Sinclair has tucked himself neatly behind a desk somewhere in the corner of the room, and he peeks out from around the edge of it to watch the engagement.

Jack is certainly capable, and although there are a few times where he loses the upper hand, the consistently takes it back again. He's got strategy, and an exemplary one at that. It's got to be a combination of practice and the confidence of knowing he can't die, but Sinclair knows better than anyone that the whys of your tactics are nowhere near as important as the outcome they give you.

But between the battling, all the pounding and buzzing and pops and dings of bullets in metal, the little girl is backing up to the wall. She's screaming at Jack, egging her protector on. She wants to watch him tear Jack down, but he can't. He fails, crumples into a heap of scraps before Jack's feet.

And then the crying starts. This pathetic howling, wailing, hovering over the Big Daddy as if her pleading could light it up again, convince him to finish the job.

It's obvious she doesn't understand.

That's probably for the best. For everyone.

Sinclair uses the desk as leverage to get to his feet. "Well done, sport!" he says, grinning at Jack. "Couldn't have done it better myself."