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

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."

A low hum of agreement is Maine's answer to that. It's good that Wash's armor blends in so well. Makes him harder to target. Helps to keep him safe. However, there are a few spots on Wash's armor that are very easy to spot.

With a sideways look at his friend, Maine asks, "Yellow?"

He doubts Wash had much (if any) choice in the matter. But he wonders what Wash thinks of his armor's bright accents.

Wash shrugs, and gives a small smile. "That had nothing to do with me, Maine. I just got told which armour was mine."

Not his fault it had yellow highlights. He was glad that was as bad as it got. It could have been so much worse. The Director could have put him in all yellow.

Maine hums again, thoughts drifting to the moment he saw his armor for the first time. He knew it was his; none of the other recruits were anywhere near big enough to wear it. He remembers the flash of excitement he'd kept carefully wiped from his face. Remembers sliding into the bodysuit for the first time. Remembers the way it had hugged his form like a second skin.

Unaware that his expression has shifted, gaze gone distant and features softening in fond memory, Maine brings himself out of his recollections to say, "Chose helmet. First was standard."

He hadn't liked its limited field of vision. He'd spotted another with a huge visor, and he'd refused to budge until they'd given him that one instead.

"It's definitely better than the standard stuff they give out," Wash says. Even in the middle of a war for survival, there isn't enough money to kit everyone out. Not when most of them are gonna get slaughtered in another pointless attack or doomed defence. Who knows if they'd actually made a difference. The UNSC sure made it sound like they did but they had a good line on propaganda.

"It suits you. Can't imagine you in anything else now."

It's a compliment that Maine gladly accepts. He casts his friend a little smile, clearly pleased that Wash likes his choice of helmet. Bullheaded as Maine so often is, he values the opinions of his teammates. Values Wash's opinion in particular.

There's a reason Maine posed with the Brute Shot for Wash rather than for Carolina.

Maine shifts then, settling back onto his elbows instead of his hands. Apparently content to just stretch out in front of the fire. He looks to Wash again, wondering if he should say that he's glad Wash is here. Wondering if that's true, or if it's pure selfishness. In the end, he just twitches his lips up and nods, trusting that Wash will get the gist.

He doesn't want Wash to be stuck here, too. But shit, it's nice to see his friend.

welcome aboard, space marine

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