legionworld | The Powers Have Called Me Away

Entry tags:

The Powers Have Called Me Away

Who| Agent Maine and OPEN
What| Getting adjusted to this new and strange place
Where| All over the place onboard the ship
When| Post time-shenanigans
Warnings/Notes| none at this time

The emotional whiplash at being stolen from home still hasn't quite finished registering yet. One moment he's falling, falling, and cursing Carolina and hoping to any god that may be listening that the ropes don't break-

and the next just nothing.

It isn't that the mission had been a failure, Maine's not even sure what's happened to the sarcophagus in the end. Waking up in medical would have at least made far more sense; at the very least the settings would be familiar. No, something has gone incredibly wrong, and if he's to believe what the residents of his apparent new home are saying, the situation isn't going to be fixed anytime soon. If ever.

He doesn't like the sound of that, doesn't like being in unfamiliar territory without his comms working and no idea as to whether or not it's even remotely safe. Being slingshot from an active combat zone to whatever the hell this was was more offputting than he could ever properly express.

Risk evaluation was first and foremost. Not one of the residents of the place had shown any sort of hostility, but he knows far better than to trust first impressions. After a few cursory grunts and agreements, he's set out to try and take in his situation.

Maine isn't one to blend into crowds, and as he makes his way through the halls of the ship he does little to try to mask his presence in the crowded halls as he pushes through and continues his exploration. There's a purposefulness to his stride, he has to figure out what exactly he's working with. There's no way that things are this transparent, and he's certainly not going to be caught by surprise when something inevitably turns.

The mess hall is of little importance, he merely pokes his head in and dismisses the occupants with a huff, but the training simulation rooms are far more interesting. Were he more technically inclined he would perhaps take time to compare them to those back on The Mother of Invention, but for now they're simply noted as a potential place of interest.

It's the observation deck that catches most of his attention, surprisingly. He'd be the first to admit that the attention that he paid in galactic coordinate briefings was less than stellar, but just seeing the vastness of everything before him doesn't sit right in the pit of his stomach. While he couldn't explain exactly why, it just wasn't right, and it's that that gives him pause, fingers curled around the safety rail in a tight grip as he stares out into the abyss.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

In the wake of all the time ripple bullshit, Connie's been keeping away from her habitat, keeping her distance until the dust settled between her and Wash. There were so many regrets now, and even her safe house in the middle of an empty forest feels too loud. She hadn't spent all that much time on the Observation deck, hadn't really returned to it much after her first conflicted few weeks arriving in Legion world. But it was quiet, and large enough to avoid people if she really wanted to.

But there's a couple of people that are hard to avoid. A certain mountain of a man in familiar white armour definitely counts as one of them. Connie's not in her armour- and seeing Maine here springs up so many questions whose answers will decide if this meeting with be a reunion or a fight.

Careful to keep a fair amount of distance, and an eye on several exits if she needs them, she steps up to the railing. Hands in her pockets she swallows hard, glancing up at him from the corner of her eyes as she speaks.

"Hey there, big guy."

A simple upset of space and time hasn't negated years of specialized training, and the moment soft steps echo through the quiet of the deck he's tense and on guard for any possibility of threat. This isn't his home, there's still no reason at all to trust the hospitality of his hosts.

There's a raspy noise of warning that sticks low in his throat as he slowly turns to confront whomever is. He's not sure what he should be expecting, but it would behoove him to make the mistake of expecting anything but the worst.

He isn't met with violence though, and instead there's something far too familiar about the woman before him. Suspicion is tinged with confusion now, and it gives him a moment of pause. While his stance remains squared, ready to lash out at any possible threat, there's the the slightest tilt of his helm as he observes what appears to be someone wearing the face of an old comrade.

No words pass between them, but his helm cants very slightly as he observes. He stays his hand for now, but his intent is very clear nonetheless: who, why, is this real?

Nostalgia of youth is a fine and wonderful thing, but time lost is still time lost, and North is definitely behind on training.

They're not on the Mother of Invention anymore. He's not a Freelancer anymore. He knows that. This is ostensibly a team, which at least tries to foster strong team dynamics, and he's all too aware of the difference every time he so much as implies a comparison between himself and another teammate and York - Taylor, god, sometimes that name still feels wrong on his tongue - gives him that flat look.

