[center][color=Slategray][h1]John Delaware[/h1][/color][/center]
[b][ The Bunker ][/b]
John could tell right off the bat: he wasn't going to like Finn very much. Exuberance and Southern 'charm' that wouldn't have been out-of-place in some of the holotapes he grew up listening to. As a boy, he loved the old tales of wandering gunslingers scouring the plains, dispensing aid and delivering justice wherever they were needed; especially upon hearing rumor that such cowboys still existed out West in the Mojave Wasteland. But now, it was a forgotten dream - a memory that, instead of reminding John of past joys, simply aggravated the bitterness he felt now. 

John had zoned Finn out after only a few words, once more adopting a rigid and unapproachable stance, hands stuffing themselves in coat pockets. Though he found himself briefly contemplating the sudden reveal that Finn could, at least passably speak the strange mercenary's tongue. He had never pinned the Brotherhood as a faction prioritizing linguistics, but he could base his perspective only on his view as a layman. The roving tech-hunters were as enigmatic as they were unsociable, closing themselves off to the rest of the Wasteland. John didn't care much either way: he had no intentions of starting a feud with the Brotherhood, so long as they kept their rifles out of his business, they could collect every fried circuit board on the East Coast. 

The tinny sound of music playing through old speakers filled the otherwise tense emptiness of the bunker, though John would argue on whether that was a good thing or not. He couldn't place the date of the song, itself, though that implied he could accurately date [i]anything[/i] he heard on the radio. Country never appealed to him, though. He preferred the silky smoothness of jazz, its ailing mood. No better music to drink to. Country was the bleating of a softhearted lover, serenading an old flame with rye whiskey and...a dog, usually. But jazz was dark, mysterious, took him back to the old strip clubs and smoking rooms he had dreamed of in youth. It was a different dream, though: one he clung to rather than resented. Maybe because it was all he had left. Why else would he still wear the damn coat-and-hat? 

[color=slategray]"To hell with dinner. I'll take a glass."[/color] John broke the silence again, clearly dispensing with the pleasantries. If all that awaited him was more music and more hospitality, he'd need at least a buzz going.