hadriel_logs | Life is a game; play war, don't refuse to

He prowled the streets once he'd gotten clear of the arena, took in everything he could to better learn the environment. It wasn't any kind of construction he was familiar with, not when UNSC had only ever built in squares and concrete, not when the bulk of his life had been moving from one military facility to another. Everything here was circles and curves, a world rounded over against the bad luck of unsteady toddlers.

He found a plaza, eventually, surveying the world as one perpetual threat as he did, found a place that looked likely for supplies. The door gave way with a single push, and the inside looked more or less like any other similar place he'd been in. The shelves were filled with necessities in unfamiliar boxes and containers, but he took what looked essential, what things he could recognize anyway, before leaving, and if there was a pang of something...uncomfortable as he returned to the street, well it was easy enough to ignore it. To stuff it down and dismiss it as nothing.

He needed a base of operations.

It was the second objective; supplies first, then a place to hole up. He stashed what he'd appropriated then went looking, until he found a building that looked closer to an apartment complex than storage. The front door proved unlocked, but even that fact alone was more than enough to ramp up his awareness. So he unholstered the brute shot as he stalked the halls, clearing the building as he went.

Which may have included trying to kick doors in on his way, but how else was he supposed to clear the building, let alone find a room he could take over?

But eventually he found an unoccupied room that proved unlocked (which might have been better to figure out before he tried to knock the door in but still). It was a step in the right direction. Didn't make him feel any better about anything, but it was a start.

Doesn't he know that it's incredibly rude to kick down people's doors? He didn't kick down Wolf's, because Wolf lives on the top floor in the building that he lives in, but Wolf had been heading down and was startled by the sudden noise, which made the werewolf let out a shriek before he could stop himself.

Rudeness has never really been a thing that rated very high in the Meta's personal hierarchy, even back before he became the Meta. Manners were rarely his problem, not when he was essentially born and bred (or at least heavily conditioned) for war and conflict, and he's in foreign territory anyway. Behaving and playing by the rules isn't exactly a priority right now, not when he's still trying to figure out where he is and why.

The shriek catches his attention pretty quickly, running in sharp contrast to the slam and bang of doors, and he abandons the effort to wheel towards it, muzzle following until he finds the source. Which turns out to be...some random civilian staring at him. So he steps towards him, maybe to threaten, maybe to scare off, maybe to ask for information, it's hard to tell right away.

Naturally, since Wolf is not a very courageous werewolf and knows he is a coward, he only thinks the worts. He's not very good at reading people unless they're Jack and Ed, and he's been with Jack for centuries, and then this stranger is wearing lots of things covering up what little Wolf might be able to tell his mood by normally. Even his scent is masked.

He takes a step back, because he definitely think that it's a person who is going to hurt him or be mad at him for interrupting them or something like that. His tail is tucked between his legs and his ears are angled down in fright. "Uh-uh--uhm... S-s-sor--rry..."

The only answer he gives is a growl, but it's softer than it could be. Less aggressive or commanding. Kid's obviously scared shitless, and he can use that, anyway. He tilts his head in a silent question which...granted could mean just about anything, but the kid's answer could tell him plenty because of it.

He really wishes that the person in the weird armor would talk and say... something. Like why he's so angry. Or why he seems to be so angry. "Y-yes...?" He has no idea what he's supposed to say or do in this situation? Is this a situation where he should run and hide? But there's no Jack to hide behind here.

So he'd officially moved in. Found a base of operations and filled it with the necessities. He could last a few days at the least, probably a few weeks if he had to, until he could find a way back.

It was going about as well as could be expected, until the mirror showed up.

It was a normal hand mirror, something that hadn't been around for decades, not with all the more modern alternatives, but it was still familiar enough to be recognizable. The concerning thing was more its appearance at all, unprovoked and unsolicited, not there the last he knew but there to greet him the next morning.

Of course he looked at it, how could he not? Except when he looked in the reflective surface, it wasn't him looking back.

No, instead it showed Wash. Wash returning to UNSC, Wash finding the Director. Wash putting a stop to the whole program, for good, ensuring they never did to anyone else what they'd done to them.

It wasn't what he wanted to see. Wasn't what he was ready to see, and while there was a twinge, somewhere, almost like regret, lips twisted in something closer to anger, something like frustration, and he reached for it, closed fingers around it tight enough to crack it before throwing it across the room, smashing it against the wall.

