starlogs | ( creative title goes here )

Entry tags:

( creative title goes here )

WHO: maine (

rumbling ) + you
WHERE: random places on the ship
WHEN: throughout the day on dec 11
WHAT: idek
WARNINGS: nothing at this time, will update if necessary!

( ATRIUM )

[ He can't say he ever expected to be in space again. Not after everything that's happened. Hell, he wasn't even expecting to see land again. But, shit changes and life is often unpredictable. And now here he is. Apparently living aboard another ship, traveling through space like he has some sort of purpose. Maine doesn't know what that purpose even is. And after dealing with Project Freelancer and all the bullshit the Director did, he's not really inclined to believe he has some purpose with some faceless crew in the middle of outerspace.

Trust issues? You bet.

After orientation and locating his bunk ( it's all so goddamn familiar but so different ), he sets out to get the lay of the ship. Though Maine did give a few moments of hesitation in whether he should wear his armor or not on the friendly walk-about, he decides against it. Instead he swings by the first store he sees and purchases a few different clothing items; the charcoal grey hoodie is put on before he even pays for it, hoodie up and not suspicious at all.

After exploring certain areas, he winds up in the atrium. It's... nice, in certain ways. Something that probably would've been nice to have on the Mother of Invention. Eventually he settles on a bench by one of the ponds and—are those ducks? Weird that this place has animals just wandering around. They waddle and quack their way over and Maine gives a threatening rumbling noise in return. It doesn't deter them, however, and the next thing he knows, he has a bag of breadcrumbs and ducks all over, eating and quacking happily, even going so far as to join him on the bench in their quest for more.

This is not going as planned. And who the hell gave him this bag of bread, anyway?! ]

( TRAINING ROOM )

[ Later on towards whatever counts as evening in this ship, Maine hits the gym. At this point it's completely necessary to work off some pent up aggression. It's not that he's mad or anything, but there's just some shit he needs to work through and being trapped around all these people isn't doing much to stave off the aggression levels.

So, he's going to take it out on some punching bags. And the weight machines. Probably the pool, too. Want to race? Let's go, buddy. Eventually, though, if anyone is milling around the boxing ring, he's going to gesture to himself, to them and then to the ring. Wanna go a few rounds? ]

( ETC. )

( feel free to throw anything my way or get me on plurk (

honnleath ) if you want to discuss sth specific!! )

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ It isn't the strangest thing that Wash has ever experienced, but that doesn't mean he's handling it as well as he could be. He's on an unknown ship with an unknown crew. The explanation for how he got here isn't unbelievable, especially after having experience with futurecubes, but it still doesn't sit easily with him. He has no idea where the Reds and Blues are or what's happening on Chorus. He's worried, and the inability to do anything about it is driving him crazy.

He spent the last few hours exploring the ship. It feels strange to be out of his armor after so long, but he thinks he'll be more inconspicuous without it. And when no one really pays him much attention as he walks around in a sweatshirt and jeans he picked up at the closest store, he thinks it was a good idea.

Coincidence has him glancing to his left as he passes through the atrium, but it's disbelief and shock that stops him in his tracks. For a moment much too long, he thinks he's having another break. The past and the present collide in such an impossible way that he isn't sure he's really here or if in his concern for his teammates he's gotten himself trapped in another memory.

Because the man over there feeding ducks looks really fucking familiar and Wash hasn't seen him in years.

Maine's dead. Sigma killed him, replaced him with the Meta. And the Red and Blues killed what was left. Maine's gone. The Meta's gone. And that guy over there is nothing but a stranger who looks familiar. That's it. That's all it is.

Wash tells himself that, but his feet don't obey his order to move. He's frozen there, stunned and shaken, and he can't even get a goddamn word out. ]

[ Of course things can't be as easy as they should be. And, maybe, that's just how things are meant to work out for Maine now. They're going to be hard because he did a lot of bad shit. Bad shit he's still not completely over. But when he finally gets fed up and just spills the contents of the bag out on the ground for his—allegedly—new best friends to eat, he glances up and it's like the entire fucking universe stops.

Maine's caught in a position half-between sitting and standing and isn't quite sure what to do. Part of his brain tells him to just get the fuck out of here before something happens. The last thing they need to do is get into a knock-down drag-out brawl here. Because that's what he's expecting. The last time he and Wash saw each other wasn't exactly an enchanting walk in the park. ( Logically he knows that Wash was in the right to attack and try to stop him. Doesn't make it any less aggravating. ) The other part of his brain tells him to just get this over with. If Wash is here, they can't avoid each other forever. Maine knows that from experience. No matter how big this ship is, they'll find each other even if they don't want to.

