[u][b]December 2nd 2286 - 04:03pm
Mac Kenzie Bar, New York - A Toast to the Fallen[/b][/u][hr]

[i]
[color=darkslategray]"Do you understand your mission, Agent Lambda?"[/color]

Silence was the reply. John Delaware, either oblivious to, or outright ignoring the inquiry, simply walked the modest floor space of the [url=https://vignette.wikia.nocookie.net/fallout/images/7/74/Prost_Bar.jpg/revision/latest?cb=20151219032906]bar[/url], every so often dragging his fingertips along the countertop before lifting them up to examine the caked layer of dust left behind.

Perhaps, John wondered, with a bitter half-smirk to himself, there was once a time when the Mac Kenzie was a vibrant venue for men of the Old World, seeking the comforting reprieve of alcohol after a stressful 9-to-5 shift. He could hear it still, glasses clinking together, bawdy laughter reverberating off the walls, all the world's problems put on hold until time to pay the tab.

Still silent, John moved past a few slumped over skeletons, still seated on termite-eaten stools, frozen in time, yet corroded by decay. Stepping behind the bar, he scoured the racks before finding an old bottle of scotch whisky, its contents still colored a bright amber.

With his free hand, John grabbed two drinking glasses, similarly coated with dust and grime, but still quite usable; placing all three items on the bar. Unscrewing the bottle cap, John filled both glasses to the brim, gently pushing one forward. 

[color=slategray]"Want some?"[/color] John finally spoke, his tone fairly neutral, if burdened by heavy weight. Without waiting for an answer, John lifted his own glass, inclining it towards his associate in a mock toast before downing it in one go. It wasn't bad for 200-year-old scotch found in some Pre-War bar, but the alcohol had gone soft, lost its bite. It would've taken a few more glasses to even give John a buzz, let alone get him properly drunk.

[color=darkslategray]"We don't drink."[/color] The first voice replied, sternly. 

[color=slategray]"Right."[/color] John returned with a small shrug, helping himself to the second glass without skipping a beat. Pausing briefly to let the taste linger in his mouth, he continued: [color=slategray]"Not sure what the point was in making you look human if you can't even act like it."[/color]

The [url=https://i.pinimg.com/originals/be/a2/17/bea217b7ef2c54a2e7c2e530f4386672.jpg]Courser[/url] seemed unfazed by the statement, hardly moving from his original position. Yet his eyes stayed locked on John the entire time he moved around the bar, like a predator. 

Though he had worked with them for years, the Coursers unsettled John immensely: their movement, their way of speaking, the inflection of their words. Everything they did seemed off -- inhuman. 

[color=darkslategray]"You don't seem to be taking this seriously, Agent Lambda."[/color] the Courser noted aloud. His voice was a deep bass, marked with a slight growl at the end of each sentence that gave hint to the calculated savagery beneath his detached demeanor.

John gave a disgruntled [color=slategray]"Hrrm..."[/color] before stepping out from the bar, moving til he was face-to-face with the Courser. Despite both men being the same height, give-or-take an inch-or-two, John nevertheless felt small. Powerless. Perhaps it was the unflinching gaze in the Courser's piercing blue-green eyes, or the inhuman strength that hid behind ordinary-looking flesh-and-blood; strength that he had firsthand experience with. 

[color=slategray]"You'll have to forgive me for not exactly jumping for joy over a suicide mission, X3."[/color] John replied bitterly, knowing full-well that no one had thus far returned from the wretched hellhole of the Necropolis. 

The Courser's expression did not change, showing no sympathy for John's plight. [color=darkslategray]"You're sufficiently qualified for this mission, Agent Lambda. If the Institute did not have faith in your competency, we would not be having this conversation. The SRB has good reason to assume a number of rogue Synths have hidden in the Necropolis to avoid retrieval and retention. You will not have any direct instructions during your assignment, but are expected to retire any and all Gen. 3 Synths you find within the Necropolis, are we clear, Agent?"[/color]

[color=slategray]"Yeah."[/color] John said, pouring himself another drink. [color=slategray]"Clear as crystal."[/color]
[/i]

[u][b]December 3rd 2286 - 03:05pm
Fleetwood Subway Station, New York - Footfalls Through the Rain[/b][/u][hr]

The walk from Massachusetts to New York had taken John nearly four days. He wasn't sure what was keeping him going through the 200-mile-long journey except his own stubbornness. As he got closer, he could see the New York skyline looming in the distance, grim and foreboding like a sliver of post-nuclear Hell. The City that Never Sleeps, now dead in the storm. His impromptu meeting with X3-98 at the Mac Kenzie was the last official contact he'd had with the Institute, leaving him for the first time on his own. So he walked. 

Steady raindrops beat down on him, falling in indiscriminate patterns down the worn surface of his coat, dripping from the brim of his hat onto his nose, inciting John to wipe the droplets off his face with a swipe of his sleeve. 

The subway tunnel they were instructed to meet in opened up from the wall like a cavernous maw, ready to devour another fresh set of wanderers, each unwilling to let go. It reminded John of rumors he'd heard of the Sierra Madre in the Mojave Desert, a supposed haven of Pre-War riches that tempted scavengers and would-be adventurers from all walks of life, all damned never to return. 

Inside the tunnel, past wind and rain, the dozens upon dozens of lit candles provided an almost comforting glow, no doubt to put the explorers at ease in their final moments. Scanning the offerings of food and refreshment for a bottle of liquor - and finding none - John huffed quietly to himself, adjusting the raised collar of his coat to let the remaining rain droplets fall off him. 

Apparently not the first to arrive, John spotted a good number of adventurers within, each of them bearing the standard and equipment of one faction or another. A medic here or there; a couple mercs, some from the remnants of Talon Company that drew a raised eyebrow from John, another bearing numerous markings and insignias from before the Great War, one more garbed in a heavy cloak and Riot Gear, and another woman in camouflaged combat gear; two Brotherhood Paladins in full suits of T-60 Power Armor; a Ghoul in a hooded green coat; a massive stone wall of a man in savage metal plate armor; and, to John's great surprise, a familiar-looking face. 

Alexis Darksong. It's the kind-of name you'd hear about in a mystery book. John had certainly heard the name before from one of X3's contacts, but didn't recall ever meeting her. A man in John's position didn't have the privilege of speaking to any official Institute personnel, let alone stepping [i]into[/i] the Institute proper. Why someone would want to leave, head into the Post-War Hell intrigued him. 

Putting those thoughts to the side for now, John felt himself loosen up in the warmth of the subway tunnel, his muscles relaxing automatically. Reaching into his coat, John pulled out a small pack of cigarettes, wordlessly putting one to his lips, letting it dangle loosely as he felt about for his lighter. Not feeling its familiar presence, John's movements became slightly more agitated as he realized he forgot his lighter somewhere in the maze-like suburbs. Muttering a single, [color=slategray]"Shit"[/color] John instead picked up one of the candles and held its modest flame to the cigarette's unlit end, waiting for the flame to catch before putting it back down. 

With a long drag, John breathed out a small puff of smoke, leaning himself back against one of the damp walls of the tunnel, waiting for the rest of the crew to arrive.