wants to do when he's already irritated by the cold.

In the silence, Maine can hear the way that Nida doesn't seem to falter when he growls. Yet another unusual thing.

Although the inn isn't hard to recognize, that quiet noise still helps clue Maine in. Keeps him from having to double-check his surroundings to make sure he has the right building. He offers a short nod of recognition and tramps down a path to the door.

Re: for nida

[skyward_eyes]

At least the path to the door isn't nearly as bad as the rest of the path. There are advantages to a lot of people being the same sort of idiotic lookie-loos that get managed every now and then. Once Maine gets them to the stairs Nida forges his own way up them and to the door. Bless. It's a bit awkward with wood in his arms to get the door open, but he has less than Maine right now and so it's important that he tries. Once he's managed it he holds it open with his body for Maine.

"Come on, before we freeze."

[bloodbathing]

The Freelancer stands back while Nida gets the door open. Cold as he is, he's not bothered by how long it may take; it would take even longer if either of them were to set the wood down.

Once the other man has managed the door, Maine ducks through the opening and into the inn. He steps aside quickly, not wanting to block Nida from entering — or from the critical task of shutting the door.

As the warm air hits his face, Maine lets out a quiet sigh, the corners of his lips twitch up in a slight smile. Damn, that feels good.

He'll let Nida lead the way to wherever the wood goes. The other man seems more familiar with this place. And besides, it's not Maine's wood.

North Village

[fooloftheking]

There's still snow on the ground but the air isn't quite as biting as it has been. It leads Bobo to heading back to the north village and home, and working to take care of the things he needs to at home. From the kirins to the roof to firewood he needs to check on, he can't spend all his time harvesting every last bit of usefulness from the carcasses he hunts.

Of course, he's not used to seeing others in the village that aren't either of the cowboys that share a house with him.

Changing his course, all dark clothes and a calf length fur coat, with his own wild hair loose about his face as he raises a hand in greeting. "You lost?" He's just not used to others up this way.

[bloodbathing]

His first thought, when Maine looks up at the sound of that greeting, is that the other man looks warm. That fur coat looks a hell of a lot more appealing to Maine than the wool peacoat he found in his pack. The Freelancer isn't familiar enough with fur to know which is actually warmer, but he quickly decides that the fur coat looks it.

His second thought is that the other man's haircut is wildly out of regulation. It's a thought that's dismissed as quickly as it forms. This isn't a military operation — and, as far as Maine can tell, the other man is no marine.

Dark eyes flick over the stranger quickly — the automatic, near-unconscious assessment of a potential threat — before Maine shakes his head. He's still familiarizing himself with this place, but he's not lost.

Usually, Maine wouldn't offer anything more. Not because he's concerned about talking to strangers or anything, but because he doesn't talk to people. However, his circumstances are anything but "usual." So, after a moment, he grunts out a single word:

"New."

The big man's voice is deep, gravelly, and more akin to a growl than anything. But the word itself is clear enough.

[fooloftheking]

Eventually it was bound to happen, and Bobo knew it. The other village could only take on so many, and even with the hike between them, eventually others would start moving up north and out of the "city" as it were. Not that he entirely minds, though it might well change plans he has for their homesteading, as the others he roomed with called it.

"Fair enough," he says, giving him a look over and a nod. "Good luck with the place then. It's a bitch and it's different," he says, not that he sounds really too bothered by either definition. "Not a lot of resources up this way, but we make do. I make the hike a couple of times a week as well but there's firewood around up here and the game's a bit more plentiful."

If only from fewer people around, if nothing else.

[bloodbathing]

As far as Maine's concerned, its relative lack of people is the North Village's primary appeal. He's used to living in close quarters with strangers; it's part and parcel of military life. But those strangers were ones whose loyalties Maine knew. They weren't his friends, but they were his fellow soldiers. The people around here, on the other hand, are entirely unknown.

Maine nods in acknowledgment. He's more adept at killing aliens (and people) than animals, but he's not a complete novice. And, at the end of the day, killing is killing.

"Hike's not bad," he notes — which certainly says something about what the space marine is accustomed to. It would be an easier trek if it weren't snowy out, he thinks. Speaking of which:

"Always cold?"

It might be an odd question. Most places have variation and seasons, after all. But some planets are just fucking cold more or less year round. For all Maine knows, this might be one of them.

He hopes it's not. That would fucking suck.

At the Inn

[whipshots]

When she first catches a glimpse of someone new camped out in front of the fire, massive shoulders hunkered down in their chair and hat pulled low, Brigitte feels that treacherous kick of hope in her chest and it whips her head around. It’s an incredibly distinctive body-type that one doesn’t see often, and she knows exactly one person built with this kind of hulking muscle and stature. And for a desperate moment she’s hoping that this seven-foot-tall brick shithouse is, maybe just maybe, her brick shithouse. By the time she’s hurried over with quick steps (again, betraying herself with how swiftly she moves towards him) and gotten close enough for the man to look up and meet her eye, though, she realises her mistake.

Nope. Not Reinhardt.

