text;

[bloodbathing]

[ "Augusta" is the name attached to this TAB. The picture is of curved white metal with a stripe of dark orange — leg armor, for any who may recognize it. ]

UNSC. Marines. RT-636.

[ In order: the military Maine knows, the branch he's in, and the hull classification symbol for the Mother of Invention.

[ North insisted on gathering intel while keeping a low profile. Maine's only interest is in returning to their mission. This is the result of compromise. ]

Comments

[notyourrookie]

[He can't help listing to one side. The room itself is sort of fuzzy and spinny now, but in a pleasant way. He ends up gasping for breath before he finally drags himself back upright.]

s'good to see you again, Maine.

[bloodbathing]

[ And there's the strangeness again. No time at all has passed for Maine. For Wash, it's been years.

[ The big man's smile wanes a little, and he just ... knocks his leg against Wash's. "Right here." Then he gestures for the bottle.

[ If there's anything left, he's finishing it off. ]

[notyourrookie]

[So many years. And not long at all. But the Meta wasn't Maine, just something wearing his skin.

Wash bumps his leg back against Maine's and then hands over the bottle.]

We are gonna be wrecked tomorrow.

[bloodbathing]

Mmmm ... hmmmm.

[ That pleased hum of agreement comes as Maine takes the bottle, brings it to his lips, and finishes it off in one biiiig gulp.

[ What can he say? Maine's a fucking monster at keg stands. He probably could've finished a brand new bottle in one swig. ]

[notyourrookie]

[Wash laughs at the sound of satisfaction. He leans his head back against the wall.]

You gonna stay here tonight?

[bloodbathing]

[ Maine huffs and raises an eyebrow. "Not moving." Except that his brow then creases as he remembers, oh, he should probably make sure Carolina doesn't try tracking him down, or something. That wouldn't be good.

[ Another huff — "fuckin' gravity" — as he puuushes himself upright. He leans over and fumbles in his discarded armor until he finds his TAB.

[ Cue a moment of just. Squinting at it. ]

Carolina's....

[ He trails off, trying to find the right words. Didn't really mean to start talking in the first place. Alcohol does that sometimes. He sends off one word ("Wash's"), tosses the TAB back onto his armor, and returns to his flopped-back position on Wash's bed. (If the poor thing protests, Maine ignores it.) ]

Civvies.

[ It's the best word he can think of to explain how strange she seemed. Not just older. Wash is older, too, and he's clearly been through hell. But Maine can deal with a jaded rookie; war does that shit to people. He doesn't know how to deal with a ... mellow Carolina. A Carolina who came to him in civilian clothes with nothing but a gun on her hip. A Carolina who responded with discomfort when he asked a question.

[ Broad shoulders shrug the thoughts away. No point dwelling on them. ]

Glad you're here.

[ More than he usually says. Good ol' liquor. ]