"I don't know where his dock would be," admits Jack.

He's gotten kitted out while Sinclair was dressing, and not done it by halves. Pistol in his holster, shotgun over his back, crossbow slung next to it. Wrench stuffed into his belt; sleeves rolled up to facilitate plasmid use. Bulky chemical thrower set on the floor next to him, ready to be lifted onto his shoulder.

He doesn't look as fancy as Sinclair, but he hopes he holds up.