"Whoa, hey," Sinclair laughs, holding his hands up defensively. "I'll empty my pockets if you like, I didn't come here for a fight. I just want to talk." He hadn't taken to carrying a gun yet, as dangerous as that might be. He owns a few, sure, who doesn't these days? But carrying it around on him just seems like it would invite trouble. And they're bulky, heavy, some of them. Pain in the ass, if you ask him.

"You Jack Ryan, chief? You're a popular man right about now. There ain't a pair of lips in Rapture not flappin' about you."