Jack, meanwhile, is still trying to push down the sick feeling crawling up through his stomach. His head's got to be in the game, here. Then again -- it occurs to him -- when has he not felt something like this, really? When he was adapting to the underwater war-zone? When he was finding out his past and his only friend here were lies? Oh, happy times, sure. There have been ups and downs and sometimes he's been able to distract himself, but the only time he can remember feeling really brave and happy -- the only time that he knows for sure wasn't printed into his head -- was after splicing.
Ugh. He can't think about this. It'll be better when they reach the surface. And they will reach the surface, he has to keep believing that if nothing else.
The red-lit tunnels spill them out into interior ones, gloomy, floored and ceilinged with long brass pipes. The massive 'Ryan Industries' signs aren't difficult to spot. They move without challenge for now; Jack looks suspiciously at a couple of fresher bodies and jolts them with Electrobolt to be sure, but they're dead as the day God left them.
The hallway only has one other door, at its end, and that opens to share with them a pungent stink of decay. The guy on the other side is definitely not faking being dead. The wall behind him is plastered with his dark brown blood, and has been for some days.
Jack wrinkles his nose at the smell. It's worse than it was the last time he passed through here.
Up some shallow stairs, a turret blinks at them, then recognises Jack and stands down. There's only one door here as well. Hephaestus is kind of a bottleneck.
But the room they reach through this door finally breaks that trend. There are more doors, scattered around its fringes, in various states of open, broken or barricaded. Signs pointing the way to Ryan's office glow faintly. Jack gives them a poisonous look.
In the centre of the room, on a raised metal platform, is a table. Above it is a hole in the ceiling. And what do you know? There's a napalm canister on the table, catching the light.
A smile twitches on Jack's face. Familiarity breeds a weird kind of comfort.
"Do you need napalm, mister Sinclair?" he asks, finally breaking the silence.
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Ugh. He can't think about this. It'll be better when they reach the surface. And they will reach the surface, he has to keep believing that if nothing else.
The red-lit tunnels spill them out into interior ones, gloomy, floored and ceilinged with long brass pipes. The massive 'Ryan Industries' signs aren't difficult to spot. They move without challenge for now; Jack looks suspiciously at a couple of fresher bodies and jolts them with Electrobolt to be sure, but they're dead as the day God left them.
The hallway only has one other door, at its end, and that opens to share with them a pungent stink of decay. The guy on the other side is definitely not faking being dead. The wall behind him is plastered with his dark brown blood, and has been for some days.
Jack wrinkles his nose at the smell. It's worse than it was the last time he passed through here.
Up some shallow stairs, a turret blinks at them, then recognises Jack and stands down. There's only one door here as well. Hephaestus is kind of a bottleneck.
But the room they reach through this door finally breaks that trend. There are more doors, scattered around its fringes, in various states of open, broken or barricaded. Signs pointing the way to Ryan's office glow faintly. Jack gives them a poisonous look.
In the centre of the room, on a raised metal platform, is a table. Above it is a hole in the ceiling. And what do you know? There's a napalm canister on the table, catching the light.
A smile twitches on Jack's face. Familiarity breeds a weird kind of comfort.
"Do you need napalm, mister Sinclair?" he asks, finally breaking the silence.