[center][color=Slategray][h1]John Delaware[/h1][/color][/center]
[b][ The Surface ][/b]

[i]Something there is that doesn't love a wall[/i]. The phrase etched itself in John's mind but he couldn't place why. It was a poem, sounded like one, at least, from some Old World writer whose bones laid still and dead long before the world set itself on fire. He couldn't remember where he had heard it, whether from some random scrap of paper found in the Commonwealth, or maybe something older, more personal. Parent, maybe? John's father had never been one passionate for poetry, though the occasional line or two spoke to him in a way others could not. But his mother remembered the arts of the Old World: the songs, the writings. Perhaps human casualties weren't the only losses of the Great War. Something more than that, a culture. 

What tales of woe could be written of their current situation, John wondered. Of the countless bodies that seemed to litter the Necropolis, how many were once like them? Hapless, desperate, craving the thrill of adventure. 

But what prompted John's train of thought was seeing It firsthand: the Wall, a looming foundation of metal taken from the Necropolis, old vehicles and pillars of steel. Then the tone came back, that eldritch noise that followed them upon first entering the tunnels. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Talon Company leader draw her pistol, training it at the sky. 

A crack of thunder, the resonating of bullet hitting...something else. A ripple of blue light that concentrated, then spread out across the horizon above. A force-field: a goddamn force-field 

Anticipating the arrival of more of those flying beasts at any time, what John heard instead was the thunderous clanking of loud, metal footsteps on the cracked wet pavement, sounds shared by their Brotherhood associates: Power Armor. Three approached from the direction of the bank, all in Power Armor, all bearing the standard of the Brotherhood of Steel. The one in front bore a unique sigil different from his compatriots, the gears replaced by a roaring lion, not unlike those seen borne on the shields of medieval knights. His armor was worn and battered by exposure to battle, hissing slightly as droplets of acid rain rolled down oversized pauldrons. 

Of the two he was flanked with: one was the largest man John had ever seen, a hulking form covered head-to-toe in Power Armor arguably more scarred than the first, though a much different model, older maybe. Reminding John more of a tank than a man, the only indication of life within the suit was the subtle rise of heavy shoulders signifying breathing, his expression the militaristic might of his helmet. 

The third wore a suit of Power Armor that matched his behemoth of a comrade's, a cowboy hat comically perched atop the helmet in what John could only surmise as a Mojave metaphor standing before his eyes. Regardless of the brief amusement he felt, John noted immediately that these men, trapped or not, still possessed immense firepower. If there was one thing the Brotherhood could take a lesson in, it was subtlety. 

Marvin's hushed note of "The Pride" spurned John back to attention. It was clear the Ghoul had experience with, or at least prior knowledge with this sect of the Brotherhood. John had heard of their ranks simply through experience, but never once did he hear anything about a 'Pride'. Given how many chapters the Brotherhood had, it was bound to be some sub-faction in one of them, John had neither the interest nor the resources needed to look into it. 

The strange Mercenary who left the coin once more issued a...declaration? In his old language, directed towards the Brotherhood members before them. John wasn't sure what the merc was hoping for; multilingualism was about as rare as a pacifist Super Mutant, and just as unbelievable. Expecting the Brotherhood to speak anything but English was a stretch in John's mind, but given today's events alone, he decided now wasn't the time to judge what was reasonable or not.