weathertop | darling it's better down where it's wetter

He looks up at the floors above them, then back at Sinclair, not buying it.

"But we're about to go up."

And then they'll be doing one more thing, and then another thing, and then the next five objectives, and yeah you're starting to understand why Jack had barely slept when Sinclair found him. Besides the splicers.

(If Sinclair's familiar with the combo of caffeine, adrenaline and sheer sleep-deprived insanity, he will be intimately familiar with Jack.)

Fortunately for Sinclair, he's not spent too much time having to rely on caffeine and adrenaline to keep him moving. It was a privilege, but he's starting to think those days are long gone.

He looks up at the balcony above them and sighs.

"If you think you can get us up there, maybe we can find a place to make camp. But I don't know how much more I've got in me today, kid."

Wow. As long as he keeps moving Jack feels like he could go on for hours, but if Sinclair's flagging then there's a conflict of interests here. Jack is struck by a sudden and awful premonition of having to hang around in one place for hours and guard Sinclair and he's a free spirit, man, you can't tie him down.

"...Can we try one more time?"

Still bad at saying no. Still even worse at sitting patiently when he wants to be off doing something.

Sinclair frowns, thinking it over. If he says yes, one more time is probably going to turn into as many more times as it takes before they actually get upstairs. If he says no, they're doomed to staying down here, which, granted, does not seem like the wisest decision.

"Alright, let's give it another go," he says, shrugging.

Jack looks a little bit triumphant.

He shoots up the final EVE needle like candy, since he was kind of burning through it with that little juggling display, and then telekenetically proffers the trashcan again. Gently. And relatively slowly.

See, he can do it, hah.

Well, it definitely looks more promising than it did a few minutes ago. He grabs the trash can again, fidgeting for a second to find a position in which he feels relatively secure, hoping it will actually make a difference. He's not usually bothered by heights, but still somehow freely dangling twenty plus feet above a cold tile floor just doesn't seem like something anyone could just be comfortable with.

He takes a breath and nods at Jack.

As if he's actually ready.

Jack doesn't mention the part where he's really having to concentrate to not just fire the trashcan off like a bullet again. That seems like need-to-know information.

Easing into it this time, he lifts. More or less slow, very focused. He's taking the job more seriously than he did as the Amazing Juggling Ryan, now that there's someone attached to the bin once again.

...There's something wrong, though.

He frowns and pulls harder on the trashcan. But he's having to strain to lift it. While the plasmid should be mitigating the weight of what he's throwing -- shit, he's flung a Bouncer corpse at someone before, this should be cake -- it seems to do its job for the bin and then... throw up its little plasmid hands and give up as soon as it hits Sinclair.

Jack hangs onto his wrist with his free hand for more leverage, and puts his back into it. Sinclair's feet rise a little off the floor and WOW HE IS SO DONE WITH THAT HE CAN FEEL HIS SPINE POPPING they drop straight back down again.

Seriously? He flexes the pain out of his shoulders and makes a face of utter frustration first at his hand, and then at the trashcan. Seriously? Okay fine so he can't pick up living people themselves, but come the fuck on, this is just an obnoxious distinction. Fucking plasmid developers. Fontaine is literally ruining his life even from beyond the grave.

"You're heavy," he tells Sinclair accusingly.

Sinclair looks momentarily surprised before letting go and rising to his feet, laughing. "Maybe you just need a little more exercise, don't strain yourself now."

Still, it's obvious this plan is going nowhere. Unless...

"What kind of ADAM are you carrying around, son? How much've you got?"

He blinks. Huh, that was a random question.

"Maybe... a hundred?" he guesses. Yeah, he had some left over the last time he went shopping, it wasn't quite pocket change but it wasn't enough to get anything good, not with inflation the way it is these days, grumble grumble.

So yeah. A hundred. That's his liberal guesstimate.

Well that's no good.

Sinclair's laughter dies into another sigh.

"We started carrying an upgrade of sorts for your telekinesis plasmid there, might be of some use, but you haven't got enough to buy it. I believe that one's going for 250 right now."

It was a thought, but then again so was the bathysphere. They appear to be striking out tonight.

"Two hundred fifty..."

Sinclair may think they've struck out, but Jack is pretty sure they might've struck gold. Just... give him a minute to... math.

There is a comic interlude of lip-pursing, finger-counting, occasional muttering, and great concentration.

One hundred and thereabouts out of two fifty! Is... one fifty. Then x = 160-ish plus wait he has to start again. What did he start with? Okay, if he can count on one-sixty give or take maybe ten, and he needs... wait, he's gotta go back and do that sum again.

He claps in triumph. Math is hard.

"One little sister!"

It takes Sinclair a moment, but only a moment, before he figures out what Jack means. And it doesn't exactly bother him, at least not beyond the fact that now they're going to have to rip one away from one of their Big Daddies. That sounds like the opposite end of fun.

Still, even after the brutal combat he's seen out of Jack, something about child murder doesn't suit him. "Didn't think you had the heart for that kind of thing, kid," he says, shaking his head.