He still feels the itch of behind, slipping, slipping in his blood, all the worse somehow without South here to either give it teeth or kick those teeth right out, an empty place where the echo's only louder. So he flings himself into harder and harder simulations, in every permutation he and Theta can dream up, camping the room until Theta pings him that someone else is waiting to use the room.

Of course it's in a plainclothes, barebones op - no armor, not even a helmet - when Theta's hall-watching sub-process suddenly screams bloody murder, electric pain into the root of his skull like a shattered tooth that sends him doubling and gasping to stop, stop simulation, Theta- until he gets a response. The sim flickers and drops into black for a second, hard panic override, before the automatic lights come up and North stands, wincing, looking at the door and sorting a single frenzied thought out of the red haze.

it's him it's him IT'S HIM

He's already out of breath and sweat-soaked and every nerve lit-up, and the only difference now is that he's fighting Theta instead of moving in lockstep as he paces toward the door, mind blanked white and feet moving on urgent instinct. They're dead-ended in here. If he makes the first move, he at least gets out the door. So that's what he does - hits the manual override and steps out, breaths deliberately slow against the terror scrambling the dark corners of his brain, skin tingling with the readiness to bubble Maine with the first twitch he makes toward him of the first flicker of red beside his helmet.

Edited 2017-06-16 17:02 (UTC)

Familiarity in the midst of everything new is far more disconcerting than Maine would like to ever admit. His venture into the training rooms had been purely exploratory; in no way had he ever thought that anything, anyone, would greet him.

But now here he is, frozen in place and tense as he tries to determine what exactly is going on. He's seen his teammates out of armor time and time again, but it still feels strange, wrong, to be staring at a face that should be wrapped in purple metal and polymer.

A scant few seconds pass between them, and though he can feel the tension between them is almost stifling Maine doesn't back down. This, for all intents and outwards appearances, is North and North is perhaps the most level-headed out of all of them combined. Whatever is happening right now, he's not a fan; it's a bit concerning to see North off-put at any point.

He's statue still while he thinks, eyes narrowed behind the dome of his visor as he weighs everything about in the back of his mind. The moment breaks with a low grunt and a nod, an acknowledgement of North's presence and the closest he'll ever come to an apology for interrupting. It's quid pro quo, though, and he continues to stare expectantly at the man.

Seconds crawl by, and Maine doesn't go for him. He doesn't coil, or ready himself, or do anything but . . . wait. The same way North waits, opaquely still, whatever voices might be scrabbling through their minds inaudible in the air between them. North takes a careful breath, and releases it, and feels Theta dropping out of high-gear panic into confused nerves. It's better, if barely.

He doesn't know what's happening yet, but he might have the luxury of figuring it out.

"Maine, buddy-?" He gives a quirk of a smile, a wordless admission that yeah, this is weird, and he's not exactly thrilled about that himself. "This is gonna sound crazy. But could you take off your helmet for a sec?"

The request provokes an annoyed grumbled, low and gravely, because he's not apt to acquiesce. Going without armor makes him feel naked, surely that had been obvious back home, and he's still unsure about the validity of where he is anyways.

Instead there's another slight quirk of his head and a questioning grunt, because there's no reason, no incentive, to make himself vulnerable. North is perfectly welcome to run around without his tech as far as he's concerned, but the appearance of one familiar face isn't enough to set him at ease. Certainly not when something still seems incredibly off and he can't put his finger on it. "Why."

It isn't a question.

Edited 2017-06-16 18:45 (UTC)

The lack of cooperation isn't entirely unexpected, but again, anything that isn't an attack is just dandy in North's book, right now. And the grumble, even stubborn as it is, is oddly reassuring. The Maine who'd beat seven shades of shit out of him and let another guy aerate him generously had been big and quiet and intimidating, but that sheer peevishness strikes another chord entirely. It's not foolproof, and neither is his voice, but it's a hint in the right direction.

Still, North sinks back, shoulders dropping in a resigned, wordless fine, ever the put-upon adult. It buys him a fraction of a second to figure out the right way to phrase the right version of the truth.

