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

[i]"Something powerful."[/i] John would hold Finn to those words as he stiffly moved towards the makeshift kitchen, aching in his joints with each step. An aching that spoke of brawls gone poorly, a few too-high falls, and an old bullet wound here or there. God, he was getting old. John couldn't help but smirk to himself, the thought of being old by 39. As a boy, he would have found the thought preposterous. The whole world was ahead of him, and there were plenty of stories told of old men with white beards and wrinkled faces. But that was a time before. Out here, survival had to be earned, reclaimed for one's self. It was rare to find an old face outside the Pre-War Ghouls, and even then, those that weren't dead or gone feral were about as rare as any old human. 

Picking up one of the shot glasses with almost-eager fingers, John brought the glass to his lips and threw his head back in a motion clearly backed by years of repetitious experience. His face twitched reflexively as his parched throat felt the immediate burn of alcohol; the sensation prompting the detective to let out a heavy exhale through dry lips. Immediately, his body felt a jolt of energy, the pain in his bones fading like a distant memory. Placing the glass down, John cracked his neck, hitting just that right spot that everyone hopes for in such an act. 

[color=Slategray]"Not bad, Cowboy."[/color] John bid aloud to Finn, mentally resisting the urge to take another shot. It's a funny thing, alcohol. John knew full-well that the drink was killing him, but he was too far gone to dream of living without it. No one wanted to live in the world straight, not the way it was now. The Raiders had their chems; mercs had their booze; even some of the old Ghouls relied on fonder memories to just get through the day. John wondered how old Marvin was, whether he followed the similar motions. Perhaps the whole thing was life's biggest irony - that the thing killing them was the only thing holding them together. If there was a God, He had to be laughing at that. 

John had hoped that the smell of food would bring him some modicum of pleasure, though he'd not smelled food that good in awhile. Even Diamond City's famous noodle stand had to contend with the stink of waste and decay in the Wasteland air, tainting every bite. But no, still his mind was discontent, though the others seemed to find a place for themselves to relax, if only for a moment. 

Out of the corner of his vision, he spotted the Talon leader kneel down besides Bailey. Something...yes, something caught his eye. Though he couldn't make out anything that was said, it seemed off. Not a general conversation, no. There was a focus in her stance that defied that. John didn't make a sound, simply stood still, eyes locked on the two until Prism rose from her place, moving towards where Finn stood. John's gaze followed, unfaltering, a sternness in his expression hinting at slight scrutiny, but nothing more than that. 

Over the years, he'd survived too much to truly feel terror as it once was. Now it was all the same: adrenaline keeping him alive. The Institute kept him on a tight leash, let him see the outside but fencing it off to him. To wander, but never truly be a part. Somedays, he just wish X3 had put a bullet in him and spared him the trouble. Least he would have died with clear conscience. Some stab at Heaven, maybe. Faith came in short supply in the Wasteland, most were too focused on staying alive in the present to worry about what came after. John examined the concept like he did everything else: necessary skepticism. Maybe it was real, maybe it wasn't. If God existed, He'd turned His head at His own creation. John didn't blame any God for the Great War; Humanity blew itself up, they had to own responsibility for that. But if something greater, something more truly came after, well...what better time than the Apocalypse? 

But the thinking made John cynical, ill. Hopefully there was enough drink around to forget. Or to at least pretend to.