[center][color=Slategray][h1]John Delaware[/h1][/color][/center]
[b][ New York City Metro - Blue Line ][/b]

[i]Firing positions[/i]
The order had been uttered only a second-or-two before John's anxious nerves fired off in unison, his right arm sweeping across his body towards his hip, a motion that was as fluid and experienced as a soldier's, revealing his past experiences. But there was a stumble at the end as John all-too-late remembered that he had moved the Blaster to his satchel. His recovery, drawing his revolver from the bag, was sloppier than his initial quick-draw; the flaw of unfamiliarity. 

Nevertheless, John outstretched his right arm, finger brushing near the trigger towards the bleak maw of the train car that Emil and Devon had practically stumbled out of moments before. As soon as he did, his killer instinct had came to the forefront. No longer was he the grizzled alcoholic dressed like a television character. No, his stance, his grip on the gun, his eyes (which none could thankfully see) all bore the mark of a trained killer. It was like flipping a switch, old habits. 

But there was just silence. Damned, damned silence. John was growing sick of it, his mind filling in noises where none seemed to be. Even the creaks of the Old World turning over in its sleep sounded to him like the footsteps of a titan; the displacement of the earth a shambling Feral; the storms in the distance like cracking gunfire.

That was the worst of it, John concluded. At least in this part of the Necropolis. In battle there was adrenaline, focus, fear refined into strength. An enemy to fight, to kill. But in the dead of silence there was just the self. Fear cannibalizing itself, turning to paranoia, anxiety. Men would start shooting at shadows - then each other - then themselves. 

It gnawed at him, his heart beating in his chest like a drum in his ears. The helplessness of not knowing where or what to shoot.

[color=slategray]"Fuck..."[/color] John muttered under shaky breath, recollecting his nerves. 

Tension in the group seemed to settle, at least enough for them to start lowering their weapons. Holding out a second longer than the rest, John slowly returned the Blaster to his satchel, not even realizing how his arm ached from being outstretched til he had done so. It was out of the corner of his eye he saw Frankie tending to Monika, a brief wave of suspicion coming over him like the chill of winter. Though she appeared to recover from her outburst well enough, it did little but only disturb John's already-shaky view towards her, and, by extension, the rest of the mercenaries. 

There was a simplicity to motivation. The Brotherhood had its issues, no doubt, but clarity wasn't one of them. At the very least, John could respect that. The Paladins leading them, they could all make their speeches and illusions of camaraderie, but they were here for the technology. Just like John was here for the Synths. And the rest, he supposed...were here for the ride. 

But if Emil's description ran true: a Ghoul fused to Power Armor. Well, maybe he'd have something to shoot at after all. 

As he kept watching the group recover from the encounter, he noted one of them offering his own weapon to Devon, something that John couldn't help but scoff at. To give away your gun to a stranger was asking to be shot in the back. Altruism, goodwill, all of it was a sham when it boiled down to survival. World changed, but people hadn't. This newcomer, whether out of misguided helpfulness or whatever-the-sort, he was asking for trouble. 

You could help all you want, but the world won't thank you for it.