"A few missions back I ran into a few hostiles and one of them has armor that's a solid match for yours. My AI's going to keep up the high-alert routines until he's sure you're actually you."

He didn't get to be even a secondary team leader by being ignorant of what motivates everyone, and hopefully for Maine, operational efficiency and security will do the trick. Just another soldier trying to do his job.

That's not something that he's entirely enthused to hear; the idea of someone traversing about with similar armaments isn't comforting, and he doesn't want to have to be constantly concerned about an unknown hostile impersonating him. Not that that was likely, he'd only just arrived, but he's still not thrilled.

He can appreciate the need for security, the need to stick to standard protocol, though and it softens his distrust just the slightest bit. As does the mention of AI, because that's something that he certainly doesn't remember. Yes there had been whispers of technological development on-board the Mother, but nothing regarding intelligence units. Another anomaly in this world? Maine isn't certain if that knowledge is comforting or not. Certainly it doesn't help sway his mood or ease any paranoia.

With another huff of annoyance, he spares a moment to look back over his shoulder. Nothing immediately stands out, but then again it would be far too easy if the obvious were, well, obvious.

"Live fire or no?" He jerks his head towards the door of the now-empty sim room. "If no, in there. If yes, stays on."

It takes a particular amount of trust to even pose the question in the first place, and hopefully North can realize that. He isn't about to leave himself vulnerable without having control of the situation.

The last time he laid eyes on that suit, he'd been standing alongside Felix, an enemy.

The time before that? The suit had been but a hollow shell inside Hargrove's trophy room. A prize, the occupant long since dead.

Both are reasons enough for him to tense when he turns the corner to enter the training room and sees Maine standing there, and for a moment he thinks of turning invisible, attempting to take him out quickly and quietly. He's big, but people have the same nerve endings, joints, blood vessels. He could find a way.

But he's not acting aggressively. He's simply wandering the halls as if he has every right to be here. A moment later and Locus lets out a breath, before moving towards the doors of the training room in earnest.

"Going in?"

Luckily, there's no expression to read on that helmet.

Wash doesn't usually spend time on the observation deck. There's a lot to do on Legion World, and he'd much rather stay busy elsewhere - the observation deck tends to be a place for introspection, and given that that tends to be dangerous for him, he tends to avoid it.

But he's here today. He can't avoid this forever.

He'd absolutely fucked up with Connie. They were both younger, at earlier points on their timeline, more open and less suspicious, and...well, they'd made the present situation a little awkward, in much the same way the sun is slightly warm.

At least they'd both been consenting. There is that, small comfort though it is.

Wash startles out of that train of thought when his HUD pings an approaching set of Freelancer armor. He'd lost his saved pings a while ago, but this-

There's no way. The Meta is in prison- but Junkrat and Roadhog had been as well, and now they've joined the Legion- and there's too much security for the Meta to be running around unchecked- and he wouldn't be the first Freelancer to be pulled from an earlier point on the timeline-

Oh God.

He turns away from the view, instead looking up at a familiar gold visor. "Maine?"

He'd like to think that it takes a lot to startle him, but the sudden words throw Maine far more than he'd like to admit. With a jerk of his head he turns, a low warning rasp building in the back of his throat in a belated attempt at posturing for whatever, whomever, had caught him unaware.

It's armor before him, but not anything he intimately recognizes. The design is sleek, echoing faint hints of home, but he can't place exactly any reason why it pings some faint recognition. If it's something important, that importance escapes him.

"No." Even if he was, it wouldn't be information that he would freely offer.

As if it isn't enough that he's been dragged from his natural home, it seems as though the universe has decided that life isn't to easy for Maine now. It was one thing being thrust into a new and potentially hostile place with so many new rules and faces, but his newest hell appears to be phantoms of people left behind.

He had made his way to the observation deck to be alone, to have time to think, but it appeared that such wasn't meant to be. The sound of his name has him on edge, and the familiarity of the voice accompanying it strikes something deep in the lizard part of his brain.

No. He had been abducted like this, but that certainly didn't mean anyone else had, and the very fact that there's someone there before him, wrapped in familiar grey and yellow, seems far too suspicious and far too convenient. He's immediately doubting, and though he'd be loathe to admit it, he's also somewhat concerned. How would whomever had brought him here know the faces of his comrades? It's disconcerting to think about.