Stupid. Pointless. Useless. He didn't need any of that, all he needed was to be Better.

He needed space to breathe.

So he stepped out into the hall, armor abandoned in the room in his haste, and started moving, and if he left a trail of blood in his wake, well it wasn't all that important. Wouldn't kill him.

Aside from the appearance of the mirrors, there had been no new horrors come to plague them. Yet. Maketh wasn't yet sure if the mirrors were warnings or - well. Something else. Either way, she'd been keeping hers close, wrapped in a scarf and tucked into her breast pocket. It showed her a version of Hadriel that, perhaps, would have been a decent place to live.

It also showed Maketh arm in arm with a woman she hadn't seen in years.

She was trying not to think about the last part very hard. No use pining over what couldn't be.

In the meantime, she went out looking for more supplies. Coffee in particular. It was a luxury, but also a comfort in harder times. Maketh could use some of that.

She nearly crashed into the man when he came barreling around the corner. Maketh swore, one hand on her sword, and resisted the impulse to strike him. He'd stepped on her foot. "Watch where you're going!"

The Meta was a tall man, even out of armor, towering well over six feet and heavily muscled as he looked down at the new face. He stopped short when they collided, at least, even if her response gained a blank, inscrutable look in answer and not so much as the hint of an impending apology. Without his armor to surround and obscure, the reason was obvious enough, at least from her angle; the skin around his throat was pitted and scarred, implying the silence might have been more out of necessity than intentional.

Her movements didn't go unnoticed; vaguely threatening, potentially something he would have to deal with, but he was confident he could stop the sword's progress, or at least counter it, before it got too far. Wasn't like he was in any better a mood, honestly he figured he was doing her a favor by not lashing out in response.

Damn, the fool was tall. Maketh took a step back so she could see him clearly. It occurred to her - vaguely - that he could probably toss her around if he wanted to, but that had never been a great concern of Maketh's. She lifted her chin and straightened her coat as best she could. "What are you doing?"

There was blood on his hands. Not much, but enough to notice. If there was a threat somewhere in the building, then it needed to be dealt with.

Maketh paused, noting the heavy scar around his neck. Perhaps he couldn't speak. "Do you sign?"

His eyes narrowed at the first question, almost confusion, if detached and suspicious; he was walking, that was how they got into this situation, and honestly what exactly he was doing wasn't important. He was walking. He was here. He had a right to be here, since he didn't have a choice in it, but she didn't seem overly inclined to push the issue, at least.

He did his best not to be disappointed. A fight would do him some good right now, a good outlet for the low-level frustration compounded by the damn mirror.

But the next question? Well that was a little different.

He hadn't needed to communicate with anybody the last time he'd been out. He'd had Wash, and Wash understood him just fine. But here? He's by himself, and he doesn't have Wash to translate or Sigma to speak for him.

Lips twisted in consideration, then he sighed, like it was some kind of Herculean effort, before raising a hand (the clean one, the one he hadn't cut on the mirror when he cracked it) and tilting it twice; wasn't like he'd ever learned anything officially, it was more...what worked. Hardly seemed to count, really.

Maketh scowled. Well, that was just wonderful. Not that it would have helped much if he could sign, since she only knew a few phrases and not nearly enough to hold a productive conversation. Languages had never been her strong point. And it looked like this man's injury had come later in life, and he hadn't yet learned how to communicate in the traditional way.

Right then. She'd improvise. It seemed like he understood her, so he wasn't deaf. And it appeared that everyone here spoke the same language - Hope's doing, Maketh had a feeling - so there was that.

There was always combat code, Maketh supposed. "Right. Is there a threat in the building?"

The new question prompted a frown, because it seemed out of nowhere, but a glance around, and then down at himself, revealed the source of the question. The blood. He shook his head, lips twitching again, though not quite into anything positive, or amused. That was still too far away to access easily. Instead he mimed slicing his palm open with his thumb and gave a lazy shrug.

No immediate threat, then. Though she did have to wonder why he'd been moving in such a great hurry after cutting himself.

Maketh huffed. "I can clean that, if you'll let me. Well?"

