[center][h1][color=darkolivegreen]Paladin Maine[/color][/h1][/center]
[ The Surface ] 

Two years. Two years they'd been away from home. Paladin Maine had dealt with the announcement of their mission the same way he always did: silent stoicism, though lacking Armann's introspective reflection. It was the silence of nothing that needed saying. They were six, then, counting the Grey Wolf, all sharing the distinction of supporting what Lyons stood for. Now only two were left, and even though they coordinated with Finn, the lone scout, there was the general uncertainty of not knowing how long any of them would last.

It was a slow death in the Necropolis. The elements of the post-nuclear hell tore at them, chipping away at their numbers piece-by-piece, but Maine was too stubborn to give in. Alexandria, Tomas, Ruben, Girard; names that repeated themselves over and over in Maine's mind. They were brothers, sisters...comrades. Though he seemed unflappable in his fortitude, it was growing clear that Maine was dealing with the tragedy in his own way. Alexandria's had hit him the hardest. It wasn't a quick, clean death. She was captured, prisoner of a long-lost war, and Maine was prepared to storm the gates of oblivion to rescue her. But cooler heads prevailed, and she was declared MIA, the only soldier they couldn't bury. 

Tomas was the latest casualty of the Necropolis: snatched in the air by Gargoyles and dropped to the ground like a heavy stone. Power Armor was designed to absorb most impacts without issue, but from that height and that angle, the poor Scribe was turned to paste inside his own armor. Maine had responded in ritual, collecting the boy's holotags to keep with the others as a small memorial, a reminder. 

Maine's unexpressed grief had turned to rage against both the Necropolis and the Brotherhood, itself. For fourteen years, he had served with distinction and loyalty, only to be rewarded with a suicide mission. Though he would not question, he would respond, and he was ready to let the whole Necropolis suffer. 

He had made this aspect known, not through word but through action. Maine's response to hostility, whether overt or implied, was impulsive and brutal, even by his standards of violent retribution. He faced opposition with an almost sadistic glee, though he never issued a taunt or a challenge, silently reveling in his own carnage.

Despite the dire circumstances and low odds of survival, Finn remained affable, cheerful even. His verbose tales of home life and childhood occupied the deafening silence that blanketed the Necropolis. For some reason, the Knight had taken a shine to Maine, and seemed to always find an excuse for conversation. Maine's general lack-of-response indulged him, and Finn was rarely left without a topic or other to talk about. Maine did little to silence him; talking seemed to be the younger man's way of coping, and Maine expressed any annoyance with a swift and curt motion, often slapping Finn on the back of the head with enough force to displace his helmet. 

Armann turned brooding and contemplative, with each loss within the squadron driving him further and further into himself. He spoke little, aside from issuing commands and tactical observations, which Maine didn't mind. The Grey Wolf's reputation preceded him, and his mindset alone earned Maine's respect. Thus, all it usually took was a single word from the elder Paladin to manage Maine's growing recklessness. 

Their patrol that day had proceeded as most others had. The sound of Gargoyles in the distance, away from their usual hunting grounds, had prompted Armann to keep the trio close to the bank; Tomas' death still fresh in their mind. After waiting a few minutes more and detecting no more sound of Gargoyle activity, the ragtag squad of soldiers left the safety of their bunker into the rising torrent of acid rain that regularly plagued the Necropolis. 

It was eerily quiet as usual, the sound of their heavy footsteps accompanied by the sizzling hiss of rain being the only detectable sounds in the area. Then there was a crack, a lone gunshot only a few yards ahead that resounded against the unearthly blue force field that emanated from the Necropolis Wall. The trio stopped. With the simple command to "Stay sharp." Armann took point and rounded the corner to reveal a decently-sized group all dressed in hazmat suits, led by two towering figures in Power Armor - [i]Brotherhood.[/i] 

Within moments, Armann located the shared communication channel and made his presence known aloud. But then, something familiar. Maine noticed it too; blade and spear. Khaliya. She had joined the Brotherhood years before Maine had, though under similar circumstances. Their interactions had been few and far between, though they were most likely aware of the other's reputation. The Swordwind and the Mutant-Slayer. 

It was clear, however, that Armann was less-than-pleased to see her. Indeed, their last conversation earned something of infamy, a clash of ideals. Armann was the old, and Khaliya the new. Lyons, Maxson, tradition and progress. It split the Brotherhood straight down the middle, and left Armann and his squad in the warpath. 

Maine chose not to react to Khaliya's blunt reply. He was Armann's soldier, he owed no loyalty to the Swordwind aside from sharing a faction. Should it come down to choice, Maine's loyalties remained with the same man who had commanded him for the lat two years. He would, however, respond to the sight of a laser rifle trained on his head. There were no words uttered but a low growl from Maine's throat, filtered through the metallic speakers of his helmet. A shift in stance, a tightening of the shoulders, clenching of fists. Whoever dared point a rifle at his company, Maine issued a wordless challenge to try, to give him cause. 

However, the group reached a mutual interest, and Armann decided to let these newcomers join them at the bank. The walk back was slow, Maine and Finn both took flanking positions on either side, while Armann led the pack. There was a new sense of uncertainty in the air: what purpose these men and women came for, what purpose in Swordwind leading them? It wasn't a rescue mission, that much was clear. Maxson had forgotten about them, likely intentionally. It was underhanded, dishonorable, unbecoming of an Elder, a commander. Maine had no interest in the politics of it, but rather the character. 

Inside the bunker, each of them walked through the decon unit and gradually stripped their hazmat suits, revealing men and women from several walks of life. These were mercenaries, adventurers, a disorganized team led by Brotherhood. Maine found the whole situation confusing, it made little sense. But, what did anymore? 

While Armann, Khaliya, and Finn stepped out of their armor, Maine did not. Since the day he first stepped foot inside, he almost felt more comfortable in his suit than in his own skin. It gave him strength, power, endurance. When muscle, when bone fails, there is always steel. Maine remained silent, opting not to speak to any of the mercenaries. He'd let Finn take up that responsibility - knowing the Knight would be besides himself with joy to finally have new people to speak to.