In the end he offers a grunt in reply, shoulders squared and posture tense because mindfuckery and manipulation isn't something he's equipped to handle at the present, and he's certain that whomever is playing this joke will very much regret doing so. He'll make sure of that.

That's...odd. Maine only ever got this tense when he was uncertain about something. It was never in the face of a fight; in fact, it was usually only when he didn't have enough information-

...for fuck's sake.

"You slept through the briefing again, didn't you," he says flatly. "Dammit, we've been over this."

It's so, so easy to fall back into old speech patterns, old habits, old friendships - and that's what this is, and oh God does he ever want it back-

But Maine has no idea, so for now, he needs to play it cool.

The sheer audacity of Washington's reply wipes away some of the doubt that's clouding his mind, because despite everything and how entirely screwed up his entire situation was, Maine is entirely certain that it would be impossible for anyone to ever reproduce that particular level of done.

"Didn't like medical." It's at least the truth, and while it may be hard to see with all the armor covering him, he relaxes ever so slightly and offers a shrug to Wash. "Wanted to get out."

He knows Maine well enough to be able to note the changes. He's relaxed, at least a little. Good. Evidently seeing the familiar helps.

"No kidding. Nobody likes medical." Wash has spent more than enough time in there to know. "But that's not really an excuse. What did you plan on doing if I wasn't here? Wandering around looming at people and being confused? Come on." There's an easy familiarity to the sarcasm. He'll get around to imparting information eventually, and they both know it - the only questions are how long it'll take and whether Maine will stick it out or lose patience and put him in a headlock.

He can only answer the question with a shrug, because really that's probably what he would have fallen back on after a while. At least for a bit, until he was able to extract some sort of information from some unlucky denizen of Legion World. Connie and South had been more equipped for subterfuge, and frankly he wasn't one to have quite enough patience for such a less hands-on approach.

"Could beat it out of someone." Of course it's easy to snark right back; Wash is the only one, perhaps besides Carolina, who could get away with the sarcasm to begin with. "Might work."

God, it's just so strange to be standing here and exchanging quips, that he's sure of, but it's almost nice to know that at the very least there's a familiar face around.

"Unfortunate."

That's all he offers, with a cock of his head, before continuing to stride forward at an even clip. There's no fear or hesitation. If he is an enemy then he will strike out, and he will be sorry for it. If not, then he need not be troubled simply because Locus wishes to train.

The thought crosses his mind that this is him. The man behind the armor, the perfect killing machine. He remembers what Price said of him, what files he'd read from the remnants of the Project.

He wouldn't have minded a head-to-head, simply to satisfy his curiosity, but if he cannot have that? It is no matter, not in the long run. What he aspires to be has shifted, as has the focus of that inquisitive thread of thought.

It turns out that's the exact right thing to say to force Wash's hand. Maine doesn't know about the Meta, but everyone else here sure as hell does, and the last thing they need is Maine committing an act of violence against a teammate and getting mistaken for the Meta. (Regardless of how funny it would be to see Maine deck Reaper.)

"Yeah, not a good plan. Turns out Legionnaires aren't ranked by performance and teamwork is encouraged, so beating up your teammates is a bad idea and a really good way to get extra monitor duty, which is exactly what it sounds like." Generally slow, mostly quiet, and the third circle of hell for someone like Maine. "The Legion is basically the opposite of Freelancer, and...honestly, it's a lot better." His voice drops a bit at the end of that sentence. It's an undeniable truth, but to Maine, it's going to sound like the ride-or-die program-loyal Wash he knows is losing his goddamn mind.

There's a terrible joke in there somewhere. Probably not a good idea to think about it.

"Look, just...come with me, okay? I'll give you the cliff's notes on the way." The observation deck is getting to him - fucking introspection central - and he turns to leave. Might as well catch Maine up on what he's missed, or in his case, ignored.

That Maine's not outright attacking her is a good sign, means he's probably from an earlier point in time than she is. She chuckles a little at the head tilt, slowly removing her hands from her pockets to lean her arms against the railing.

"Talk about a surprise, huh? I know me and South kept trying for more leave time for all of us but this wasn't what I had in mind when we asked for it."

