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

Ears ringing, dazed, noise bored deep into his skull. The monster had taken its prize and flown off with its brethren, leaving only the wake of its carnage as proof it had been there at all. The creature had torn through the lobby with the careless abandon of a child, albeit a child with the size and strength to level a small town. John was disoriented, unsure if his ears were bleeding or if that damned ringing would ever stop. He'd grown accustomed to the sound of gunfire and explosives, but that roar was unlike anything he had ever heard. It was some joke of evolution, he supposed, that a monster of such power needed even more in its arsenal than its sheer state of being. 

There was no love lost felt between John and the Talon mercenary the beast claimed as prey. The fool had put them all at risk from a bad case of nerves. If he'd kept his mouth shut and his wits about him, he'd be with them still, not tossed around like a dog's chew-toy. Still, John was aware of the callousness in which he regarded the departed. Sometime years ago, this would have troubled him; after all, empathy was what distinguished men from animals, right? But empathy was counterproductive, and John had killed far more men with sadder stories than that. 

The strange mercenary speaking his strange language approached the puddle of blood and viscera that served as the mercenary's memorial, kneeling down before it. He took something from his pocket and laid it atop the grisly scene - that piqued John's interest. Waiting for the man to stand and leave, John approached in turn, uncaring if the mercenary saw him or not. 

With a single gloved hand, John picked up the silver coin, examining it front-and-back. He had no justification other than his own curiosity, but that was enough for him. 

[color=slategray][i]'Caesar Dictator. Magnum Chasa.'[/i][/color] John repeated the words in his mind, trying to associate them with something. The language was obviously Pre-War, that much was apparent. Though John had rarely heard anything other than English in his travels, the words looked similar to inscriptions he'd seen on Pre-War government buildings: courthouses, schools, the like. 

Of course, the words "Caesar Dictator" were English enough to understand. The imagery on the coin was eerily similar to Pre-War money John had seen scattered around the Commonwealth. Whether this was a recreation of the Old World or something even older, John didn't know, nor did he have that much interest in finding out. Snippets of history like that were unimportant in the grand scheme of things. No one cares about the history of a coin unless you can buy or make something with it. 

Taking a moment to wipe away the blood with his thumb, John let the coin catch itself in the light a moment more before he nonchalantly stored it in his satchel. It was unique, something the detective had never seen before, and he would find more value in it than a puddle of blood on the floor. Not like the fool would need it now. John couldn't help but smirk cruelly at the thought of a Talon grunt raising themselves from the dead just for one last cap. He wouldn't put the idea too far past them. 

While the rest of the group was recuperating from their near-death encounter, John found some sort of solace in Marvin's almost-annoyed grumble. He supposed the two of them were old spirits, their centuries difference in age notwithstanding. But old spirits needed something youthful to give them purpose, and John had it figured that that was Frankie's role in all this. After all this time, he could barely remember what he was like at her age. Far less jaded, that much was certain. 

As long as he could remember he had always wanted to be an investigator. The late-night weekends of his youth spent listening to radio shows: exciting gunfights, confounding mysteries, dashing heroics - it was everything a young boy could want. It's what John wanted to do, to be. 

That same mysteriousness, the allure of the noir aesthetic, John remembered seeing it in his father as well. Richard Delaware was the Old World come back to life: handsome, well-groomed, almost never seen without his suit-and-hat. His past was as enigmatic as the way he expressed himself, even to his own family. There was always that sense of disconnect, the feeling that John never really [i]knew[/i] his father. John inherited Richard's talent for observing people, but never grasped his father's gift of gab. A charismatic smooth-talker who combined a professional-yet-easygoing demeanor with a dashing smile, Richard may-as-well have been the settlement's official representative. It was him who would speak to the roving traders and caravans that stopped by their little town, telling them all they wanted to hear and more. 

It seemed that no matter who Richard spoke to, there was a sense that he knew all of their strengths and weaknesses right off the bat, and adapted his tact to take advantage of it. It was talent, no doubt about it. But John couldn't help but wonder sometimes if his father was even genuine with him, or was simply putting on whatever face worked on him the best. 

[color=slategray][i]'Wonder what he'd think of me now...'[/i][/color] John let the idea hang bitterly in his mind as a conclusion to his thoughts. No matter how much he tried to avoid it, he could imagine it perfectly. Richard never shouted, never raised his hand against his wife or son, never threw or smashed things. His anger, his disappointment was always expressed by a look. It wasn't even a glare, no, just a narrow-eyed look in your direction that said all the worst things you wanted to hear, to feel. Whenever John got into trouble as a boy, there would be that look, piercing into his very soul, lasting for what felt like entirely. Then there would be some declaration: "No radio for a week," something like that. Then Richard would walk away, and it would be over. 

And there he was, thinking again, even after he told himself he was finished. John scoffed to himself at his own lack of discipline. Was he that narcissistic to enjoy hearing his own thoughts? Maybe so. 

With a quick pat-down to ensure his suit wasn't compromised, John took up near the rear to follow the rest of the group up the stairs, daring one last look back at the crimson puddle, missing its silver gleam. Was that guilt in his mind that he had taken it? No. Couldn't be.