[center][color=Slategray][h1]John Delaware[/h1][/color][/center]
[b][ Fleetwood Subway Station ][/b]
[@Polaris North] [@Dread]

There was an air of unease surrounding the trio, each of them suspicious of the other for understandable reasons. Those who keep secrets can often identify each other, and John and Marvin both shared that same look in their eyes; an understanding, maybe, that what they showed to the world wasn't their true self. There was almost a sort-of camaraderie to it. But there was conflict as well, the dreadful sense that both of them would go to great, even dangerous lengths to ensure those secrets were never revealed. 

The curse of knowledge, even the thought of it sat like a bad taste in John's mouth. It added only to the bitterness that swirled inside him, poisoning his mind, his body. His two companions could have seen it, the disgruntled look on his face. It wasn't anger or resentment, but complete dissatisfaction; like John was trying to look for something off in the horizon, a sign of something better, a sign that [i]this[/i] wasn't it. But the years dragged on, and now, he stared out into the distance and lamented only that there was nothing there at all. 

Returning to the present, John's eyes regained focus as he looked -- properly looked -- at Marvin and Frankie both. The Ghoul's expression was hard to read, no doubt due to the years of radiation exposure burning away most of his cartilage and soft tissue. While his tone remained polite, it lacked the genuine pleasantness he possessed just moments earlier retelling his story. Something about the girl, maybe.

She was small, unnoticeable, one to duck her head down, mingle into a crowd, and never be seen again. Hardly the [i]Femme fatale[/i] that John had grown up hearing about, but there was something refreshing about her, a hardened hopefulness that could be seen in her voice, her actions. Not naivety or flights of fancy, but that spark of life and energy amidst the decay, the bloodshed, the cynicism. People lose that spark too quickly, John surmised. Maybe it was that same spark that drew Marvin to her in the first place, made him, if only for a moment, take down that wall.

Feeling that familiar gnawing pang in his chest again, John, brows furrowed, decided he was done thinking for the moment. About to say something else to the duo, he was interrupted before he could begin by a new commotion from the tunnel, the sound of dozens of heads turning at once. John, instinctively following suit, let his eyes settle on an old caretaker, a worn poster clutched tightly between leathery fingers. 

The Caretaker soon addressed the crowd, his voice old and decrepit, yet carrying the weight of the Pariah's influence in every syllable. John couldn't help but scoff at the 'unfortunate' news that the Pariah had traveled deeper into the Necropolis without them. To John, it practically screamed the word "trap", but he shouldn't have expected anything less from their enigmatic benefactor. 

It was what the Pariah wanted that intrigued John more than anything else. Not weapons, armor, or advanced military technology that would have the Brotherhood storming the gates to plant their flag. But blueprints, data storage, paper documents, things that would be scavenged for components at best or strewn aside at worst. 

But, of course, someone had to have the last word. The Talon Company leader rose to her feet, saying what many of them had probably been thinking. What was the point in gathering old, seemingly useless equipment and documentation? 

Then the shorter of the Paladins cut in, trying to make the most of the situation at hand and unify the group together. [color=slategray]"Jesus, they're making speeches."[/color] John muttered under his breath, clearly unimpressed by what he saw as self-indulgent ego-stroking. Anyone could make a speech, talk about unity, about pride in accomplishments. But they were just that, speeches. And John had grown tired of hearing them.