She tilts her head up towards him, quietly noting the tension in his posture, keeping it in mind in case she needs to dodge a punch any time soon.

"Did you just get here?"

Time's settling back into the usual holding pattern before a particular crisis- Taylor's back in his own skin, has chalked up all his fuckups from before and been grateful they weren't too terrible all things considered, and goes about his usual routine before time decided to start sliding around on him. Delta's chip is in- the mentalscape madness made them both a little clingy and it might be reverting back to poor habits but- The comfort of cool green code ticking through the back of his mind is something he needs right now, even if the familiarity nudges things just to the left of his solid certainty that this is both real and the present. It's a risk they're both willing to take. Stimuli that'll nudge them further out of alignment is few and far between as of late, they've got a handle on their issues, they've got a handle on this world-

But not so much the shape of that helmet. A golden curve, white armor stalking through a crowd in such a familiar caricature of a barge through sailboats Taylor's on this side of laughing even as his perception skitters. The hall's similar enough. The staff in their uniforms nondescript enough even if they aren't all human (thank god).

He takes a moment.

Maybe two.

Maybe five, but seriously, what? Taylor alters course to swing into Maine's wake, ignoring the skittering anxiety, the frustrated tension that ever wound between his shoulderblades at the reminder of a fucking blindspot and everything it cost him. "Hey buddy!"

Bright, congenial, and maybe taking a page from Florida's book because he's half certain they won't brawl in the hall. Half.

The way that Wash's voice trails off is honestly far more concerning than the strangeness of their surroundings. Better than Freelancer...that's not a sentiment that he'd have ever expected to hear from the normally gung-ho rookie and he hums low under his breath, not entirely sure what to make of this small revelation. It's a question for another time, that's for sure.

"Joking," he rumbles back, head tilting just slightly. It's subtle, but it's the best way to indicate humor that he has. "No one worth punching yet."

Pushing himself away from the railing, he nodes in Wash's direction. At the very least he can trust the man, that he's certain. They may be in a completely foreign environment, but this is Washington, one of the only people from Freelancer he would feel comfortable putting his faith in.

There are no further words spoken between them as they turn to go, just a sense of familiarity and a moment more of relaxation before the rest of the world comes back into focus and requires Maine's attention.

This seems far too casual for the situation they've found themselves in, and Maine hasn't decided if he's alright with that or not. As far as he can tell Connie is here and talking to him and that this is his new reality, but it still seems so incredibly insane to think that this isn't just some fever dream from hitting his head too hard.

"Yeah," comes the gruff response but he doesn't offer anything after, and instead lets silence permeate between them. There's an air of expecting there, as if he's waiting for something from her.

"Believe me, there's punchable people here. You just haven't met them yet."

Maine only gets a few seconds of that comfortable silence before Wash starts talking again, giving him a basic sitrep: information on the Legion and Legion World, Legionnaire expectations, what to expect on missions, the best way to get around, people to talk to and people to avoid. He can't fit everything in by the time they get to his quarters, but it should be enough to cover everything Maine missed/ignored/forgot from the initial briefing.

"Hang on." Wash slides his door open just an inch or two, enough to disable the Reaper traps, before opening it the rest of the way. "Okay, come in." His quarters are lived in, as homey as crew quarters can really get while still being very utilitarian. From its pillow atop the bed, a gray kitten - almost a young adult now, actually - yawns widely and meows. Hello!

While he's not entirely sure what he's expecting from Legion World, chipper greetings and cheer are certainly not on his list. In fact, Maine is entirely sure that anyone purposely going out of their way to intercept him is either very stupid or...no, very stupid is probably the best definition.

He squares his shoulders, ready to defend himself if need be, but it takes only a fraction of a second before recognition sparks. Helmet off, eyes...eye? Still eye. Civvies? Peculiar, but now that he's been walked through everything it's far less suspicious than it would have been upon first arrival. Still, the fact that he's staring at York of all people still throws him for a moment, enough to freeze him in his path.

Naturally this causes a bit of congestion in the already over-crowded hall, but he ignores the grumbles and dirty looks shot his way. Random civilians were far less important than the fact that there's yet another member of Freelancer that's popped up.