If he didn't want her interfering, Maketh knew very well that the man could stop her easily. She couldn't rely on rank or intimidation to get results in this place, a lesson that had been hard in coming. But if the man's wound got infected, they'd have a whole new problem on their hands, one that Maketh was in no mood to add to her list.

He considered the offer heavily. He didn't like medical environments, had spent far too much time in them already for his taste, so reflex was to refuse. It wasn't a bad cut, at least not when he'd looked at it last, not enough to slow him down any for sure. Except he could at least admit he needed his hands. Functional, preferably. So after a long silence he heaved a heavy sigh, curled his lip in distaste, and nodded, every inch of him broadcasting his reluctance about it.

Maketh gave him a stern look. "Drop the attitude."

There was no question. He would do this thing. She spoke with the air of someone used to giving orders and having them followed to the letter. Oh, she couldn't physically force him to do anything - that was clear - but Maketh had learned that the right tone of voice and a hard look in your eye was enough to force most people to toe the goddamn line.

"I don't have my kit here," she continued, hands clasped behind her back. "You'll follow me to my apartment, and I'll clean you up. Understood?"

It wasn't as if he was trying to have one, and the suggestion that he was prompted the look to darken. He was trying to figure this whole place out, had been dragged here against his will for who knew what reason. He wasn't obligated to have a good attitude about the whole thing, especially not after what he'd seen in the mirror.

But all the same, the tone and the look had the desired effect.

Maine had been a soldier long before he became the Meta, and the Meta was even better at taking orders. She wasn't Sigma but the tone was the same, so he scowled and growled the best he could without the remaining tech in his armor to provide the rest but it was all for show as shoulders straightened and his demeanor took on less of that of a petulant child and more a soldier awaiting orders. So he nodded, a curt gesture of chin, and he'd follow her willingly enough when she departed.

That look was all soldier, glowering eyes but perfect posture. The man didn't like her tone, but he recognized it just the same. Maketh nodded, then turned on her heel. She didn't wait to see if he'd follow.

She'd given an order. It would be followed.

Her apartment wasn't far, anyway. Thankfully Amos was out. Maketh left the door open, and stepped inside. The apartment looked about the same as all the others, though it was a tad cleaner. Maketh kept all her personal items locked in her room - the rest of the apartment was firmly impersonal, except perhaps for the coffee maker resting in a place of honor on the counter-top.

"Sit," she said, not a suggestion, and went to get the first aid kit.

Edited 2016-03-16 02:31 (UTC)

He stalked after her, something closer to predator than soldier, followed her inside and glanced around once he was there. Filing everything away in case he needed to recall it later, not that there was much to take in. Not when it all looked just as spartan as his own new quarters, or his old ones for that matter.

The Meta dropped into the seat when the next order came, sat quietly and still as he awaited her return, forearms resting against his knees. His hand didn't drip on the floor at least, so cleanup, at least initially, wouldn't be too complicated, not that he cared. Wouldn't have been the first time he'd bled all over the place, not by a longshot. He tracked her as she moved around the room with a detached gaze, intense and dull at the same time.

If he hadn't been so clearly a soldier, Maketh might have felt some unease around the man. The intensity of him, and the accompanying silence. But he was a soldier and therefore followed a certain mentality, one that Maketh understood. She didn't have a name for him and it seemed unlikely that he'd offer one anytime soon. Part of it reminded her of the Inquisitor, who had given his name up for the cause. The Inquisitor had been capable of speech, but he'd had the same quiet intensity as the man currently sitting on her couch. Once, she'd thought herself friendly with the Inquisitor. He'd been reliable. Solid in a fight. Always turned in his paperwork on time.

The Inquisitor had also executed two of her men with a goddamn sword, so Maketh was a bit wary now that she'd made the comparison.

Still, she had a job to do.

She came back from the bathroom with the med-kit and a bottle of whiskey and knelt down on the ground in front of him.

"Hands!" she barked.

Hopefully the man wouldn't need stitches, or she'd be giving them with a sewing needle. Maketh had a feeling neither of them would enjoy that experience.

Oh, he had no intention of murdering her. Not at the moment anyway, not until she became an obstruction. She had nothing he wanted that he was aware of, nothing he could take.

