[ New York City Metro - Blue Line ]John had found himself both exasperated and amused by the Texan's actions, though his amusement derived more from the remark made at his expense more than anything else. Course, whether the rest found his jape funny or not didn't really matter much to him. World was a cold and bitter place; diving into John's morbid sense of humor was like drinking whiskey for the first time: caustic, vitriolic with a hefty dose of 'Why the hell would anyone do this?' But the next time would be a bit easier to swallow, as would the next time, and the time after that, until a few years down the road and that vitriol is all you can feel anymore. John couldn't help but smile softly - a genuine smile. He reminded himself of something his father had said years ago about never choking on your liquor. For some odd reason or other, John remembered the words clear as the day they were spoken:
'Sharing a drink with a man is like shaking his hand: you only do it for the first time once. A weak handshake is a weak man, and a weak drinker isn't worth your time.'John's smile quickly faded as the sense of hollow nostalgia he had for so long kept buried beneath guilt and drivel threatened to rise up again. Oh, how the wound pained him, no matter how many times he cleaned and dressed it. He had hardened his expression, his mind, his demeanor; but his heart remained exposed, bleeding onto the pavement.
As the group began reacting to the Texan's grand escape, one of the mercenaries began spouting orders in a tone that spoke volumes of past combat experience. Any two-bit mercenary worth their salt was combat-seasoned, sure; been in a few firefights, boasted about some mighty thing slain or another. But a tone like that was different than just mercenary talk. It boasted gravitas; conduct; an unspoken, no,
expected measure of respect from the others. On top of speaking a language John could only surmise as gobbledegook, this mercenary, if truly he was one, bore a past that set him apart from the rest of them. But unlike Marvin, who shared John's purposefully vague method of explanation to avoid unnecessary digging, this man's deviance was worn plainly, whether out of pride in identity or an inability to hide it.
Either-or, the mercenary quickly caught himself, falling in line with the others, though it was clear such an act was unfamiliar to him. Part of it reminded John of the Gunners back in the Commonwealth. Self-stylized freelancers who were little more than Raiders with prettier toys, devoted to emulating Old World military. Chains-of-command, organized recruitment, clear regiment, it was all a waste of time in John's mind. Lot of good that training did once the nukes started flying.
Khaliya's response to the Texan's mishap was...startling. Her shift from steel golem to superhuman sprinter was enough to briefly throw him off balance at the sight. Servos and pneumatics coordinating themselves in nearly-perfect sync, shattering the tile floor like cardboard before she yanked the Demolitionist back with inhuman strength. Then the tone shifted. Confidence turned into immediate tension as Khaliya slammed herself back into the nearby wall, clutching Short-Fuse to her chest.
That buzzing sound, like the wings of a giant mutant insect. That alone was enough to hike John's breathing. The last thing he wanted was to try and face a swarm of giant bugs, he'd sooner offer that damn armored Ghoul a cigarette. Then the clicking: a raw, guttural sound that stiffened the hairs along the back of his neck.
No, this wasn't an insect.
Khaliya's orders were clear, don't move, don't breathe, don't speak. Nerves were firing off as John sensed the familiar feeling of adrenaline coursing through his veins. But this was different. He was used to fighting men: Raiders, drunk morons who needed a punch to the mouth, even Synths were little more than normal-looking men on the outside. But whatever this thing was sounded big and hungry.
Slowly moving back against a wall at Khaliya's second command, John slowly sunk down til he was nearly level with the ground, eyes refusing to lost sight of this...abomination that tore through reinforced concrete, pavement, and tile like tissue paper. Up until now, he could boast at having never seen a Deathclaw in person, and right now he was wishing to have that privilege back. The thing was terrifyingly big, with flesh seemingly carved from stone, and powerful limbs like steel pistons. A massive maw large enough to fit a small child whole were filled with serrated, gore-stained teeth, with each breath between clicks emitting a foul, odorous concoction that bore the stench of human flesh. One didn't have to smell it before to know what it was, it was unmistakable.
The beast's fingers ended in talons the size of machetes, carving through the walls of the lobby with ease that made John terrifiedly uncertain whether such a feat was attributed to the monster's strength, or its claws' sharpness. But most terrifying was the way the Deathclaw moved, swiveling its head seated atop a neck rippled with muscle. It was searching, hunting, on the move. And they were all prey.
Whether the monster's entrance was due to Short-Fuse's disruption or if it was an inevitable scenario, John found himself quite willing to sacrifice the Texan to these abominations if it meant briefly appeasing their hunger.
Out of the corner of his eye, John saw Marvin reach for who he assumed was Frankie, given the suit's much-shorter stature, pressing himself back into the same wall just a few feet away. The Detective kept his eyes locked with Marvin's, as best as he could convey under his dome-shaped helmet. He wouldn't dare try to shimmy his way over to the duo with this thing searching for them, but as long as he kept a bead on them -- and it -- he was content.
But he found himself wondering in the midst of all this whether he could even hope to
attempt to keep the promise he made to the small medic. His gun, his sole source of power, security, protection, now felt like little more than a water pistol staring down the fiend. A quick draw and quicker thinking will get a man out of most situations alive, but this was a first, even in John's experience. Of course, no one else would know that. On the surface, he seemed collected; hand twitching but clear-minded.
Then Emil spoke, the damn fool. John wanted to yell at him, shake him by the shoulders in a brief moment of unexpected emotion that yes, the eyeless, clicking monster was using sound or smell to track them.
That makes two: Short-Fuse and now Emil as possible sacrifices to the demon's hunger.
Seconds felt like hours as the rapid sound of his own heart beating pounded in his ears. There was nothing for John to do, other than sit still, and act as unappetizing as possible; which, given the state of his heart and liver, was a fair assumption that even if the Deathclaw took a bite out of him, it'd find him an unpleasant meal.
Even farther from his peripheral than Marvin and Frankie were, John spotted the strange Mercenary he had been pondering earlier shifting slightly in his place, as if readying his arm for something. Before John could ponder
what, there came the echoing clatter of a stone falling down the stairs to the back of the lobby, resounding off of enclosed walls and cavernous tunnels.
Then silence once more.