A cacophony of thoughts and memories clamor for attention in his head and his brows furrow. It's not a wince. Even if his head is already starting to hurt. Time away from Sigma still hasn't gotten everything back in the right place and the right order and at times he feels a sudden surge of heat that he can only display as anger. The bench makes a creaking noise as his hand squeezes just a little too tight; he hadn't meant to do that.

Pushing the rest of the way up, Maine gets his shit together and makes his way over to Wash. He stands there looking down at him and makes a non-committal sort of noise. It doesn't really mean anything beyond acknowledging he's here. His posture is loose, signaling if Wash wants to just get a hard punch in, he can do it. Maine's not going to stop him. ]

[ The possibility of walking away before he gets even more lost in memories of the past than he's already starting to be ends the moment the other man looks up and sees him. God, he looks just like him. But it can't be Maine. Maine's dead.

Then the guy's heading his way, probably because Wash is standing there like an asshole staring at him, and he feels his tenuous grip on his sanity get shakier. This is it. He's lost it again. He's lost it and he's hallucinating being on some ship in the middle of who the fuck knows where with a man isn't even alive anymore.

The Meta wouldn't sit around feeding ducks. Hell, Maine wouldn't do that either.

Except the similarities don't end with the way the guy looks. He's so fucking tall that Wash has to look up at him, a position that's far too familiar. And he doesn't say anything, just makes a noise like Maine would have done and Wash, knowing he's projecting, hears meaning there where there isn't any. Where there can't be.

It feels like he's going to be sick. Or maybe pass out. His body flushes with heat and then chills so fast it makes him dizzy. He remembers Epsilon screaming and everything breaking and Jesus fucking Christ, what if none of this has been real? ]

Who are you? [ It's a demand, low and angry and rough with the chaotic unsteadiness of his emotions. ] Goddamn it, tell me who you are!

[ That's not really the question he'd been expecting to get. Though, in retrospect, it might be the best one to ask. Who is he? Is he still the Meta? Is he Maine? Or is he the long forgotten Marcus? He has no fucking clue. He's just some soldier trying to figure out all the right ways to fit himself back together. Does he go on the warpath again? Is that who he's supposed to be? Some machine hellbent on getting control of everything so he can be more powerful than everyone else? Does he step outside of every last comfort zone and try to reassemble by being someone else? Will doing stupid shit like feeding fucking ducks make some part of his brain slip back into the place it's supposed to be?

He doesn't fucking know.

He wets his lips and gives Wash a look. It's a look he probably shouldn't be doing in this sort of situation, but it's the only way he can convey the answer to that. It's a look he'd given to Wash countless times. One that says you know the answer, don't be a fucking moron. Because for everything that Wash is, he's not a stupid man.

It's him, it's some form of Maine standing here, not really knowing who he is or what he's doing or what he's supposed to be doing. Maybe he's a ghost just here to haunt. Maybe he was sent back to space for a redo and not fuck things up this time. He doesn't know. But maybe he'll figure something out. ]

Jesus Christ.

[ It slips out of his mouth as a hiss because he knows that look. Even before the injury that robbed Maine of his voice, he'd used that look with impunity on Wash during the early, somewhat more innocent days of Project Freelancer. There's no mistaking it. Wash knows exactly what he's saying and he doesn't have to say a fucking thing. ]

No. [ A quiet exclamation of disbelief, not denial. Wash shakes his head. ] That's not—It isn't possible.

[ Because of all the lessons he's learned over the years, the hardest has been acceptance that the mistakes of the past cannot be undone. He doesn't get a second chance. None of them do. He laughs, a soft sound bordering on hysterical. ]

You're—The Meta. [ He searches Maine's face, trying and failing to make sense of it. His hands clench into fists, not in an effort to hold back an attack but in a futile attempt to cling to whatever remains of his fucked up mind. ] Is this a trick? Where is the Meta?

[ This isn't something he wants to be doing. Not even a little bit. But, he's never run from anything before, and he'll be damned if he's going to run from this, from Wash. He can't say he's perfectly content with being forced into working through all the major shit in his head right now when he was trying to figure out a way to do it in his own time. But, might as well, right? Just one more fucked up thing to add to the goddamn pile.

