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

Finn had taken to their newfound guests like a Ghoul to radiation. He spoke to them all, perfect strangers, like old friends or distant relatives come down for a visit. In some circles, such hospitality might be seen as a gift; but Maine found it baffling. As it were, these newcomers were not friends, comrades, or associates. They were strangers, likely in pursuit of their own greed more than anything else. Maine sneered at the idea behind his helmet. For all the Brotherhood had done to protect the settlers on the East Coast, to curb the Mutant and Raider threat; mercs and hired guns saw it as an opportunity to exploit citizens for caps. Some of them weren't much better than the Raiders, themselves, just smart enough to know the unwritten law of the Wasteland. Some groups on the East Coast saw eye-to-eye with the Brotherhood-- the old Brotherhood at least. Reilly's Rangers and the Regulators were two, operating under a set of morals, seeing justice done through whatever means necessary. But Talon Company, Littlehorn & Associates, all the rest in-between; Maine lumped them in with any other threat that deserved nothing less than total annihilation. 

Talon, in-particular had suffered a tremendous loss after the Brotherhood set its eyes on bringing the firm hand of justice to the Capital Wasteland. They were little more now than a remnant, remembered more in stories told to frightened young children than anything else. Though they were still around, the Brotherhood had sufficiently neutered them - leaving them limping with tail set between their legs. If they tried to snap again, well, it was time to be put down for good. 

As such, it was suffice to say that Maine was on-edge seeing the familiar red talon insignia branding a few of the newcomers. The symbol he wore was a sign of pride, of virtue. Regardless of the Brotherhood's current direction, there was a time when the people looked up to the gears and the sword and saw hope, saw justice. But the mark of Talon represented everything the Brotherhood stood against: lawlessness, oppression, countless atrocities. 

In truth, part of Maine hoped, however little, that one of them would act out of turn. If they did, he would answer, and leave the mark of his handiwork stained in crimson. 

Khaliya and Armann both disappeared from the main quarters into what the squadron had converted into a war-room. It was a jury-rigged set-up at best, hardly the facilities that the trio had been used to back home, but it fulfilled its purpose well enough. When short, half-hour treks into the Necropolis for basic supplies were as dangerous as they were, venturing out without heed was tantamount to suicide. 

Then again, so was a bullet to the head. And Ruben's memory came rushing back. The Mangle had shaken them all up, bore witness to the true horrors that the Necropolis held. Girard was standing there one moment, then gone the next. Seeing Power Armor crumple like tinfoil, it affected all of them, highlighted just the danger they had marched into. But none were so affected as Ruben, who ate his gun not long after that; the second set of holotags collected. Maine remained stalwart, the fortification of resolve that the rest of them could lean to. But the fortification had been weathered, beaten against by everything they had seen, fought, won, and lost. By now, he had departed any impression of ever returning home, or at the very least leaving this Godforsaken hellhole. No, now they survived because it was all the resistance they had left. Every day, every hour they drew breath was to spite the Necropolis. 

The two commanding officers had left Jeremiah behind to stand watch over the group, though it seemed a redundant gesture at best. Maine was well-aware that between him and Finn, any upset from within the newcomers could be effectively dealt with. Finn through words, and Maine through action. 

And apparently, upset was already there. As the new bloods removed their hazmat suits and got settled, brief tensions began showing themselves, particularly between the red-headed woman and another man garbed in strange armor that Maine didn't recognize under any faction or tribe in the Capital Wasteland. It seemed passive-aggressive, mostly, a rough bump on the shoulder signifying hostility. But it doesn't take long for passive-aggressive to simply turn aggressive. Silently recognizing this, Maine adapted his stance to keep an eye on the two of them, on the lookout for any weapons drawn or punches thrown. 

Regardless of where any of them came from, or where their allegiances once lied, Maine had to begrudgingly acknowledge that they were all a new squadron now - something Finn would take to much easier than he. But insubordination, disagreement within the ranks was strictly disallowed, and Maine was prepared to bash together whoever's heads needed bashing. 

In the meanwhile, Finn was in the bunker's makeshift kitchen preparing food for them all, setting out whiskey and glasses like an expectant housewife. Maine muttered something under-breath about saving that whiskey, an utterance that came out a garbled growl from his helmet. 

Before long, dinner was ready to be served, in an event Finn had waited years for. Regardless of his thoughts on the Southern-born Knight, Maine couldn't deny that his cooking beat the food back in the Citadel, and certainly was better than whatever processed "sustenance" came from the MREs. There had to be some reason they kept him around.