[ cool. waking up to a zombie impaling him through the thigh with a piece of steel pipe is exactly how maine wanted to start his day.
it hurts. it hurts a fucking lot. maine is a solid wall of mass and muscle built on countless years of service for the unsc, and countless years of surviving the covenent and the filthy fucking insurrectionsts; his first instinct is to draw his gun, finger on the trigger, dropping the creature with a sloppy shot to the side of its skull. his second instinct is to sit up, pulling the pipe from his thigh like he's plucking out a splinter and glancing to the wide-eyed, horrified stranger sprawled across the ground next to him.
he uses his finger to write words in the dirt. hi, followed by a pause and a cursory scan of their surroundings, then brb when he realizes they're not alone. wherever he is and however the hell he got here, he arrived with all his gear, and that conveniently includes a canister of biofoam that he uses to temporarily seal the bleeding wound on his leg. he's up and on his feet within seconds, sliding his pistol onto the magnetic holster on his leg and drawing his knife instead.
help him fight or stay out of his way. either way, things are about to get messy. ]
FEAR ( EXCEPT WITH BOOZE BECAUSE I SAID SO )
[ whoever you are, you've been pacing the window outside the bar for the past thirty minutes, and maine — conveniently seated by that particular window, whiskey in hand and dressed down in some civvies that he, uh, borrowed — has been carefully watching you.
he waits for you to wander away, or for someone else to take up the mantle of responsibility and drag you inside where it's safe from any of the fuck-ugly abominations that may have found their way into the city. when neither of those things happen, he sighs and begrudgingly throws back the rest of his whiskey. the exact moment you pass by the door for the fortieth time in fifteen minutes, maine is there to grab you by the elbow and wordlessly reel you into the bar, shoving you toward an unoccupied stool.
regardless of how you feel about this abrupt change of scenery, maine gives you five polite seconds to seat yourself, and should you do anything other than firmly place your ass on a solid surface, he'll gently grasp you by the shoulder and force you down himself because surprise he's 7 towering feet of spec ops marine and he most likely has the leverage.
sit. have a drink. try not to do anything stupid. ]
WILDCARD
[ hit me with anything! i'll match prose or brackets, present or past tense. fyi: maine can't physically speak, so all his communicating will be via body language/gesturing, texting, or caveman scrawls in the dirt. ]
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[ cool. waking up to a zombie impaling him through the thigh with a piece of steel pipe is exactly how maine wanted to start his day.
it hurts. it hurts a fucking lot. maine is a solid wall of mass and muscle built on countless years of service for the unsc, and countless years of surviving the covenent and the filthy fucking insurrectionsts; his first instinct is to draw his gun, finger on the trigger, dropping the creature with a sloppy shot to the side of its skull. his second instinct is to sit up, pulling the pipe from his thigh like he's plucking out a splinter and glancing to the wide-eyed, horrified stranger sprawled across the ground next to him.
he uses his finger to write words in the dirt. hi, followed by a pause and a cursory scan of their surroundings, then brb when he realizes they're not alone. wherever he is and however the hell he got here, he arrived with all his gear, and that conveniently includes a canister of biofoam that he uses to temporarily seal the bleeding wound on his leg. he's up and on his feet within seconds, sliding his pistol onto the magnetic holster on his leg and drawing his knife instead.
help him fight or stay out of his way. either way, things are about to get messy. ]
FEAR ( EXCEPT WITH BOOZE BECAUSE I SAID SO )
[ whoever you are, you've been pacing the window outside the bar for the past thirty minutes, and maine — conveniently seated by that particular window, whiskey in hand and dressed down in some civvies that he, uh, borrowed — has been carefully watching you.
he waits for you to wander away, or for someone else to take up the mantle of responsibility and drag you inside where it's safe from any of the fuck-ugly abominations that may have found their way into the city. when neither of those things happen, he sighs and begrudgingly throws back the rest of his whiskey. the exact moment you pass by the door for the fortieth time in fifteen minutes, maine is there to grab you by the elbow and wordlessly reel you into the bar, shoving you toward an unoccupied stool.
regardless of how you feel about this abrupt change of scenery, maine gives you five polite seconds to seat yourself, and should you do anything other than firmly place your ass on a solid surface, he'll gently grasp you by the shoulder and force you down himself because surprise he's 7 towering feet of spec ops marine and he most likely has the leverage.
sit. have a drink. try not to do anything stupid. ]
WILDCARD
[ hit me with anything! i'll match prose or brackets, present or past tense. fyi: maine can't physically speak, so all his communicating will be via body language/gesturing, texting, or caveman scrawls in the dirt. ]