Maine keeps his arms loose at his sides, hands open, to be non-threatening. Because there's no point. He's not going to fight Wash right now. There's no point. So, he's trying to convey that with his body language. He's never been the comforting type ( no one can even begin to imagine him in that sort of state ), but even he feels an oppressive amount of guilt right now facing one of his ghosts ( demons?? ) when he wasn't really ready.

Flashes, jagged bits of memories skitter across his mind. Missions, training sessions, downtime in the mess or in their bunks. He doesn't remember all of it clearly, some are so distorted and scatter like ash, ripped away on a strong wind. He remembers how things were before. How things were before that fucking AI program. It wasn't ever a simpler time, but it was something. Now it's just a scorch mark on the ground.

Slowly, he just shakes his head. No, this isn't a trick. Part of him wishes it was. Might be easier to handle on both ends. Then, he makes a low noise that rasps in his throat and even hurts to make for any number of reasons: Dead. Like me. ]

[ If this was the Meta, the encounter would likely be taking a very different turn. Wash knows this on a deep, instinctive level. There's nothing of the Meta in his posture, no signs of aggression or violence. And there's nothing of Sigma's insufferable confidence either.

Maine had always been imposing. The way he held himself. The sheer amount of muscle that filled out his body. His silence. But Wash can't remember a time when he feared him. He can't remember when Maine last made him uneasy.

Sigma is a different story. But Wash has never been afraid of Maine. ]

If you're dead, then I'm hallucinating. [ There's an eerie kind of flatness to his voice, distance and caution because he still doesn't know what to make of this. What he does know is that he doesn't want to be crazy again. Slowly, a little vehemently, he adds; ] I really don't want to be hallucinating.

[ He fights one of his clenched hands opens and rakes it viciously back through his hair. Panicking isn't going to help. He's going to have to get it together until he can sort this shit out. ]

How long have you been here?

Edited 2016-12-13 02:35 (UTC)

[ They were friends once. Maybe even through all the Meta shit they were too. In a distant kind of way. Probably could have tried to rebuild something if he hadn't betrayed him at the last minute. He remembers Wash's distinction between Maine and the Meta. He remembers being called it and the bizarre measure of glee it gave Sigma. Maybe Maine had just wanted to die because that was the only way for everything to stop. The only way to do it was to force their hands to do it.

Fuck if he knows. Shit is still too jumbled up in his head. Trying to figure it out now isn't going to happen. Just like trying to assure Wash that he's not crazy isn't going to happen. Because Maine thinks he might be crazy so any kind of assurance likely won't be assurance at all... Still, he gives Wash a look that simply tells him he's not.

They'll figure something out somewhere along the way. Or kill each other trying.

Maine makes a small noise, accompanied by a roll of one shoulder. Just today. You? ]

[ Wash doesn't know how to qualify what they were when he'd been working with the Meta. He's hesitant to call them friends. As he's always understood it, friends don't shoot each other in the back. Of course, that's what they did in Project Freelancer. And in Blood Gulch.

So what does he know? Maybe trying to kill someone is a sign of friendship after all.

He still feels crazy. The longer he looks at Maine, the stronger that feeling gets. But he's got it under control for now. Least he thinks so, anyway. ]

Same. [ He takes a deep breath in through his nose, then slowly expels it. ] One second I was fighting off an army. The next, I was getting taken to "orientation." Didn't know what to do with myself, so I thought I'd do a little reconnaissance.

[ Old habits die very hard. ]

[ He can understand that. On a basic level, he's a soldier, too. He knows how difficult it can be to just accept something at face value and not want to investigate further so there are less bogies when it gets right down to it. On a more paranoid level, he gets it, too. They just suddenly show up in the middle of whatever system they're flying around in with no clear indication how they got here. It's not something he likes. It's not something anyone in their right mind would like.

As much as Maine would like to do something about it, recon has never once been his strong suit. So sitting around trying to listen to snatches of conversations wasn't getting him very far. Even though it's likely impossible for the two of them to work together again—at least, that's what Maine is assuming—it'd be good if they could. Wash is much better at the whole agent thing. Maine is just better at the heavy work.

He doesn't ask, though. Not right now. Not about that. Instead his brows furrow and his lips pull down into a slight frown. He doesn't even know what the hell is going on. What happened after he died? Maybe it's none of his business and he shouldn't be asking, but fuck that.

