slaughterous: (b: warpaint)
Aɢᴇɴᴛ Mᴀɪɴᴇ ([personal profile] slaughterous) wrote in [community profile] seasonsgreetings 2025-06-08 04:26 pm (UTC)

agent maine | red vs blue | winter | new character, established player

Welcome Center
There is a huge man reading pamphlets in the Welcome Center.

Agent Maine is seven feet tall and built like a barge, wearing white military-esque clothing—combat boots, cargo pants, and a fitted t-shirt. Although silent, there's an intensity to him, a restraint that belies his physical power. It's like watching a human iceberg.

Despite his obvious newness, Maine doesn't appear overwhelmed. Instead, he's scanning each pamphlet as though searching for something specific, absorbing the information before setting it aside.


Underground Mall
Maine finds the vending machine while searching for clothes that fit. (Clothes that aren't the pure white outfit that screams, "I'm new!") Standing there with a bag of newly purchased civvies at his feet, he frowns at the Pokéballs in the machine. Is it just him, or do they look weirdly familiar?

He purchases one out of curiosity. Five minutes later, he's walking around the Underground Mall with a Squirtle under one arm, the creature cooing happily as it's carried.


Pokémon Dimension
It's already been an impossibly strange day. Why not make it even weirder? With a muttered "fuck it," Maine crosses through the Pokémon portal, still holding his Squirtle but no longer clad in pure white.

It doesn't take long for him to get the gist of things. This is where his new pet (?) trains to become strong. Or something. Sort of like dogs and agility courses, he guesses. It's weird, but so is everything else in this impossible place. Why not give it a go?

Thirty minutes later, his Squirtle is busy battling, and Maine is squatting down giving it advice like a coach in a boxing corner.


Weatherman
One minute, Maine is walking back to the starter apartments, his Squirtle now safely in its ball. The next, he's standing in front of some random stranger—looming, most likely—and looking down at them with a mildly surprised expression.

Why the hell did he suddenly want to get close to them…?

"Sorry," he grunts, his voice low and gravelly. But he doesn't move away. He just … stands there in the rain. Compelled to be close.


( ooc: will match prose or brackets. please hmu by pm or @ [plurk.com profile] bicepsbrigade if you'd like to wildcard )

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