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

[bloodbathing]

Coziness is something that's been absent from Maine's life for years. There hasn't been space for it. Hasn't been time. If he wasn't on the front lines of a losing war, he was training for it. Sure, there were things he took comfort in — but his recruitment into Project Freelancer put an end to most of those.

Hard to encourage camaraderie in a cutthroat special project. Hard to justify anything but getting stronger when humanity so desperately needed to find the 'magic bullet' to end the war.

But this — the fire; the food; the stranger who doesn't appear afraid of him — is ... nice. Not cozy, but nice.

(It's a start.)

Maine takes a bite of the stew and hums his agreement, casting a glance at the door with an expression of distaste. Crawling out of that freezing fountain was awful. Finding that this place is snowy and shows no time of thawing anytime soon has arguably been worse.

"Seasons here?" he asks, looking back to Brigitte with curiosity. It might come across as an odd question, but for Maine, it's a valid concern. Some planets are nothing but ice and snow; he's hoping this isn't one of them.

[whipshots]

A startled look crosses her face then, along with the realisation that she hadn’t actually considered that question, or outright asked it of someone else. Should’ve thought of it.

“I can’t say for certain since I haven’t seen them myself,” Brigitte says. She trusts in firsthand experience, in what she can confirm with her own eyes. “I have only been here a few days and it was already winter. But others have been here longer, and have been talking about a southern farm for spring, and growing crops? So it can’t be this cold all the time. Although I don’t like the idea of—”

Spring is so awfully, impossibly far away, along with the horrifying thought of still being here by the time the ground blooms green with grass and the trees regrow their foliage. Her voice tapers off. This had seemed temporary. She had wanted it to be temporary. It’s a flicker across Brigitte’s expression, a sudden twist to the corner of her mouth, before she distracts herself by pulling up another heavy wooden chair and planting herself in it, so she’s not still standing awkwardly above him. It brings her lower beneath Maine’s eyeline, but she doesn’t mind. It’s almost as if the woman is more comfortable with her jaw at a slight defiant tilt upwards.

“I hadn’t thought what it might be like, being here that long,” she finally admits.

[bloodbathing]

It's immediately apparent to Maine that he's inadvertently stumbled across something Brigitte hasn't thought about. Something that, from the way she trails off, she hasn't wanted to think about. Her expression changes as emotions flicker across her face. Maine can't read quite them — he's only just met her, after all — but they don't look happy.

Well. Shit.

Maine is skilled in many things. Most of those things are related to combat. Killing the enemy; protecting his teammates' backs; soldiering through any damage to keep fighting another day. He's downright deadly on the battlefield, and he's the first choice when the solution is to fight fire with fire.

But Maine is absolute shit at dealing with emotions. Well, any emotion that isn't some shade of anger. And Brigitte doesn't look angry. She looks...

Before he can decide on a label for it, Brigitte drags over a chair and takes a seat. Looks up at him, seeming perfectly at ease with the stark difference in their height. It's odd enough to catch Maine's attention. Makes him wonder if she's just accustomed to tall people — though he has a hard time imagining many people as big as himself.

What she admits is understandable. In spite of his question, Maine hasn't given much thought to a prolonged stay, either; he only wanted to know if there might be some break in the cold. He hums and drops his eyes to his stew. Eats another spoonful as he considers the possibility. Thinks of spending weeks here. Of spending months.

"Don't," he eventually replies, raising his eyes to meet hers again. "Day-to-day's fine."

Handle the issues at hand. Survive. Adapt. Keep an eye open for opportunities to escape. Don't think about how long it's been or how much longer it might be. Just keep moving forward.

No point in doing anything else. Because it has to be temporary.

[whipshots]

He's evidently a man of few words — that in and of itself is a stark contrast to her own 7'4" soldier, who loves the sound of his own voice, who can talk your ear off with stories and song if you'll let him. But the few words that Maine does give, actually, unexpectedly, manages to settle her. Day-to-day's fine. It's like a small tug of the chain, reining her back in and reminding her what to focus on. It's simple, pragmatic, and realistic in a way that she appreciates. Understands. (A battlefield medic can't let themselves get sucked into the what-ifs and second-guessing and worrying about the future, after all: you should just focus on the here and now. Solving the immediate problem. Whatever's under your hands at this exact moment in time.)

So Brigitte takes a deep, steadying breath. It seems to firm up her spine, as she shoots the man a grateful smile. "Wise words, thank you," she says, sincerely, and then looks down at her hands folded between her knees. The cuts and nicks on her knuckles, from training and actual battle alike.

"It’s not bad here, anyway. There’s a community. We could've been dropped into worse."

[bloodbathing]

Hearing his opinion labeled as "wise" is strange, for Maine. He's far more accustomed to being called an asshole. But the words seem to help; Brigitte straightens and smiles, her concern apparently having been eased. She even looks ... grateful.

Maine resists the urge to shift beneath her gaze. He's not used to having gratitude directed his way, either. Not from strangers. In the field, his teammates are more likely to receive those looks; anything aimed Maine's way typically has a healthy dose of fear mixed in.

But Brigitte isn't afraid of him at all. When she looks away, it's only to study her own hands.

... This place is fucking weird.

The Freelancer casts a glance down as well, noting the damage to her knuckles. Not unfamiliar, that. Lends more credence to his supposition that she's some kind of soldier. Though, judging by her open display of emotions, maybe not a seasoned one.

Belatedly, Maine realizes that he's becoming absorbed in studying her. Intrigued by her strangeness, he guesses. He shifts his gaze to his stew and resumes eating. Offers a noncommittal shrug at her observation.

A community's fine, as long as it can be trusted. If it can't, it should be considered a potential threat. So far, Maine doesn't trust this community at all.

done, or yours to close? ♥

[whipshots]

His own experienced eye has sized her up in a few measured looks, and though he can't verify it just yet, his call's pretty damn accurate. Squire might not mean much in Maine's context, but it touches on the main points: combatant, experienced, but still with room to learn. Always learning.

When he turns his own attention back to the food, Brigitte steals her own opportunity to sneak an assessing glance at the man, now that she's not floundering quite so much. Scars on his own knuckles that look worse than her own, and the spoon practically dwarfed in his hand. The kind of muscle that looks like it gets regular use and isn't just for vanity, which does seem to hint: warrior. Rigid lines in his shoulders and neck.

But at least he's eating. And he's already pretty much dried off in front of the fire (that clean-shaven head means there isn't much to dry), and Brig supposes that's as safe a spot as any to leave a new arrival. She could, perhaps, go get her own food now and finally give the poor man some peace.

"Anyway, I'll let you finish up," she says, finally rising from her seat. "If you have any questions, feel free to ask anytime. I know that the first few days, they can be... rough."

That's one way of putting it.

♥ !

[bloodbathing]

One way of putting it, indeed. It might have been easier for Maine if he'd seen a friendly face after crawling out of the fountain. (Or perhaps he would have lashed out at the would-be Good Samaritan and tried to drown them for their trouble.) As it is, he's been flying more or less blind and struggling to adapt to a situation he considers hostile.

It helps that people aren't running from him, here. Helps that they're willing to answer his questions, however blunt or laconic they may be. It helps that Brigitte rushed up to him with food in hand, seeming utterly undeterred by his ... everything.

The Freelancer nods as she rises. Watches her move away, strides purposeful and confident. Wonders, briefly, what she did before she showed up here and started handing out food to strangers.

Maine returns to his soup and lets his curiosity fade, for now. He doesn't know if he'll contact Brigitte with specific questions, but he'll certainly keep an eye out for her.