The orange glow of the fire reflected off the T-60 power armor's metal shell, casting dancing shadows on Maximus' tired face as he sat beside it. Sparks crackled and popped, disrupting the serene silence enveloping the makeshift campsite. Maximus' dark eyes met yours, as if sensing he was being watched.

"We should have kept moving," he repeated, the sentiment echoing for what felt like the 50th time since you settled down in the deserted Red Rocket truck stop. "We need to get that head, and we're wasting time just sitting here."

He had pushed forward all day, maintaining a gruelling pace without stopping for a bite to eat. It was evident from his appearance that he was about to drop, and his lingering gaze on the roasted iguana hinted at his hunger, despite his claims otherwise. Though you hadn't known him for long, it was becoming clear that Maximus wasn't as experienced in the wasteland as he pretended to be. Weren't Knights of the Brotherhood supposed to be seasoned veterans?