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

[color=slategray]"Christ."[/color] John's expletive put to words what most of the others were probably thinking as they stepped foot into the station lobby. It wasn't often one was able to sit down and consider how large the scope of loss was 200 years ago, how many died in the flash of atomic light...how many died after, their final moments coming to realize the newfound hell on earth. 

The thought sent an uncomfortable shudder down John's spine, one that seemed to put him especially on-edge. It was like looking upon a gruesome crime scene, yet, somehow, this seemed worse. Murder was deliberate; personal, almost. Showed the depraved lengths humans were willing to go over some petty grievance or another. But this was objective, dispassionate. To push a button and see entire nations destroyed. No one stopped to think of those caught in the crossfire. 

The whole thing sat like a bitter taste; wretched, unpleasant. Yet on the surface, John seemed unflappable, as if letting the entire sordid affair run down shoulders already burdened by the rest of the world's weight. 

John made his way towards another one of the kiosks, letting the Paladin tinker with her own. His movements were slow, cautious, honed by experience. A single misstep could make the wrong sound, shift the earth in just the right way. It was a matter of placement, weight, emphasis. Besides, last thing he wanted to test was how well his gun would hold against Power Armor, should that damned Ghoul show back up. He hadn't had the pleasure of seeing it, of course, but he suspected he wasn't missing out on anything particularly fond to look back on. Besides, that's what the mercenaries were around for. 

Wiping a caked layer of grime from the screen with the back of a gloved hand, John typed a few commands into the keyboard, accompanied by the whirring of centuries-old wiring and machinery coming back to life. That was the thing with old terminals: big, clunky, slow, not much to look at. But they were designed to last, their insides containing the last echoes of the Old World. 

The home screen of the terminal was almost eerie in its contrast with the rest of the lobby: cheery-phrased snippets of all New York once had to offer, sights-to-see after taking the metro. Public access terminals like this usually weren't encrypted, didn't need to hide any data when your sole purpose was to sell tickets and lure in tourists. Anything else he'd have to find would require digging through files the old-fashioned way. 

John soon found himself briefly lost. There was no goal, no motivation to searching here, the Paladin had already found whatever information the group would need. But for a moment, he was seeing how the Old World worked. There was always something fascinating about terminals. Some had text logs left from former users centuries ago, others had key-information of what life was like before the War, the state of America, the rest of it. Others like this one, they were just simple, information no one would find important or even worth the look. But it fascinated him, a bit, at least. 

Finally turning to face the rest of the group, John muttered in agreement, [color=slategray]"I'll sleep in a hole in the ground if it means I can take this damn thing off."[/color] He moved back towards them, leaving the terminal behind without even a second glance; he had read all he cared to. 

Apparently not willing to wait for any of the others, the demolitionist ran up the stairs with an almost child-like glee, something that threw John off momentarily. 

[color=slategray]"Fifty caps he won't make the night."[/color]