sixthiterationlogs | welcome aboard, space marine

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welcome aboard, space marine

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. )

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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?"

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.

Woke underwater. Did he mean here? Wash had woken underwater, in the fountain and half drowned himself before crawling out. Or did he mean... He remembers the Meta plunging off a cliff into the frozen water below. Is it possible that's what he remembers? He was unconscious for a long time after being shot, and then Sigma... Fuck, what if he'd somehow remembered, somehow become himself again, just after plunging into the ice.

That's a hell of a thought.

"No. No theories. I don't have a clue where we are. Or how we got here. Just... I needed to know."

Unaware of the possibility he inadvertently put in his friend's head, Maine nods. Wonders if the "where" and "how" are going to dig at Wash. Those questions are less important to Maine than they perhaps should be. He's focused primarily on surviving in this new, potentially hostile environment. Figuring out how it happened is something to deal with later.

Maybe it's a reflection of how action-oriented Maine is. Or maybe it's a consequence of his relationship to things like slipspace: he has no idea how it works, but it does, and that's enough.

Seeking to take Wash's mind off of what Maine considers pointless questions, he speaks up.

"Found house. Good location."

The place isn't fortified (yet), but it's defensible. And it has more room than Maine knows what to do with. Might be more room than Wash knows what to do with, too. A consequence of living in shared spaces and on spaceships for so long.

That said, Maine tilts his head toward the door in question. Does Wash want to go settle in?

(And maybe Maine should ask if Wash wants to stay with him, first. But, given his friend's rough state and the unknown environment, Maine's more likely to pick Wash up and carry him there than let his teammate slip away.)

He doesn't want to think about that, but now it's in his head, he's never going to be able to get it out. He'd had to fight down everything when it came to working with the Meta. He'd forced himself to believe that there was nothing left of Maine in there, just the twisted remains of the AI fragments using the shell of his body.

"A house?" He hasn't even considered where he's going to stay. He hasn't considered much of anything. But a place to stay would be a plan.

"Show me."

With a nod, Maine rises. After gesturing for Wash to bundle up, the giant marine starts leading the way to the house he's chosen.

Getting to the North Village is a bit of a trek. One that most civilians would turn their nose up at, labeling it too far a distance to travel with any regularity. All the more reason to pick a place there. Sure, it's fucking cold, but what's a ten-mile jog to a Freelancer? A hell of a lot easier than their usual training, as far as Maine's concerned.

Still, it's a far enough distance that Maine warns Wash before they head out. Far enough that Maine's grateful the wind and snowfall seem to have died, leaving the snow on the ground as their only adversary.

The house is a white one with blue trim and a yellow door. It's surrounded on two sides by empty houses and on a third by the equally empty inn. That leaves only one side vulnerable to attack — though said side also allows for an escape route. There's a note of satisfaction in Maine's voice when he points it out; he's no strategist, but he thinks he did a pretty good job choosing it.

Given how fucking cold it is, however, the thing that Maine's the proudest of is: "Chimney."

That's right. He found a house with a fireplace. Time to get warm.

It might not be as bad as some of the shit they've had to do, and really 10 miles isn't too gruelling considering their training regiment in the Project and the bullshit Wash has been through recently, but it's still a fair distance and without the armour... it's tiring. It's just because he's missing the armour though. Not because he's lost muscle in prison and has been beaten to hell and is pushing thirty after a near a decade of combat readiness.

But finally they get there and Wash takes a look at the building. It's sort of... cute, like you'd see in a picture book. Protected though and he can definitely see how they could make it more protected.

He gives Maine a somewhat tired smile. "Sounds good. Let's get a fire going."

That smile may be tired, but it's still a smile. Maine returns it, happy that his friend approves. Happy that, as strained as Wash appears, he's still able to smile.

The big Freelancer leads the way inside. It's evident that Maine hasn't been occupying the place for long. Dust covers many of the surfaces, and it has an air of disuse that comes from a house having lain vacant for a while. But the fireplace in the dining room has wood piled beside it, as well as a chair pulled close — evidence that Maine has spent some time warming himself beside it.

"Furnace," he says, pointing to a set of stairs leading down. He hasn't messed with it yet; he doesn't know how it works, and he hasn't wanted to risk burning the place down.

"Sleeping upstairs," he adds. He's hauled an extra mattress into one of the bedrooms — a single mattress is nowhere near big enough for him — but there are still plenty of others.

It's about a million years, or at least the better part of a millennia out of date in terms of technology. Who knows? Maybe it's actually been abandoned for that long. But it's a roof and four walls and a big fireplace and if it's good enough for Maine, then Wash can probably deal with it, even if he's missing the armour something fierce right now.