The greeting is met with a grunt, at the very least an acknowledgement of York's presence, and it's very good that Maine's face is hidden behind his visor because he's far more confused than he'd like to ever admit. What's with the friendliness? That's a bit offputting.

"There's no live fire in the sim rooms. You can check for yourself if you want." North gestures at the open doorway in invitation, though as promised, there's no smell of combustion or sign of impact in the room, or any weapons on display. Without a simulation running, the rooms are actually . . . pretty boring.

Whether or not he'd ever admit it, Maine is grateful for the recap. Attention issues aside, waking up in a strange new medbay had been hell and it's much easier to process and digest the information when it comes from a familiar face. He's not entirely certain that he agrees with some of the decisions made by this Legion, but with no other option at hand he's already resigned himself to playing nice for the time being.

There's a raised brow behind his visor at the sudden jump in security as they make their way into the room; it seems a bit out of place, a bit more paranoid than he remembers Wash being. It's neither the time, nor the place to comment on it though, and instead he takes a moment to look about the room. Different, very different, from home, and perhaps a bit tidier.

"...you got a cat." There's a tinge of amusement to the comment, because out of all the insanity of being pulled from one universe to the next it seems as though Wash and cats are a constant.

The emptiness of space, the very slightly wrongness of the expanse of stars that stretches out before you from the observation deck is overwhelming. A spray star where before there was only velvet black, looking for familiar clusters to find only strange new configurations. Jesse has had only the faintest knowledge of the stars. She's grown up under the bleached out, unending yellow of city lights. There's something to be said about knowing even a sliver of what this person must be feeling, leaving them to the silence of it.

For about 5 seconds.

"Hey," says Jesse, upside down and floating well over Maine's head and the safety railing (because flight ring), "I like your helmet. Are you a robot-dude or something?"

"You first." He could take North's word on it, yes, but that doesn't mean that he's going to. The other man is still acting incredibly suspicious and Maine isn't keen to walk into something that could potentially be trouble.

He cranes his head towards the door, staring impatiently as he folds his arms and waits. Close quarters may give him advantage over Freelancer's best sharpshooter, but he's still not one to underestimate North, if something were to go terribly terribly wrong.

Well, Maine was usually pretty good with putting up with her more talkative 'bouts back before the competition really started heating up. At least she thought he did, he'd usually growl when she got too much and then she'd back off with the chatter.

"It's not like Freelancer here, that takes some getting used to. I've been here...a few months, I guess?" she says with a dry chuckle as she shakes her head, "Certainly not what I expected."

She lifts a shoulder in a shrug, glancing up at the mask of Maine's visor before she drops her gaze back to the stars.

"It's not bad, though. Minus some hellish missions it's been pretty good, actually."

An orange blur shoots past Maine and around a corner as he travels down the hall.

Three seconds past.

The blur backtracks and resolves itself into a man in a black and orange uniform, complete with a Legion insignia.

"Holy shit," he says, looking Maine up and down.

He's... keeping his distance.

Theta starts up another ticker-run of protests and warnings in the back of his head, and North knows there's nothing for it except to shrug nonchalantly and walk back into the sim room, coming to the center of the room before stopping entirely.

"So much for trust among teammates," he drawls as he goes, hoping maybe to keep him talking if nothing else. For Maine's he's already being awfully chatty. Can't hurt to try to keep it going. "Then again, I was pretty skeptical when I first landed here, too."

There's something to be said for solitude and contemplation. There's something equally to be said about people suddenly intruding upon his personal reflective time. Especially if said individuals are flying far above him, out of his reach and in a spot far more out of the way than he's comfortable with. There's something to be said for being within grabbing distance, it helps soothe the nerves.

"No." He's perplexed, yes, and there's a low rumble that starts in the back of his throat as a precautionary warning: hostile or ally?

Being surrounded by individuals with superhuman powers not related to armor enhancements is going to take getting used to, and certainly, the fact that someone goes careening by him doesn't do much to help Maine's nerves.

If the figure had just gone, perhaps that would have been the end of things and he would have gone on his way, wary but ultimately apt to forget the interaction ever happened. The fact that there's now a man staring him down, however, has raised his hackles.

