So they're gone too. Ryan's gone. Whatever life he did have on the surface is gone. That's a whole lot to lose before you're even thirty. But sometimes that's just the hand you're dealt. If you're weak, it can break you. If you let it, it'll drag you down and bury you alive. Or, you can use it in your favor. If you turn it around, it can make you great.

It's a little too deep of a conversation for Sinclair's taste, though, and Jack's already shutting down to that anyway so he doesn't say anything. But part of him hopes Jack knows it. Weak isn't really a word Sinclair thinks he'd ever use to describe him.

The next drawer up is almost empty except for an Accu-Vox recorder, which doesn't play anything. Blank.

"You're still their kid," he says.

And the top drawer is a long skinny one below the center of the desk, which reveals a few of Ryan's personal effects. A watch with a dead battery, unused stationary with his monogram on it, a picture of Diane McClintock, the pretty blonde who might have been Ryan's wife if he'd had anything other than ice in his ribcage. And buried under all of it, a paper folder which Sinclair fishes out and spreads on top of the desk.

There are a few papers. The first couple are diagrams of pieces of machinery, and the last few are blueprints.

...Blueprints. Of Hephaestus and Central Control. He skims over them, trying to orient himself. There's the main room of Central Control...the stairs they just took...

"Hey, chief, come take a look at this," Sinclair calls out, dropping their previous conversation per Jack's request.