What army? What happened? ]

[ If he took the time to think about it, or was capable of thinking about it right now, Wash would probably recognize how easily he's falling back into old patterns. It doesn't make any goddamn sense and it's going to take him a long time to reconcile that, but he's always been able to compartmentalize. He'll worry about it later. ]

Chorus. A planet in the Outer Colonies. [ He assumes Maine has never heard of it either. No one else had. ] There was alien tech there that Hargrove wanted, so he...

[ Wash trails off into awkward silence. There's another assumption—that Maine remembers everything that's happened to him. Does he? It would make all the explanations easier, but it would make the situation infinitely more horrific. To be trapped in one's mind, a prisoner to the whims of someone else... ]

Do you, ah, remember him? When—He was the one that sent me and the Meta after Epsilon.

[ He knows he's separating them, treating Maine and the Meta like two different people. He knows that they aren't. Not really. Without Sigma, it was just Maine and the damage left behind. It's simply easier this way and for once, he really wants to take the path of least resistance. ]

[ It's difficult to explain just what happened while Sigma was in his mind. There's still a fuckton of a tangled mess to work through in there. Sometimes he doesn't really know what happened. Sometimes he gets images, little movies in his mind's eye, that show things he's done. People—friends—he's killed. Sure, it's easier to blame it on someone else, that he wasn't in full control of his faculties, but the fact remains it was his hands that did the deeds. The blood is on his hands and won't ever come off.

He remembers Hargrove. To an extent. He remembers still feeling so fucking angry then. Angry at everything. Angry and not really knowing what to do about it. Until he did know. Or half-knew and let things still get fucked up.

So, he nods, them folds his arms over his chest. Not that it's done to be imposing, but considering who Hargrove is, he knows he's nor going to like how this story continues. ]

[ Wash nods back, acknowledging his understanding. ]

Right, well, apparently there was a lot of resentment between the two leading factions on Chorus. So Hargrove sent in mercenaries to start a civil war. He figured it'd be easier to have the people kill themselves, that way he could swoop in, take the alien artifacts, and leave before the UNSC ever found about it.

[ Summing up what happened on Chorus isn't the simplest task. It's a convoluted mess and there's still so much of it that doesn't really make any sense to Wash. He sighs, rubbing at the top of his head. ]

Our ship crashed on Chorus. We got pulled into it. Me and Carolina. [ There's only a tiny hesitation before he continues with; ] Epsilon. The Reds and the Blues. We were all that was left of Project Freelancer.

[ Were, because now here's Maine. ]

It was a big fucking disaster, but we were winning. [ He frowns, brow furrowing. ] I think.

[ He's kind of getting sick of the whole every fucking branch of the military—general and private—trying to one-up itself from the other and get more firepower, more everything than the other. No, they don't need to be unprepared just incase the Covenant gets a bug up its collective ass again and tries to wipe out the human race. But they need to fucking work together. Or else everything is gonna go to shit and the humans will be the ones wiping out the humans.

There's a dark thought in the back of Maine's mind that wonders if that's such a bad thing. He quickly shuts that down.

Though he doesn't make any kind of motion to correct Wash, he thinks it. Were, he says, like this matters. Back there Maine is dead. The Meta is dead. Everything about who he is is just fucking dead. He does, however, make a slight face—his expression tightens and it's almost as if he can feel that pulsing need to have the AI—but Maine pushes that aside, too.

Tries to, anyway. But it still flickers there, like one lonely soul along the watchtower. Epsilon isn't much by himself. It fucked up Wash. There's literally nothing Maine can do with it. His fingers dig into the meat of his arms but he soldiers on.

He tips his head slightly, gesturing with his chin. What do you mean think? ]

[ So. Epsilon's going to be a touchy subject all around, Wash thinks as Maine's expression changes. It doesn't worry him, exactly, but he makes a mental note to keep mentions of any of the AI to a minimum until he can figure out...

Until he can figure all of this shit out.

Thinking it better to just move on from the subject as quickly as possible, he hurries into an explanation. ]

We got separated. The Reds and Blues went to confront Hargrove. Me and Carolina stayed planet-side to fight off the Mantis army he dropped on us. [ He frowns a little, nearly grimacing. It sounds like a damn movie. Two former Freelancers and some poorly trained soldiers going up against a robot army. How all the crazy shit keeps happening to him, he just doesn't know. ] We weren't dead yet, so...

[ Wash shrugs. It says something unflattering about his life that he can make this kind of assessment. He knows it. But there it is. ]

I'm taking that as a win.

