sixthiterationlogs | 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

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.

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.

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.

That comment gets a nod and a shrug from Bobo, glad to hear it. Not everyone up that way thought it an easy hike, and there's enough in the village Bobo thinks won't handle winter well to not have one up here.

"I don't think so, but you got some here from islands and small towns. Not a lot of moving without transportation. Of which, best I can tell, all this place has is kirin and there ones I know of aren't old enough to ride."

He shakes his head at that. "It's been getting steadily colder since I got here about four months ago. Best I can tell it has mostly normal seasons, though no one has experienced this one before. The one they knew previously was apparently some kind of simulation. Least those here that long."

It takes Maine a moment to place the word "kirin." It's not a creature he was familiar with before showing up here. Not one he's really familiar with even now. After all, he's never laid eyes on one. But he picked up enough while exploring the South Village that he eventually places the name.

The Freelancer nods, acknowledging the difficulty others might have — though not with any visible sympathy. As far as he's concerned, the best way to learn how to manage such a hike is to do it. Repeatedly.

Unfortunately, Maine's exploration didn't extend to delving deep into past events. His interest has been in his survival, not local history. So, when the other man mentions a simulation, the Freelancer's expression immediately shifts to one of confusion.

"Simulation?" he asks.

Bobo has found the longer he is in the villages, and the more that he learns, the more he misses those days before he knew so many details in this place. When he wasn't aware of the way this place could shift itself, and how much you start wondering about what is real and what isn't.

So with that he sighs, popping one shoulder in a shrug, and considering how to put it. Mostly because he's picked up pieces here and there, and still Bobo isn't sure they all make sense.

"It's a belief among the older members of the village. When they first arrived, none of it was like this. Not entirely. One day though it all shifted and they all found themselves popping back out of the fountain with the knowledge that everything before had been fake. A mirage. An implemented design that seemed real, that they believed was real, and yet in the end turned out to be nothing more a share hallucination of sorts."

Calling that information concerning would be a colossal understatement. Maine stares in silence for a moment, brows pulled into a deep frown as he studies the other man's face. Doesn't look like he's lying. Doesn't seem like there'd be much point in lying about it, anyway; Maine could check easily enough. So, as far as this stranger knows ... that's what happened.

"Shit."

It's less a curse and more conversational in tone. Acknowledging that that's seriously fucked up without using so many words. The Freelancer folds his arms and tries not to think about the implications too closely. Tries not to let himself wonder if this could be some hallucination.

"Know when?"

When it changed, he means. How long ago it happened.

Likely had either been there when it happened, it might be easier to cope with. Seeing it first hand rather than hearing it as secondary gossip makes it a hard pill to swallow. Hell, most days Bobo isn't sure he believes it at all, even if he believes in those that talk about it.

"That pretty much sums it up," Bobo says with a nod, the singular curse summing up just about what he said at the time to Margaery.

"You know, I didn't think to ask how long, but I can point you to those that would have been there then. At least six months if not longer. If only that I've been here that long, and when I got here, all of it was settled and they were happily living in this... reality? Best word I've got for it."

It's hard for Maine to fathom someone having their sense of reality ripped away, then being able to move on and live happily in seemingly the same place. Who's to say it wouldn't happen again? Would they ever be able to trust their own senses?

Maine presses his lips together as he tries to imagine it. As he tries to understand how they'd be able to do anything other than fight like hell to get away. But his imagination isn't that good; he can't grasp it.

"Surprised they stayed," he grunts. Maybe they couldn't go home, but shit, anywhere would be better than remaining in the same place. It's not like they haven't had time to prepare to leave, either: six months is plenty.

And it's concerning, too, that this man seems so casual in saying "six months." Like that's no time at all. Having been here only a few days, Maine bristles at the idea.

To Bobo's offer to point him in their direction, the Freelancer nods. Then, slightly belatedly, he adds, "Appreciate it."

welcome aboard, space marine

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sorry for the delay on this! prose-brain has not been cooperating :(

Never a worry

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