"It's very... rustic," he says, looking around the room. Even a backwater colony like his had had electricity and computers and shit.

That description gets a snort of laughter out of Maine. He glances at Wash and arches an eyebrow — "you don't say?" — before he begins stripping off his outer layers.

"Hovel," he grunts. Considering the technology (or lack thereof) that they're working with, however? "Best option."

It could be worse. Could be a place without a fireplace. Speaking of which...

As soon as Maine has a little more freedom of movement, he kneels down and starts building a fire. He may not know how the furnace works, but he can manage this part just fine.

Well, when he puts it like that... "I was trying to be polite," he replies.

He kicks off his shoes while Maine starts the fire; they're wet after that walk, and he's starting to get cold so he's looking forward to the fire.

"Didn't feel like being close to anyone in the main village huh?"

Another little snort of amusement is Maine's response to "polite." He's not offended by Wash's opinion of the place. It's technologically barren, and its dusty state makes it apparent that Maine hasn't put any real work into it. Not yet, at least. Now that Wash is here, that'll have to change.

He needs to fortify this place. Needs to make sure that it's as protected as possible.

Maine grunts and shakes his head, brown eyes on the kindling he's working to ignite. "Strangers," he explains.

While Maine doesn't fear them, he sure as shit doesn't want to sleep near a bunch of people whose motivations he doesn't know. Besides, Maine's never been a social creature. Sticking to the edges of things — be it a team or a civilization — is what he knows.

Once the kindling catches, Maine sits back on his heels and looks at his friend. "Just us."

They're the only Freelancers here. As far as Maine knows, there's no one else from their universe at all.

Strangers indeed. "Yeah, I get that," he agrees. Too many people he doesn't know and can't trust. The Inn had been nice enough, but he sure as hell wouldn't have wanted to sleep there long-term.

He waits until the fire catches and then goes to sit down near it, waiting for it to start warming him up. He doubts it's gonna do much for the room as a whole, but maybe if he's close enough it'll dry off his clothes. Scrubs. Whatever.

"Fine with me. Don't need anyone else."

He's not too sure how they're going to make this place more defensible with... wood and rocks, but they're creative. They can figure something out.

It's a sentiment that Maine understands. In combat, he works better as part of a unit. (Or so he believes.) He handles the things that require strength and brute force; a teammate takes care of the things that require speed or precision. Outside of combat, however, Maine prefers to be on his own — or at the side of one of the very few people he calls "friend."

But hearing that attitude come out of Wash is strange. It's not as it should be. Wash was always in the middle of shit. Approaching York and North; getting picked on by South; spending time with CT. Speaking up when the rest of them knew to keep their mouths shut. The rookie — earnest and so fucking gullible that Maine could never figure out whether he wanted to shake Wash or shove him in a protective bubble.

He realizes that he's staring. Turns to look at the fire instead, hoping that he didn't appear too troubled. He sits down all the way with a little grunt, then starts pulling off his equally wet shoes so they can dry off beside the flames.

Maybe he should ask about Wash's comment. But he doesn't. Instead, he turns the subject back to something easier for him to deal with than emotions. Turns it back to their living situation and their survival.

"Confusing tech," he admits. It's so old and unintuitive that he's had trouble figuring out how many things work.

He can see staring out of the corner of his eye. Leaves him with his jaw clenched, fingers curling against his thighs. Not quite fists, but uncomfortable. It just reminds him of how much things have changed. How much he's changed. And how much Maine hasn't. Or... how different he is to when Wash last saw him.

Things don't fit together as easily as they used to.

"Yeah," Wash agrees. "It's archaic. No electricity but still have this thing." He raises his wrist and shakes it, showing off the watch-device.

The last thing that Maine wants to do is make Wash uncomfortable. His friend may look a little better than he did earlier — at the very least, Wash isn't sitting with his back to a wall and looking like he might bolt at any second — but he still looks rough. Still looks like something bad has happened to him.

Maine doesn't know what happened. Doesn't know who hurt his friend. Isn't sure how he'd even ask about it, or if Wash would stick around long enough to give him an answer. Best Maine can do right now is make sure nothing else hurts Wash.

So, when he notices the other man tense, Maine winces internally. Ducks his head to make sure that nothing shows on his face. Wash always could read him like an open book.

Thankfully, the other Freelancer picks up the thread of conversation. Maine hums in agreement and raises his left wrist to show off his own device.

"Bright," he notes, referring to the band on Wash's device. Compared to Maine's black one, it certainly is. The big man presses his lips together as he frowns at the color. "Blue? Green?"

The fuck color is that?