[ He could wish it wasn't so. That they could discuss Freelancer and the AI program and have it not Be An Issue. But it's going to be an issue until Maine can somehow work through all this crap. If he can. ( Maybe he should see someone about that here... )

Hearing about what's going on back... there—it's not home, really. Maine doesn't even know what that means anymore—makes him feel a little uneasy. Not that Carolina is useless in a fight ( she wouldn't have constantly been number one or so if she wasn't ). Not that Wash is, either. He remembers how much he was underestimated. Wash is crafty, though. People never really gave him credit for that. But. Well. It just makes him feel uneasy. They're not a team anymore, haven't been for a while. But it was still Maine's job to take the brunt of the fight. Now Wash is there with only Carolina as back-up. Maine can't know that she's changed a little, so it only annoys him that she'll be looking out for herself and not having Wash's back like she should.

He doesn't really want to talk about that anymore. So, he shifts the conversation slightly; You stayed with those sims? ]

[ Wash doesn't mind that the conversation moves on to another topic. The sims, dysfunctional disaster that they are, are easier to discuss than Freelancer and its assorted tragedies.

He makes a face, a little bit sheepish and a lot resigned. One shoulder twitches in a shrug. ]

Yeah. Didn't really have anywhere else to go. And I'm pretty sure the UNSC would have arrested me if they hadn't thought I was dead.

[ Whether they still think that after Epsilon's broadcast of the Chorus fiasco, Wash doesn't know. It's possible they think he's just another sim trooper, which is a blow to his dignity but still better than being imprisoned. Again. ]

They're not so bad. Usually. [ Oh, who the fuck is he kidding. He sighs. ] Sometimes.

[ It's a strange feeling that comes over him then. Maine doesn't really know how to explain it, just that there's something sitting there in his chest like a pit. Something heavy and loaded and he doesn't like it. Maybe if he did have a word for it, he'd be able to better figure out how to handle it. Instead it just weighs him down and will fester in the back of his mind like everything else he doesn't want to think about.

For a few long moments, he doesn't say anything. He just stands there quietly assessing everything and figuring out what he wants to say. If he wants to say anything at all. He could just walk away. There's no obligation to continue the conversation or have any interaction with Wash at all. He hates that he thinks that, but, it's not the first time. He's trying, though, to remember the human parts of himself. That's hard.

Everything is so goddamn hard.

He shifts from one foot to the other, lifting a hand and running his fingers over his chin. A breath is exhaled. Good you found a place for yourself.

That's the best he can do. ]

[ Yeah, so hey. Remember those guys you tried to kill a bunch of times? I decided to hang out with them. Become their leader. No big deal. It's awkward. Even in Wash's head it's awkward and no matter how he says it, he knows that's probably how it sounds.

This is such a goddamn mess.

He feels tired and so much older than he is. If there's a right thing to say here, he doesn't know what it is. He can't tell if Maine's going to stay or go or what it is he wants him to do. Or what it is he should want him to do.

And once he responds, Wash knows that he ought to let it go. Grunt, shrug, and move on. Except this isn't Carolina. He's had so much invested in Maine, he can't just brush it all aside. ]

I didn't. [ The Reds and Blues are all right. Wash cares about them. But they aren't family. His place isn't with them. It probably never will be. ] But it's good enough. Freelancer taught me that sometimes, that's the best we can ask for.

[ Okay, so. This is going well.

It's going well, which means it's going terribly. Maine still doesn't really know how to feel. Only that whatever Wash is implying is likely not what Maine is thinking. Because he's thinking something not so good. And he doesn't know how to take how that makes him feel. Not knowing how to feel ( on top of suddenly being alive again and finding he's trapped in space with Wash again ) is only throwing all of his thoughts into chaos. He probably shouldn't be out here anymore.

Probably shouldn't be near Wash anymore. He could say he wasn't ready for this, but people aren't ever ready to be blindsided.

The sound he makes is mostly irritable, but it's not at Wash. Freelancer taught a lot of shit.

Because that's what it was. Shit. And thinking about it, Wash, the sims... It's not making for a pleasant mix. Maine doesn't really want to stick around and needs to find some place he can destroy something. He flexes his fingers before jamming both hands into the pockets of the hoodie. Everything in him tells him to just walk away from this and don't even look back. But, he doesn't want to leave on a sour note. So; Seen a gym around here? ]

[ Even now, Wash can tell when Maine's getting restless. When he's going to need to go do something, especially something destructive, to work off the energy. As far as he can tell, there aren't any overt enemies here. No dangers. Nothing for Maine to take his aggression out on properly. But there are other ways to tire oneself out and Wash is familiar with working out until the body and mind are too exhausted to continue.