He growled at the order all the same, particularly once the kit came out, a knee-jerk reaction to the whole thing, but he offered his hands without question anyway, palms up. One was unmarred, the other criss-crossed by a series of gashes, mostly superficial. His attention stayed on the woman in front of him rather than the blood and tissue damage, because the unknown was more important anyway. He knew what happened with cuts and scrapes, could account for any injury and react accordingly. But this entire place was an unknown, and while this woman provided some measure of familiar, something that complimented his state, she was still a part of it. Part of that unknown.

So far the damage didn't look too bad. One cut near his thumb could probably use a stitch, but it wasn't bad enough to threaten any lasting damage. That did nothing for the pain, of course. The trouble with cuts on the hand was all the damn nerve endings. Everything hurt far more than it ought to.

Shame about that. Maketh doused a bandage with whiskey and pressed it down mercilessly on his hand. It would sting like man, but he was a big man. He could deal with it.

Besides, the wounds had to be cleaned. There would be no infection on Maketh's watch.

"You'll be fine," she said vaguely. "That one could use a stitch, but it wouldn't be pleasant with our current supplies."

She paused. "Superglue?"

Amos had recently explained this invention to her. Maketh found it very useful.

His expression barely flinched at the press of cloth and liquor; on the list of things that caused him pain, it was pretty low on the list.

The comment about needing a stitch, however, was a different story, prompted a deeper glower and a growl, albeit a hoarse one, and a slight shift in stance in anticipation of needing to take further action; needles were one of the few things the Meta hated with a passion.

Except she continued right on past that, which helped. He nodded at the new option; glue seemed much better.

Apparently someone didn't like needles. Maketh nodded just once. She wasn't fond of them either - primitive technology, suitable only for emergencies - but, as always, needs must. Maketh set the rag aside once she was satisfied, then took up the little glue bottle.

"Hold your hand flat," she ordered. "And try not to move while it sets. It will be painful otherwise."

The glue would sting when she applied it, but less than the whiskey had. So long as she didn't accidentally pinch his skin, he'd be fine.

The Meta rolled his eyes at the direction; wasn't the first time he'd dealt with liquid adhesive to seal something up, he knew the drill. He held out his hand as directed, holding it almost inhumanly steady, and kept his attention on her the entire time, as if daring her to make a wrong move, or maybe only ensuring she didn't.

Though Maketh had commanded troops on Lothal, she'd stayed away from the combat specialists. Not her field, not her concern. Even so, something about this man reminded her of the Inquisitor - the steadiness of his hands, the way his face twisted - and that was, perhaps, not the best connection to draw. The Inquisitor had never been loyal to her. Thus his betrayal couldn't really be called that. He'd followed orders given from an authority higher than her own.

The man in front of her had a similar feel. The moment she threatened him, Maketh knew he'd react accordingly.

All the same, she had a job to do. She applied glue to the largest of the wounds, then capped it. In a moment, once the adhesive had set, she'd bandage the rest. The wounds were clean, they'd likely heal without incident.

"You're a soldier, aren't you?" Maketh kept her voice steady, eyes focused on his hands. The glue set quickly, she could start on the bandages now. "That's good. We could use the help keeping the civilians safe."

It was a...complicated question, even if the answer was simple enough on paper. He was a soldier, still was, even after he'd been taken into custody. It was everything he was, the only part of him that mattered. The thing that defined him, even if he no longer had a unit to fight with, a commander to provide directives.

So he nodded at the question, but pulled a face accompanied by a harsh exhale of objection at the rest of it. The implied request. He wasn't that now, hadn't been that since Sigma took over. He was a soldier, but that didn't mean he was still a protector. The only thing that mattered was the Alpha. Getting back to what he'd been. Getting enough power so he could run his armor at full capacity and making himself whole again.

For a man who didn't - or couldn't - speak, the soldier still managed to say a great deal. Maketh frowned up at him, beginning to wrap his hand. "Your mission objective no longer applies here. The situation has changed."

Unless it hadn't? Maketh didn't trust this man - who likely had a name, though hadn't shared it - but so far he seemed to respond to logic. Therefore she would be brutally logical and gain herself an ally, no matter how much he scowled at her. "Or if your objective still stands, you no longer have the resources to complete it efficiently."

She leaned back, considering him. "I have considerable tactical experience. Help me protect these people, and I will share my resources with you."