Now she’s standing right in front of him, though, clutching a bowl of stew in her hands, looking awkward. “Uh. Hi! You’re new too,” Brigitte says brightly, desperately trying to salvage this moment. Oh god this is so much worse than accidentally waving at the wrong person across a room; she’d rushed here like she was prepared to fling herself around the stranger’s neck in a hug. Shiiiiiit.

[bloodbathing]

One of the consequences of being an unapproachable behemoth of a man is that people ... well, don't usually approach. When they do, it's with caution. Their footsteps are hesitant; they scuff their shoes; they clear their throat unnecessarily. Almost like he's an animal that they don't want to startle, lest they get bit.

Maine's not an animal. He doesn't bite people, either. But he might hit them if he's startled, so maybe their caution is warranted.

So, when Maine hears quick footsteps coming his way, he doesn't think that the person is heading towards him.

That is, until an excited woman enters his line of sight — then stops right in front of him, stares, and offers him a cheerful greeting.

Maine blinks. Blinks again. He's half-tempted to look over his shoulder to see if she's talking to someone else — but he knows damn well he's too big to see around. So she's ... cheerfully greeting him?

... The fuck is with this place?

Belatedly, the silent Freelancer nods, both in greeting and in answer to her question. Then he glances down at the bowl she's holding. Looks back at her, puzzled. Did she rush over here to offer him stew?

[whipshots]

Well, now she has. It was supposed to be her bowl of stew, but she hasn't started eating out of it yet, which means it's a quick decision to carefully set it on the nearest table by the man's elbow. "If you want dinner," Brigitte says by way of explanation, "they provide communal meals here each day. It can be really useful when you've first gotten here and don't have any supplies or even food. I should know -- that was me right here, in that chair, a few days ago."

Now that she's closer, she can size him up properly. Still the right body, yeah, but his eyes are dark and his face clean-shaven and he's young. Possibly even her age, though it's hard to tell when the demeanour's all wrapped up in his flinty personal bubble, which is practically impenetrable brick and mortar. The easiest thing would be to slink silently away now that she's given him her own damn food out of sheer embarrassment, but Brigitte is stubborn like her father, and therefore still doesn't want to admit to the mix-up. She crosses her arms.

"It still sucks. A lot. But at least starvation isn't a concern."

i thought i tagged this already!? i'm sorry for the wait!

[bloodbathing]

Unaware that he's inadvertently swiped her stew, Maine watches the stranger set the bowl down with surprise. It's a kind gesture. A generous and unprompted one. And it's evident that he's not sure how to respond to it.

Is this normal behavior here? People fearlessly running up to give food to newcomers? If it is, he may as well give up on acclimating right now. He can do fearless just fine, but empathy for a perfect stranger is something he lacks. Best he'd be likely to do is point them towards a food source.

The Freelancer meets the stranger's eyes as she folds her arms. She has a soldier's physique. Could be from a gym; could be she knows how to fight. Maybe that explains why she was so willing to approach him. Common ground, or some shit.

With the bizarre behavior somewhat rationalized, Maine nods. "Thanks," he grunts, and his voice — deep, gravelly, and sounding a lot like a growl — is a sharp contrast to hers. Still, the sentiment is sincere.

Maine scoops the bowl up with one big hand. With the other, he gestures to himself.

"Maine."

His name, offered much quicker than usual. He's grateful for the food.

People Are Friends, Not Food

[plate_builder]

For the life of him, Reeve understood it was rude to stare at people. It was true no matter the world. But here he was, watching the man closely. Not because Maine happened to be truly a riveting matter. No, it was because he was scratching some formulas into the edge of a paper.

What were the chances that a man so large, so dense, might break the chair? He's a bit concerned. That's his favorite chair not at a table. Is there a touch of concern? Oh dear yes. But the math seems to be working out.

[bloodbathing]

It is indeed rude to stare at people. And, no matter the world, Maine's response to rudeness is to respond in kind.

So the next time that Reeve looks up, he'll find the hulking Freelancer staring right back. It's not a mere glance, either; Maine's turned his upper body so that he's facing the other man, leaving no doubt that he intends for Reeve to know he's been noticed. Maine's expression is blank, but his dark eyes are intense — and, if he can, he intends to make eye contact and hold it.

It's the body language of someone perfectly willing to confront someone — and to quickly end that confrontation.

[plate_builder]

Reeve catches those eyes and, for the life of him, he can't help but chuckle.

Barret he decides almost immediately. But quieter because clearly the man would have chewed him out by now.

"I am quite sorry," he called across to the large man. "Just trying to estimate your height and weight and the chair's strength. We might need to fashion you some seats of your own, to ensure that you do not need to worry about whether they will be strong enough for you."

See, all good and friendly.

[bloodbathing]

Friendly, indeed. While Maine's never had someone take such an interest in his chosen chair before, the fascination with his height and size is familiar. The heat of Maine's gaze lessens somewhat; he can't rid himself of the intensity, but it's less akin to a glare now.

"Seven-foot," he grunts out, raising his voice just enough for it to carry. He doesn't like yelling and doesn't do it without a damn good reason. "Four hundred and six pounds."

No more need to estimate. If the man looks confused, Maine can switch to using the metric system without issue.