So it's not surprising when the question comes. Maybe there's a part of him that wishes Maine would stay here longer, but it's a childish part of him that doesn't want to acknowledge what they've become.

He knows it's better if they take this slowly. ]

Yeah. There's a whole gymnasium.

[ He gives directions to the place as best he can. And since his memory's the way it is, that means his best is pretty damn good. There are feelings bubbling up inside him, pestering to be recognized, but he ignores them, offering Maine a faint lopsided smile. ]

Try not to break all their equipment already, okay?

[ Honestly everyone on the ship will be lucky if there's any equipment left by the time Maine is done. He's getting that buzzing sort of feeling moving through his body. His veins tremble with it. His muscles vibrate with it. It's that itch that tells him he needs to get this energy out or else. And no one—including Maine himself—wants to deal with the or else.

A weight machine is definitely getting broken today. Maybe a punching bag, too.

He chews on the inside of his cheek for a split second and tries not to commit that lopsided smile to memory. ( It doesn't work. He does. And he'll be thinking about it while pounding the shit out of that punching bag. ) He breathes then nods with a noise of affirmation; No promises.

Because he can't promise that and he knows Wash knows that. Wash will probably also figure it out pretty quick the path of destruction Maine leaves behind. He looks at Wash again for one long moment, feeling like he should say something but ultimately in the end, he just doesn't. A hand lifts slightly in a farewell and then he turns and just heads off in the direction Wash indicated.

On the upside, hey, he might sleep well tonight after literally obliterating all his energy. ]

(there are just so many sights you don't see everyday and they should all be appreciated. like a very large, critically serious man feeding tiny ducks. it's not her fault it's a photo-op, big boy, and she has to collect anything and everything if she's going to make a name for herself on this god forsaken ship. there might be only one way home: money. the universal constant. she's going to cover all of her bases.

a pause beside a lush, twisting tree, before sombra makes her descent down a grassy knoll to chatter at him. the ducks don't disperse, but waddle closer to maine. looks like the body mods are too flashy for a garden.)

Never expected anyone's first play to be feeding the local fauna. (dropping into a crouch nearby, muttering hushed spanish at a few ducks who stray too close... the auto-translators only come up with snippets of something fucking rude, but it's all with a smile, super harmless...) But if butterflies come land on you? I'm turning my uniform in.

(well, time to show him his tourist photo. not that she's seeking permission or anything. it's a great photo, maine!!

nails lit up with a trail of pink pixels, thumbs meeting index fingers in mockery of a picture frame, a neon holo-screen crops up with a quaint little snapshot of maine surrounded by a hoard of bread-hungry ducks. animals really don't have many qualms when it comes to free meals.)

Cute, huh?

[ This is his penance, apparently. Cute animals and people gawking. Maybe he should care, but in the end he just winds up looking completely and totally unimpressed. Usually people leave him alone just based on how he looks. And that's fine. Honestly, he tends to prefer that. That way he doesn't have to deal with stupid questions or mundane nattering that he literally doesn't give one shit about.

Because of his training, he's pretty good at reading people. Not the best, but enough to get him by. And this one? Looks like trouble. Not that it's a big deal, because Maine likes trouble. Though he can't say he cares for the sneaking photos sort of trouble. That's a little annoying. His gaze shifts from her to the projection and back again. A low, almost exasperated sounding rumble rolls in the back of his throat. Clearly, someone is unimpressed.

Brushing his hands off on the hoodie before he digs around in the pocket for the comms; he punches in a reply, the text itself hailing the callsign of maine; ]

photographer or just a stalker?

(the message gets sent to her directly, small hard-light notification popping out of thin air. a tap, receiving it—

a stalker? please.)

As if you could impress anyone enough to warrant one. I'm just doing my job. (sounds like the words of a STALKER, making the picture on screen spin with an eccentric wave of her hand.) "Human Immigrant Embraces New Life on Eluvio: Ducks First, Missions Later." You're so family-friendly!

(fortunately for maine, the displays disappear. unfortunately for maine, she is left with more questions.)

Gonna freeze me out, amigo, or is this your only means of communication?

