milliways_bar | (no subject)

Entry tags:

(no subject)

A guy dressed in black jeans and a worn purple t-shirt opens the door, and takes a half-step in. One foot over the doorway, and one foot in his world, he glances sideways to use his peripheral vision. Yep, apartment still there.

Huh.

"... Sure, why not," he says. He steps in, hesitating for the briefest of moments before letting go of the edge of the door so it closes behind him. Clint rubs his hand over the short hair on the back of his neck, and steps to the side of the door so he's not blocking it. He realizes he stands out, but a door showed up in his apartment. He's pretty sure it'd be weirder to not be confused.

[OOC: Clint has been re-set with a new mun! Hellooo. He is post-Thor, pre-Tesseract babysitting duty. Please don't spoil him re: the future.

~~Catch me in crackchat at the moment as TLvop~~, or check out the contact post in his journal -- I'm prone to slow, but slowtimes are A+ awesome :)]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Glorified helicopter works." Clint says pushes the seat out with his foot. "Clint Barton," he says to her easily as he sits. "One of those poor schmucks who can fly but are definitely not pilots."

"Trudy Chacon. Been flying since before I could legally drink. You fly choppers?"

He nods. "I mostly stick to fixed-wing and tiltrotor VTOL's, though," he says, after a moment. "Gotta keep useful, when they don't need me to shoot things."

The last is said with a wry undertone.

She snorts, and lifts her mug in a form of salute.

"I hear you there. Mine's a bit the other way round, though. But my tour's somewhere you kinda have to get used to multitasking."

It's even said with a minimal amount of judging over fixed-wing.

Clint nods, taking a drink of his coffee. "What year is it for you, anyway?"

Edited 2013-01-22 06:46 (UTC)

"2152. Stationed on the moon Pandora, in the Alpha Centuri system."

Clint's eyebrows raise, slightly, and he huffs out a breath of air. "Yeah, in 2011 we don't exactly send pseudo-choppers to alien moons. I'm out of the army, now, working with an international peacekeeping agency."

The sort that requires guys that can shoot things. Yeah.

"... Do you have aliens?" Or is there a large enough population that they're already having wars in space colonies?

She's a company pilot who wields a company gun; she's not judging.

"Marines myself." The SecOps badge explains itself.

Then she snorts.

"Whole place full of 'em. It's fun."

She means that, too. She's just also being sarcastic.

The faint smirk, without any real humor to it, head tilted to the side as he raises his coffee very slightly in acknowledgement, means Clint knows the weird place where the joy of being kept on your toes hits the fear of being killed and the heaviness of battle.

He assumes the aliens being discussed are people; he's not really a xenobiologist, so he relies on sci-fi and minor personal experience.

"The 75th," he clarifies. "Uh, Rangers -- airborne." Who knows what the Army looks like in 2152. "You know, you're the second Marine I've met here already?"

"Yeah, I know them. My guy's a retired airborne captain." Well, Delta, but details that strangers don't need to know about Carl Beton. Then she half-smiles.

"Shepherd?"

Clint raises his eyebrows at her slightly, at that; an officer? you're braver than me is what he'd actually say if he knew her better, but it's probably conveyed anyway.

He nods to the question. "So this place isn't actually swarming?"

Her smile turns into a quick, wicked grin at his expression, but it's his question that actually gets a response.

She shakes her head. "Nah. Mostly officers with what we get, but three Marines, including my CO. One Navy seal. Two former rangers...three, now. Think there was an airforce guy running around? People here tend to come and go a fair bit."

"All US?"

Interesting. Obviously there're other people with fighting experience around here, but none of them he currently sees scream military to him. Could be the swords, though; or magic; or time of day; or just... cultural stuff.

(He can spot military people from a lot of different cultures.)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only