There is a rumbling of dissatisfaction, and it came directly from the leading revolutionary icon and the Brotherhood’s figurehead both. Maxson understood the necessity of the arrangement, though he did not agree to it. Such an alliance would only last for so long before it broke down organically. When it did, favour would rest on the Brotherhood’s shoulders, and not with a group of malcontent anarchists. The enemy of one’s enemy was a friend--that was how the saying went--though for how long was questionable.
They had come to terms, roughly speaking, though a foundation of trust had not been laid. Either side made a point of avoiding occupancy within the opposing force of operations. None other than the Brotherhood boarded the Prydwen, and the members of the Railroad remained in their crypts. Any sort of discussion was held in the Minutemen’s main coastal settlement, which always left each opposing sides incredibly wary.
Such was the case with Arthur, for his disapproval had been evident by his very stature alone, and he made no effort in hiding it. With a hunched frame careened over the side of a dilapidated chair, he pressed his elbow into its wobbly, wooden arm and kept his calloused fingers splayed over his mouth and hanging before the bottom half of his face. As talks progressed, he studied the faces and expressions of those across the table--including the moron whose face was obscured by a set of darkly tinted sunglasses, a half-mechanical abomination, and the outspoken resistance leader specifically.
The distant, albeit muffled crash of waves punctuated the deafening overhead hum of the fluorescent lighting lining the Castle’s interior room. With every passing minute the conversation droned one, Maxson grew more and more frustrated. With his jaw set and his brow wrinkled, his fingers began to tap impatiently against the wooden table, interjecting only to shoot down poor clandestine suggestions of infiltrating the Institute. He believed military force was the key, while Desdemona had other, less effective ideas. But neither were willing to settle. After bantering that felt like it was to last for hours, the sole, cementing factor that was the sole survivor themselves called for a recess, in which everyone involved was given time to clear their heads.
--But Maxson had no intention on leaving. Not when there was so much to be discussed and decided upon. So instead of rising with the rest of the group and departing from the room, he simply remained with the stony enclosure reeking of damp earth, salt and diluted toxins.