Once she'd finished he pulled his hand from her grip and stood, putting some distance between them with a step or two as he considered her and the offer. He didn't care about civilians, didn't care about protecting people who couldn't protect themselves. Even when the Freelancer project had still been operational, it hadn't been about keeping people safe for him. It was about the fight. About winning; he'd been trained for war, conditioned for it, it was what he was meant for.

But the offer pulled at the things that did matter. Resources. He couldn't find the Alpha here, he was sure of that, the goal of metastability was impossible now anyway since he'd lost most of the fragments, but if he could improve his armor. That was a good reason. So his lip curled, advertising his distaste for her proposal on no uncertain terms, but he nodded all the same. If she could help him, he would ally himself with her for now.

Oh, he didn't like the idea, but he understood the logic. Maketh stood slowly, setting the med kit aside, sizing the man up. A fighter, clearly. And one with an agenda. Despite the faces he was making, he did need her resources to see his endgame through. Maketh was gambling a great deal on the fact that whatever his agenda, it wouldn't hurt the people in Hadriel.

There wasn't much of a choice. Either she could keep tabs on this man and give him some help, or he'd step back into the distance and play his own game. This way she'd have some warning if it was going to blow up in her face.

Theoretically, at any rate.

"You'll report to me for now. When the town council is officially formed, you'll report to them. I'll expect you to alert the community of any incoming threats through the public network, and to respond to threats posed to the group. You will not harm civilians without due cause, or I will know why."

Maketh gave him a hard look. "In exchange for this, I will provide you with whatever collaboration or supplies you require in order to meet your objective. That means sharing in the blessing given by the gods, or any rewards taken for killing monsters, in addition to whatever technological or medical expertise individuals in the community may posses. Are these terms acceptable?"

He inhaled like he was going to say something, but it quickly turned into a heavy, frustrated sigh and a tensing in his jaw. He barely knew anyone here to begin with, let alone feeling any compulsion to protect them, especially when he didn't know why he was here to begin with. The mention of threats against the group implied the creatures he'd encountered when he first arrived weren't a singular incident, which promised to be interesting, at least, but still.

But if he performed this function for her she would give him what he needed. In context, it was something he supposed he could live with, and if he needed to change the terms whatever binding contract she thought they had wouldn't stop him anyway. He could deal with it; she obviously didn't know anything about him, which meant she wasn't going into it with any ideas about what he'd done in the past to cast doubt. He wasn't as conniving or scheming as Sigma on his own, but that didn't mean he couldn't see how that might be useful. So he nodded again, unbothered by whatever look she seemed inclined to give him.

Maketh nodded just once. Whether this was a mistake or not remained to be seen. There wasn't much of a choice, though. This man had the potential to be a significant threat to Hadriel if pressed too hard, or a possible ally if bribed into cooperation. Maketh had always been prepared for a moment like this. She'd stockpiled some choice supplies just in case they'd be needed as bribes.

Most people could, eventually, be bought. That wasn't the same as true loyalty, though.

For now, this was the best she could manage.

Maketh eyed the man up and down again. She didn't know enough about him just yet. That would need to change.

She pulled a notebook and pen out of her coat, and held it out to him. "State your designation."

She needed to call him something, after all. And if he couldn't speak or sign, he could write it down.

The Meta eyed pad and pen skeptically at first, but accepted both. Made sense, she would need something to call him, it was more a matter of what to write. What she should call him.

Sigma was gone, the rest of the fragments were gone; he wasn't actually sure who he was right now, he wasn't really who he'd been when he first started in the program or after he'd left it. But he had to write something.

The M was easy, the next letter much harder, and the pen tip lingered over the paper for what felt like a long time before he continued. Fingers reached to scratch the back of his head where the tattoo was etched.

We are the Meta, but that had always been Sigma's choice. There was only him now.

MAINE was what ultimately made it onto the page.

Edited 2016-03-17 20:06 (UTC)

Maketh did have to wonder at the hesitation as he wrote his designation. Everything else about the man had been completely self-assured, a man who knew exactly what he needed to do and how to go about it. Except for the fact that he'd cut himself in the first place, and gone wandering around without a visible weapon.

Interesting. She'd have to gather more intelligence.

"Maine," she said, then nodded. "All right. I'm Maketh Tua. I think we understand each other for the moment."

