Jack keeps going, only pausing now and then to get his bearings, and never for long. He feels better when he's moving. Or at least he's preoccupied staying alive, and doesn't give himself time to start thinking again.
Dripping corridors open out into a kind of square lined with vandalised businesses. A little pile of machine-gun ammo lies in the centre, conspicuous as can be; the ceiling is giggling quietly.
Oh c'mon, that has to be, what? The third or fourth time they've tried this?
Jack pauses and looks over the ammo. It's not a question of whether it's a trap; just of whether the free ammo is worth the effort, whether he'll spend more bullets and EVE than he gains. And you know what, he just can't be bothered. He has Sinclair with him; he just wants to get to the safehouse.
As he passes the ammo pile by, the ceiling yells "Spoilsport!" after him.
no subject
Dripping corridors open out into a kind of square lined with vandalised businesses. A little pile of machine-gun ammo lies in the centre, conspicuous as can be; the ceiling is giggling quietly.
Oh c'mon, that has to be, what? The third or fourth time they've tried this?
Jack pauses and looks over the ammo. It's not a question of whether it's a trap; just of whether the free ammo is worth the effort, whether he'll spend more bullets and EVE than he gains. And you know what, he just can't be bothered. He has Sinclair with him; he just wants to get to the safehouse.
As he passes the ammo pile by, the ceiling yells "Spoilsport!" after him.
Splicers are fucking weird.