[ Right. Like he's going to buy that. The look he gives her speaks exactly of his True Believer status. Wherein even his expression is so flat and dry it could spark the biggest flame for kindling. How she's going to wander around in that loud get-up and stalk people ( Maine doesn't believe he's The Only One™ on her radar. He can't be. ) is anyone's guess. Good luck to her, really.

He frowns just so at the "family-friendly" remark. Nothing about his life has been family-friendly. In fact it's been the exact opposite. He knows she's just purposely goading him, but still.

With a raspy sort of sigh he tips his head enough and points to his throat. There's a mess of scars creating a strange web of marks on his skin. Just in case she doesn't get it, though; ]

can't.

[ Also; ]

and don't want to.

(oh, maine will be very surprised (and likely super unimpressed) with how sneaky she can be when given incentive.

the scars are noted well, taking in the sight with only a purse of painted lips.)

Hah, so it's not just you being too shy to talk to a pretty woman? What's the other guy look like?

[ Well, she's definitely right. He would be unimpressed!!! Much like he's feeling right now. Which, case in point, he actually rolls his eyes and makes a grumbly sort of sound that doesn't really translate into anything other than annoyance. He knows he's being goaded, but he's never been good at ignoring that.

So. Moving on. After a moment to keep his temper in check he looks at her and gives a slight snort of a laugh through his nose. After a moment's pause, he sends; ]

what do you think?

Like he's got one foot in the grave, if he isn't there already.

(the low rumble of a scarred throat are something she's rather used to, those irritable sounds of someone intolerant — or, in gabe's case, someone in a great deal of incessant pain. they remind her of this, leaving her with a knowing smirk, shoulders shaking in a short chuckle.

a sudden crouch, scaring some ducks. a few braver ones, however, waddle skeptically nearby as she plucks up a small corner of thrown bread.)

Am I right? I mean, unless you lost.

[ It's not that he's not proud of his accomplishments or anything, because he is. Back then, they'd thought those people were on the wrong side. Back then, he'd been driven by something else. Back then... well, back then things were different. But now, things are different, too. He doesn't know if the things he's done are accomplishments or not. They're just things he's done. Things he's done that he has no reason to hide. Because there is no more directive from someone else. There's no guiding hand lingering in the back of his head. There's just nothing but Maine.

Or whatever the fuck is left. ]

misplaced his head. guess it got a little lost.

[ He shouldn't make jokes. Especially about the mental stability of others considering his own. But. Here we are. ]

(oh, but he should make jokes. sombra loves jokes. in fact, she laughs heartily at it, a bright thing that shouldn't be the laugh of a woman who's seen the worst of the world — but there it is.)

Ouch. I was gonna ask if you had to be so barbaric about it, but that just means you've got a lot of pent up passion in there, amigo.

(flipping her hand, tossing the bread aside, narrow eyes watching the birds peck at the dirt.)

Somebody's mind, in exchange for a voice that can't speak its own? Sounds like a good trade.

[ Well, seems like they have something in common in that regard. Maine's seen the worst of the galaxy. Became one of them, even. Life is difficult. And weird.

He snorts a laugh that doesn't sound anything remotely like it has any humor in it at all. ]

passion isn't exactly the word i'd use.

Barely controllable emotion?

(a tilt of her head, a corner of her mouth curving.)

If I got shot in the throat, I'd be pre-tty pissed off.

[ Maine isn't the only one drawn in by the resident fauna. Ducks! He's never had any reason to be too overly fond of them, in truth, but they're somehow more interesting now that he's so out of touch with Shangri-la. It's a nice bit of home, in a way.

For that matter, a large, muscular man who looked nothing like the sort to offer kindness to small things doing exactly that is familiar in its own way, too.

He wanders over without a hint of hesitation. While he stands out a bit in his white robe and bamboo rakusu, his body language is almost absurdly mild in contrast. ]

When you woke up today, did you think 'I'm going to adopt all the ducks?' That's a nice ambition.

[ It's his own fault for sitting here. It's his own fault for accepting the bag of bread. It's his own fault for staying here instead of leaving like he should. And he knows people exist out there that aren't afraid of him. Least of all when he's sitting here, quiet and unassuming and feeding fucking ducks.

Maine looks over with a flat expression on his face thay clearly says no, this is not how he imagined his day was going to go. This isn't how he imagined any part of his life to go.

Still, with that same expression on his face, he offers the bag. Someone save him from himself. ]

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