He tapped his temple twice in a lazy gesture to indicate his assent, then bent back over the pad to continue.

NEED AMMO ARMOR ENHANCEMENTS YOUR RESOURCES?

He held it up so she could read the new offering, and stood quietly while he waited for an answer.

Maketh considered the notepad a moment. "There's an armory, but most of the weapons are primitive at best. The gods give favors and better weapons to those who kill for them - monsters, not people. But some of the weapons can be decommissioned or cannibalized for parts. I've also been building some rudimentary explosives."

She rocked back on her heels. "What kind of armor is it?"

It would be better if they had a proper combat engineer, but they don't. Maketh will improvise.

The answer gained a frown, something almost petulant, but it was a fair enough answer. In line with what Bianca had said and what he'd seen himself, so at least they were consistent, or if it wasn't true someone had gone to great lengths to keep the deception intact.

EVA ARMOR

Which might not have been the most helpful comment, considering nobody here seemed at all familiar with him, but she asked, he answered, and he didn't have a whole lot of familiarity with armor that wasn't UNSC-issue, everything else was in the history books.

He could make do with artillery. He had himself, and enough for the brute shot right now as long as he rationed it, plus a few extras. He had the blade, and a few more he'd picked up when Bianca showed him around. But he'd never say no to more.

EVA armor. Maketh frowned. That was probably the official designation. Unfortunately it didn't mean anything to her. Power armor, she supposed. Which mean it would need specialized parts in order to maintain its structural integrity. "Provide me with a list of tools and parts you'll need, and I'll improvise. Does it have a power source?"

That could be helpful.

PROBLEM IS NOT ENOUGH POWER.

Which was admittedly not the best answer, but it was the one he could give. It had been working fine until he lost the fragments, and then there wasn't enough to run all the enhancements. Maybe she could help, maybe she couldn't, but he also wasn't the best person to ask about how it all worked.

Maketh frowned. So the power source itself was still intact, but perhaps damaged? "I'll need to see it. I'm not an engineer, I can't help you without schematics or seeing it in person."

FINE. CAN ARRANGE IT.

Not the most ideal situation, maybe, but better than anything else he had right now. He didn't want to be stuck here with armor that didn't completely work for the foreseeable future, and showing it to somebody who might not be able to fix it but had the potential to was far better than continuing to wear it when it wasn't running at its full potential.

So he headed towards the door without further elaboration, and made his way back down the hallway towards the room where he'd stashed it.

Oh, they were going to look at it right now. All right then. Maketh followed quickly, wondering what kind of armor it was and if she'd recognize the design. Unlikely, but possible. None of her troopers had used power armor - too expensive and difficult to master - but she'd seen bounty hunters who had. She'd looked at schematics in the Academy as well, so that ought to help a little.

Perhaps for the first time, she wished she had Agent Kallus here. He would know about this sort of thing.

Granted, he'd also gotten her killed. So there was that.

No reason not to go right now; the sooner he could find a fix the sooner he could get back to something like Normal. The closer he would be to figuring out how to get back; the Meta wasn't a man who liked to waste time when there was something important to be doing. When there was a goal to accomplish.

He stopped at the door of the room he'd appropriated and let himself in, leaving the door open behind him so she could follow. The room looked a mess, items overturned and broken shards of mirror and drops of blood scattered across the place, but the armor was neatly piled in a corner, the brute shot next to it and the body suit folded precisely. He stood nearby and waited for her determination, her next move.

The apartment was a mess. Maketh took in the broken furniture, the blood on the floor, and the broken glass. The mirrors. Of course. That explained enough.

It also said that Maine had a temper. Wonderful. Just what they needed.

Maketh went to the armor immediately, crouching down for a better look. Oh, hello, look at that. Heavy combat armor, she could tell. It could probably survive a blaster shot to the face. Fascinating. Did it have an on-board oxygen supply, or possibly a filtration system?

Oh, that was wonderful. Something new.

Unfortunately, she didn't have her datapad to run a proper diagnostic. Maketh flicked her nails against the armor, thinking. "I assume this thing has a Heads Up Display? Could you activate that for me? It's possible that the armor has a self-repair protocol, or at least directions for an engineer."

Life is a game; play war, don't refuse to

Shopping trip

Find a place to call your own

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Mirror mirror

if this is all right?

it is!

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