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

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

[bloodbathing]

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.

Never a worry

[fooloftheking]

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."

[bloodbathing]

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."