Edited (words!) 2019-01-17 01:50 (UTC)

""Yeah, I guess it is." He rubs his thumb over it. The colour reminds him of something. Armour. First thought is Carolina. Second is that guy with the Blues. The mouthy one. Not the stupid one.

He should probably start using their names. They hadn't killed him or handed him over to the Chairman's men. This time. Tucker and Caboose.

"It's some kind of... aqua? Teal? Maybe... seafoam?"

A familiar color indeed, though Maine's only reference is Carolina's armor. He never asked her what the name of its color was. Never had any interest. As he hears Wash start spouting off suggestions, however, he kind of wishes that he had.

Maine snorts in amusement and looks up at Wash, an eyebrow quirked above his smile. Seafoam? He hums — "fancy" — happy to tease his friend about it.

He wonders if Carolina would've given him a fancy name, too. Or maybe she'd have told him to get his eyes checked. If she was in a good mood, the potential entertainment might've been worth it.

He gives Maine a wry look at the teasing, relieved that Maine has stopped staring, that they're not on some weird knife-edge of things that Wash doesn't want to discuss. Dumb jokes and teasing are miles better than the truth. Especially talking about the truth.

"Don't look at me. I'm not the one who decided that giving everyone brightly coloured armour was a good idea. I'm glad I just got grey."

Generally, Maine prefers to hear the truth. He's a blunt man, and he sees no point in lying. However, it's apparent that whatever's going on with Wash is an emotional minefield. And like hell does Maine want to try and navigate that.

Wash will tell him what's wrong when he's comfortable doing so. That's what Maine tells himself, as he refuses to press the issue. As he dodges one potentially emotional confrontation after another.

He's always been shitty at dealing with emotions. Always preferred to take action rather than talk about things. It's bitten him in the ass before and it probably will again — but here he is, choosing to tease rather than climb back on that knife-edge.

"White's good," Maine declares. Can't get much brighter than that. Although he suspects he knows the reason for his armor's color: nothing shows off the enemy's blood nearly as well.

Emotions are definitely something he wants to avoid. Easier to ignore anything that's not cold anger and a desire for revenge. Those are easy. Those block out memories and other things that were too unsafe to feel while the Director and the Counsellor were on his case.

"White works," Wash agrees. Maine's armour was... terrifying. He'd seen it spattered with blood and gore and dirt. And when the Meta had worn it, it had become a symbol of something more, something worse.

"I think we were the lucky ones when it came to armour colour. Could be worse. Could've been York."

That gets a snort of agreement from Maine. Gold is fine for a visor, but who wants an entire suit of armor like that? Not Maine, that's for sure. Might be good for desert camouflage, but that's about the only benefit Maine can imagine.

But when it comes to bad armor colors, there's another Freelancer that Maine thinks is worse off. Or rather, two others.

"Or North," he suggests, lips twitching up in another smile. Imagine being stuck in that purple. Worse still, "South." Her armor's even brighter than her brother's.

Yeah, some of them were just a bit on the gaudy side. Who the hell gives the infiltration specialist gold armour? Oh wait, Project fucking Freelancer did that. Because the Director never cared about them, or saving humanity. Just chasing ghosts.

He gives a small smile. "Yeah, North and-" His expression tightens at the mention of South. "Purple is not a good colour for a soldier."

Maine would have to be completely blind to miss the way Wash closes off as soon as South comes up. Might have to be deaf, too, considering the change in Wash's tone. And, although there's a flash of curiosity in Maine's expression — South's an asshole, but he thought that she and Wash got along decently — the big Freelancer doesn't ask.

So much for avoiding that emotional minefield. Best he can do is back off and try not to press it.

Instead, Maine nods his agreement. Leans back on his hands and looks back to the fire. It's a vulnerable position: Maine is off-balance and his arms are holding his weight, leaving him unable to defend himself quickly. However, the move isn't calculated; Maine's just trying to get comfortable, and he's not concerned about his safety. Not around Wash.

"Stealth," he scoffs and shakes his head. Purple isn't stealthy. Maybe North's armor is good for night operations, but South's seems good for absolutely nothing.

He's not particularly got any reason to hide it. Maybe he should, but he's still adjusting to being here, to seeing Maine alive and well and someone who he doesn't want to know what happens. Things get fucked up. South is part of that. At least he isn't pushing further with it. It's a relief. Wash doesn't want to discuss it. Maine's about the best Freelancer to be here. Anyone else would want more information.

He gives a small smile. "Yeah. It's not the best colour. At least my armour blends in in a lot of places and I'm not even supposed to be a stealth specialist."

welcome aboard, space marine

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