[center][color=Slategray][h1]John Delaware[/h1][/color][/center]
[b][ The Surface ][/b]
[@HamakazeKai] [@Polaris North]
Though he seemed affixed to watching every move of their new Brotherhood associates, John couldn't help but turn his head to look at Marvin, who seemed to be making a new friend in their suicidal demolitionist. With a quirk of his brow that he lamented the Ghoul could not see, John was prepared to make a jabbing remark or two, but decided to stay his tongue given the present circumstances. Though no one else had fired a shot, John couldn't help but feel that the group wasn't totally out of the woods just yet. Part of him wanted to keep a hand near the grip of his revolver, but John knew that faced against Power Armor, his gun would be about as effective as flinging a rubber band at it.

Most surprising to him was Bailey's outburst of emotion. She spoke more in those few seconds than John had heard for most of their journey, though his brief astonishment turned once more to indignation as she immediately took aim for their heads. [color=slategray]"You mind putting that away before you get us killed?"[/color] He growled, daring to say more. As it was, half the group seemed either suicidally idiotic, or idiotically suicidal. Christ, if there was even a half-bottle of scotch left around somewhere, John would thank whatever indifferent deity was up there. 

The silence from the Brotherhood golems was finally broken as one spoke over their shared comm channel. It was an older voice, presumably belonging to the one with the unique sigil on his armor. However long they've been here, they seemed to have at least working knowledge of the Wall's true purpose. It all seemed to be getting out of hands, plans unfolding within plans. Course, John shouldn't have expected anything less from the Institute, the Brotherhood, whoever else was involved. 

Another moment passed, the first one spoke again, this time recognizing Khaliya by her title, one she quickly corrected to her formal rank. In stark contrast, Jeremiah seemed all-but-jovial to see a familiar presence, shaking each of their hands as if they were old chums. 

The tension did not fade, however. Whatever shared history there was between Khaliya and this Paladin Storstrand, it wasn't pleasant. There were a lot of names thrown around: Elder Maxson; the Pride, once more; it all seeped with suppressed aggression. 

Paladin Storstrand's curt dismissal of Servius' overblown greeting prompted a choked laugh from John. The mercenary, on the other hand, was far less amused, muttering something about 'arrogance' that John could only hear half of, finished with another foreign sentence. He bit his tongue again, resisting the urge to tear the man down. To John, there was no moral superiority for speaking some dead language. It had no place in the Wasteland, outside whatever tribe or settlement he came from. 

As the group soon fell back into formation, the two on either side of Storstrand took flanking positions, neither of them speaking just yet. Discipline? Training? Or did no man truly breathe under those metal suits? As they all approached the bank, John couldn't help but take in the obvious fortifications made to strengthen the outer structure. It was impressive, given the scarcity of resources. Inside was a working UV decontamination system, something John had never seen before -- or even assumed existed anywhere outside the Institute or Enclave, maybe. Now feeling [i]clean[/i] for the first time in hours, John almost enthusiastically tore off the hazmat suit, finally letting fresh, unfiltered air enter his lungs, ease of movement greet his muscles. He could've cheered. Instead, he chose to express his contentment by cracking the stiff joints in his neck and fingers. [i]It'll cause arthritis,[/i] his mother used to scold him. At the rate his body seemed to be taking punishment, he invited it to try. With a meticulous brushing off of his shoulders and a straightening of his hat, John finally felt like himself again, holstering the Blaster at its proper place at his hip. 

Inside the bunker proper was a modest, if genuine attempt at creating a home. Lit with a warm glow by various string lights powered by a downstairs generator, three bunk spaces made for each of the Brotherhood soldiers, and four more left empty, memorialized with lone holotags. 

[i]Armann, Finn, Maine[/i] were the three still-occupied bunks. The four empty ones were marked [i]Alexandria, Thomas, Ruben, Girard[/i]. John couldn't deny a brief, if noticeable feeling of pity at the sight. Four lost, three barely clinging on, trying to carve out a home in the depths of hell, may as well be their tomb. Would someone find this bunker in 200 more years? See the holotags, maybe a journal entry or two left behind? An echo of the Brotherhood presence John was seeing with his own two eyes. 

To appease his own curiosity, John forward and took each of the holotags in hand, examining them closer, reading off the listed information for no other reason than simply general interest. Detective's habit, he supposed. 

Soon returning to the rest of the group scattered around the bunker, John let his shoulders relax as this seemed to be the safest place in the Necropolis for now. Marvin took lead of the conversation this time, asking their newfound associates what brought them to...was it the Necropolis or the bank? John supposed both could make for at least interesting tales. 

Upon mention of alcohol, John couldn't help but agree with a slight raise of his hand and a firm [color=slategray]"I second that."[/color] Under normal circumstances, he'd have avoided drawing much attention to himself, but the circumstances here were no longer normal, and he was too tired and too sober to care.