Behind his visor he's furrowing his brows because he has no idea whom this person is or if he should be concerned at the once over. Instead, he just stares forward, grounded and shoulders stiff at the prospect of something going far wrong. A guy can't be too careful, can he?

Maine offers a dismissive grunt at the comment, watching North very closely as he makes his way into the room. Nothing appears out of the ordinary yet, but he's still reticent to let his guard down around the sharpshooter nonetheless.

Still, he's a man of his word and so he follows closely behind, making sure to keep his back to the door just in case. Quid pro quo, however, and so his fingers stray to the latches of his helm as he disengages the seals one by one. The world is harsh and too colorful without the gold of his visor, and he blinks once, twice, three times before shooting North a rather displeased look.

"A few months." It's not a question, but a statement. That seems absolutely incomprehensible, but given everything else that's happened up to this point perhaps it isn't so strange at all.

He shrugs slowly, cocking his head towards Connie in contemplation. Her statements feel so hollow, but moment by moment the truth seems to clearer and clearer. "Hellish by our standards or theirs?"

There's the barest hint of unimpressed amusement in his tone. It's a joke, see?

Connie snorts a breath of laughter, shaking her head as she gives him a thoughtful look.

"A little of both? Kind of literal for the first one I went on too. Insufficient intel, scattered troops and no comms and a healthy mix of psychological and literal nightmare fuel."

"But, y'know. It's a new flavour of bullshit, and we've got new fun tricks we don't have to compete for."

"Sounds normal." There's something so profoundly screwed up about that, but he's far beyond caring. War was war, and if what Connie is saying is true it's just a different shade of shit to slog through. Hopefully with less elites.

He rolls his shoulders with a huff; the sheer fact that this is a non-competitive environment is still incredibly hard to believe. Super heroes? Really? The entire place felt like a bad story told by a particularly drunken marine at mess. "Everyone get these tricks?"

"The team makes it better. There's more than a few outside of us Freelancers that I'll trust in a pinch."

Which is saying something when it comes from Connie, especially now. Not that Maine knows, if he's still got his voice.

"Sure. They all seem to be different, or at least tailored to everyone in some way. We've got a few speedsters I think."

The statement receives an unimpressed grunt in return, but Maine finds it very hard to believe that anyone could be trustworthy in such a foreign field. "Don't know if I believe that."

His brows furrow behind his visor though, "speed through mods?"

That's the only explanation he can think of, and frankly if this place was doing bodily enhancements he's not entirely sure he's fond of it.

Connie doesn't blame him for his skepticism, "You've got time to make up your mind about it. And other than the 'no killing' rule there's nothing forcing you to get along with everybody."

She hums thoughtfully, brow furrowing a little as she looks down at the ring on her hand.

"I'm not too sure. If so it's nothing that can be seen externally. It feels more like...something that comes with being here, regardless of if you're part of the Legion or not."

"Sounds like magic shit." The sarcasm drips from his words, heavy and almost palatable between them, and he shifts to look back out to the darkness spreading before them. Somehow the void of space is more comforting than he'd like to admit. "Gotta have a reason for it somehow. Feels shady."

He cocks his head back to her, "what'd they do to you. What'd you get?"

"Or future science shit. There are a few around here that can build and make things that don't make any sense but they work."

Looking at you, Brainiac.

"Something that'll get me in and out of trouble just fine. Better holographic projection than my suit and minor teleportation," Connie gives Maine a small smile and shrugs a little, "You?"

"So you're uh. Agent Maine. Right?"

Because there had been a heads up put out not to beat up the new guy. Or, you know, get yourself beat up by the new guy trying to beat up the new guy. That second one, to Grif, sounds pretty likely with some of this crowd.

He's not a person able to approach "oh hey so you look like this dude we had a big shitfight with" with anything even resembling grace.

"Science shit is always like that." What? It really is. He can field strip a rifle in under ten seconds, but don't go asking him to explain the details of AI function or the thruster systems on ships.

He gives a slight shrug, tilting his head towards her ever so slightly as if in thought. "Like back home."

There's a hint of a humorless grin his tone, filled with teeth and slight cynicism, "just a hard motherfucker to kill."

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The Powers Have Called Me Away

Observation Deck

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