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

[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."

[oorah]

It's kind of refreshing, having someone around who only says a few words at a time. It makes him feel better about his own deficiency there, even as he reaches out a smaller but just as calloused hand to accept the handshake firmly accompanied by an equally firm nod.

"Frank." Which he thinks he said, but just in case.

[bloodbathing]

Refreshing, indeed. As unsettling as Frank's far-too-familiar appearance is, Maine finds that he's grateful to have run across the other man. Communicating with Frank is easy, and that's not something Maine can say about many people.

The big Freelancer nods, acknowledging the more formal introduction. Then he nods to the stack of wood and asks, "More?"

He doesn't know how much the inn needs, but he'd like to do something. Inactivity doesn't suit him.

[oorah]

He follows Maine's gaze to the wood and nods. May as well. Frank moves to help him with that, holding open the Inn door and letting the dogs run out into the snow all over again. Bruno stays behind to keep the couch well-guarded for them, naturally.

"Can never have too much, this time of year," he explains belatedly, looking up as the snow drifts down on them gently. His kids loved the snow, whenever there's weather like this he thinks of staying out with them until Maria was screaming at all three of them to get in the house before they caught their death.

[bloodbathing]

As soon as he ducks through the doorway, Maine's gaze follows the dogs. Their delight brings another shadow of a smile to the big man's face. No small feat, considering how much Maine hates stepping out into the cold.

That dislike could be a result of the temperature-controlled armor that Maine's used to wearing. But the Freelancer is pretty sure he's always disliked cold weather. Maybe because he rarely had to deal with it when growing up.

"Seasons here?" he asks. Which may be an odd question, but Maine knows that some planets are sorely lacking in variety.

[oorah]

Frank leans over to knock his fist into the man's arm (ineffectually, of course.) It isn't often he feels small, but it's pretty amusing in this context, at least. He hands Maine mittens out of his pocket and shakes his head. They're bright teal but warm as hell.

"I got here in Summer, yeah. It was hot then, keep biding your time, man. It'll come around."

In the mean time, he's going to race around with the dogs like a crazy man, laughing as he feints right then goes left towards the cut wood. They bark at him and nudge at his legs as he picks up a bundle. Frank has never minded the cold. Better than the unforgiving heat of the desert any day.

[bloodbathing]

Brief and friendly as it is, Maine can't help the way he stiffens at that contact. He's not accustomed to people touching him. Not outside of the few people he calls friends. Everyone else gives him a wide berth, and he likes it that way. Non-violent contact with someone he's just met is practically unheard of.

But for now, he says nothing of it. Just takes the offered mittens with an appreciative hum and pulls them on. The color is a familiar one. Reminds him of Carolina's armor...

He pulls his mind away from those thoughts. Won't do him any good here.

While Frank races ahead with the dogs, Maine follows at a more sedate pace. It's been a long time since he's seen anyone play with a dog. Longer still since he's done it himself. He's far from comfortable enough to join in, but it's nice to watch.

When he reaches the wood, Maine starts piling up another (rather large) load to bring in. He's not sure how much fuel the inn needs to have inside; from the looks of it, he's erring on the side of "too much" rather than "not enough."

[oorah]

Frank notes the way Maine tenses up and files it away. It isn't that he's overly tactile with people he's just met, but it's hard not to see the other man as familiar and to act accordingly. His goal isn't to make anyone uncomfortable here though so he probably won't do it again. His bundle isn't as big, of course, but it's kind of funny, isn't it? Maine looking like him if he ate himself 15 years ago.

"Got a place to stay yet?" he asks softly while toeing open the door to the Inn so Maine can go in ahead of him.

[bloodbathing]

Given time, Maine may warm up to such contact. Might even initiate it himself. Despite the unsettling familial resemblance, he likes Frank well enough so far. But Maine's default is distance, even with the majority of his fellow Freelancers. He can count the number of people whose friendly touches he doesn't object to on one hand.

Frank doesn't do it again, though, and Maine follows along behind the smaller man. Ducks through the door into the inn and quickly makes room for Frank to enter as well.

"North," he says with a nod. Not the name of a fellow Agent in this context: the location of the house he's chosen to claim for his own.

Distance, indeed.

[oorah]

The North village, he realizes it's what Maine means belatedly. If this were anyone else, he might stress the importance of staying close in the wintertime, but call him crazy— he thinks this guy can take care of himself. "Well, if you need anything out there, let me know." Also more open-ended than he usually likes to be with new arrivals, but again, Maine is a special case, isn't he?

[bloodbathing]

It's a generous offer, and it's one Maine appreciates. He gives Frank another nod and a small, fleeting smile. It makes the Freelancer look younger. Closer to his actual age. Pity that it's so brief, and so quickly replaced by his usual stoicism.

And Maine can indeed take care of himself. It won't be a luxurious life, by any means. Might not even be a comfortable one. Still, he'll survive. He always does.

The big Freelancer heads towards the fireplace with his armload of wood. He might not be staying in the Inn or even anywhere near it. But, between himself and Frank, he figures the fire can stay burning for quite some time.