Meownster Hunter: The Fur-ozen Frontier

- RISE -

With surefooted steps Mazin headed towards the deck like a forlorn vessel: treading along slowly, a pace which might normally suggest a certain aimlessness were he not moving forward unquestionably, undeviatingly—as if bound in but one direction by a rudder long locked in place.  A looming shadow hung over the boy, larger than merely the beast waiting somewhere beyond the shore. To his credit, the navigator performed his duties thoroughly, but it did not take a discerning eye to see he was lost in a sense far beyond than the physical, as though an ominous cloud descended down and darkened his worldview, making him not quite sure of where he stood in many aspects.

From out above deck, down below in distant halls, reverberating echoes of laughter bounced off crisp timber, excited voices spoke of anticipated thrill in a manner he recognized—a familiarity that hooked itself to his heart, then viciously tugged. Everything about this venture rang of something his previous captain, Sinbad, would be up to—to rail against adversity, to one-up the Marines, and most importantly of all: to build an awe-inspiring tale (one that might be embellished with each telling? Perish the thought). There was something—something—in Mazin that wanted to join them in spirit, but he could not bring himself to.

For over a year Mazin waited to hear another grandiose tale about the man who had taken him under his wing, and for over a year, he heard nothing. A situation that should have been impossible, or at least so he thought once, twice, and so on. Well, not unless...

He pushed his way out onto deck, closing the door behind him with a distinct thud. Frigid, powdery air embraced him as he crunched and weaved his way to his Captain, stopping just enough distance away so she wouldn’t have to crane her neck down to look at him.

The boy, dressed in blue parka jacket with white fur around its hood, still titled his head upward at her, however. Normally it was the young that braved the cold and the old that huddled for warmth, not that he was about to point that out, but he had to admit some envy to the fact that if she really wanted to, she could simply grow more fur for warmth. After a second of silence, he spoke, “Hey boss. I'd just like to warn you while I can that word got out that apparently the natives have a chef of some reknown and have excellent ‘home recipes.' So now Mercy is saying she absolutely has to come with us."

As if on cue, a haunting gust of wind whirled snow across the deck. Darling's work, perhaps. In the process, his newfound “cute doggie ears” sewed onto his hood, courtesy of the ship’s two youngest members, flapped baggily in a wild display that prompted him to clutch them to the side of his head.

In truth he hated them. It wasn't like needed reason to look more childish, but this was also his least vandalized jacket. "Also you probably already know this, but there were no signs of Marine activity on this side of the island. Not that that doesn't make me want to jump off this ship and try to get that thing before our doctor kills us all..."

- RISE -

Mazin was mistaken.

It was no a mere breeze that followed his disclosure of Mercy’s intent, but a whirlwind, a physical manifestation of furor conjured by the whimsy of a man most unnatural, momentarily distant, yet soon to close. He recognized this just a moment after his captain’s words, and in recognition of his blunder as well as what was to come, he stepped back—knowing full well the best thing he could do was stand there, shut up, and let Laurel do the talking. Even if that meant bearing utter ridiculousness, not to mention lies and slander—utmost lies and slander.

By the time Sado was gone and Laurel turned back to him, Mazin was standing gazing sullenly in the distance, arms crossed. Once she turned her full attention on the him he quickly assumed a more respectful posture, a purposeful gesture intended to clear himself from any suspicion insubordination—or heavens forbid, pouting—although the scholar might have heard him finish a few mumblings, if she listened close. Something about how he liked cooking or how Elmo told him his food was delicious, but one might’ve simply chalked that up to whispers on the wind.

A couple seconds passed, then he answered her question. "“I’m fine, I guess,” he said dully, almost robotically. It was a question he noticed he’d gotten more than once after his initial, grave-faced response to their current venture, something he had tried to wave off with bravado, "“I just...don’t have the best memories with big animals.”

He shifted uncomfortably, focus flickering to nearby workers, "But that was awhile ago, back with my old crew.”

For a moment Mazin looked ready to continue, but then he stopped.  Slowly, he brought his eyes back to meet his captain’s own, something in them now appraising, judging, as he considered what to say during this brief time they'd be relatively alone.

He imagined Laurel wouldn’t have much difficulty figuring out what he was talking about. His previous captain, her colleague of sorts, was not exactly a man reknown for his restraint. Their escape from the island of Rusukaina was one she’d surely know was but one time they flirted with the titan that was Danger and then made off by the skin of their own teeth. And while Mazin did not fool himself into thinking he entirely knew the woman he served under, he took pride in believing he had some grasp on who she was, enough so to recognize that while she too greatly enjoyed such flirtation, with her there was always a backup plan in the works, a degree of caution that his former captain did not simply abandon, but threw entirely into the wind.

Such was the attribute that allowed Sinbad to rapidly strike while the iron was hot. If asked to compare the two captains, Mazin would propose that the difference between them was like that of a seasoned gambler compared to a shrewd investor. One lived for thrill of risk versus reward, while the other weighed her options, balancing what she’d have to put into something how much she could get out of it.

Of course the payoff ended up being entirely different when said gambler was stupidly lucky, if not a bit crafty himself.

Instead, it was precisely because of who Laurel was that he imagined that if Sinbad’s luck had finally run out, she’d have told him as a matter of trust—unless she’d decided she no longer had use for him, which certainly did not seem to be the case for now, at least. The only quandry left was just what she was up to, and why.

It wasn’t like she was usually the spontaneous sort. And charitable? Most certainly not.

With a somewhat exaggerated determination, the boy raised a single arm and flexed as though his short, vaguely-twig arm matched a bodybuilder's sculpted physique. He presented himself with an air of relaxed confidence as he flashed a particularly toothy grin, albeit not perhaps the widest Laurel might've seen from him. "If you're nervous, though, don't worry! I've totally got this! You can just sit back and drink tea or something." Mazin waited a beat. Then, "But what will we do if the locals don't want our help? Do you still want to hunt this thing down for practice? Or was this trip more to make connections?"