Wow, nice going, that actually managed to make him a little uneasy. A little unsure. And a little defensive.

He's saved some of them. One or two, early on. But something he's come to learn in this place is that failure to arm yourself properly is suicide. He didn't ask to be here, but he is here, and he isn't asking to die here either.

...Which all becomes a bit less dramatic when you remember the Vita Chambers, but it's still a compelling argument. Death is horrible. Rebirth is always a relief, as if it's so unnatural that some part of even Jack's brain can't rely on it.

And you do what you have to do. Even if it's unpleasant. Folks are sensible, they do what's best for them. All that matters to me is me, and all that matters to you is you. And they're less than people. Just like him.

He was looking pleased with himself, like a kid who's just shown off a neat trick. Now he frowns.

"A heart's just a muscle, mister Sinclair."

And he's a sum of the parts that made him.

And if Sinclair could read Jack's mind, listen to the reasoning he's got, he would kindly keep to himself how much Jack's sounding like his father right about now. That probably wouldn't go over too well.

"You're not wrong about that," he laughs.

Because it doesn't bother him. Not really. The Little Sisters lost their humanity the second Tenenbaum implanted those sea slugs into them. Now they're just walking produce. Vegetables, ripe for picking.

That's all they are. It doesn't really bother him.

What are you talking about, Jack's nothing like his father. You should see his golf swing. Could almost kill a man.

As a distraction from the moment, Jack pulls up a piece of floor tile, starts tossing it back and forth several inches above his hands. The frown's gone light and uncertain. He's not sure whether Sinclair is on his side in this or not.

~~whatever his side is because let's be real they're both compensating for something here~~

"I can kill a Big Daddy in a few minutes," he says presently. His tone isn't boastful. He's just trying to break the silence, maybe get them back onto a course of action.

He's never going to get to sleep at this rate.

"Well what are we waiting for then?" Sinclair says, stretching a bit to shake off the last of the stiffness that came from being tossed onto his back. "Let's go kick a can."

Jack nods with returning enthusiasm*, then lifts his head and listens. There's no whaley wails yet. Not a hint of the ground trembling. But he knows from experience that it won't be long until they run into something.

Okay, hang on, he wants to test his gun now. He pulls it from his belt, kind of pokes around it for a bit -- it's still damp but the bullets seem fine -- and then cocks it and lines up... lines up... liiines uuuup. . .

BLAM!

Jack lets out a "ha!" of triumph as the revolver does its job splendidly, taking out a wall light a whole floor up. Okay, now they can go.

With a jerk of his head, a mute 'follow me', he picks a direction and starts to head out.

*once he realises that this is a metaphor

Sinclair follows Jack accordingly, still a few paces slower thanks to the aggravatingly human rate at which his leg is healing.

They both keep quiet as they walk, listening. Jack's hunting a Big Daddy, but Sinclair is equally as concerned about the splicers that tend to flock to Little Sisters the way Jack is right now. He trusts that Jack is certainly more prepared to take on a Big Daddy than your average splicer would be, but he doesn't trust that Jack can take on a Big Daddy and the splicers that think they're prepared.

Maybe he should have tested his own gun before they took off.

Jack's just casually striding and reloading the pistol with armour-piercing rounds. He knows this shit. He enjoys it, even, strange as that may seem. This is something he's good at. Nice challenge, gets the blood pumping, reliably rewarded when he wins. And he usually wins.

Presently, there's a long, low moan that reverberates through the dripping halls. Clanging. And a child's voice. Jack stops, his head turns towards the sounds.

Then he grins and changes course towards them.

Bingo.

Jack's confidence is reassuring, despite the growing list of risks Sinclair considers. The pair can't be more than a couple rooms away; he can practically smell them from here.

And he's got a couple options. He can A) Wait in another room and chance being happened upon by a splicer or two (or three. Or four, with his luck), or he can B) find a place to hide in the room where Jack assails the Big Daddy and hope it doesn't come after him too.

Choices, choices. As a tie-breaker, he asks.

"What do you want me to do?"

Man, he could get used to being asked that question. And he even has an answer prepared.

"You should come with me. I don't think it'll attack you."

Though you might have a heart attack when you see how Jack takes on a Bouncer with:
a) no trap bolts;
b) no shotgun or electric buck;
c) no grenades or mines;
d) not even a whiff of liquid nitrogen;
e) three measly health kits;
f) no spare EVE;
g) no backup.

...actually, he's racking up a few too many letters of the alphabet here. Let's do something about that before engaging.

Jack takes a detour to a cackling vending machine, and then to an Ammo Bandito just a bit further away. Then he sheaths his pistol, steps out in front of the nearest security camera and waves.

"Get behind something," he remembers to warn Sinclair at the last minute before the buzz of choppers arrives.

There's an alarm bell or two going off in his head at the suggestion. Sure, Jack, he'll just follow you into a room with a few hundred pounds of raging metal walking around in it. No pain, no gain, right?

But then again, it's not like this is the first time he's trusted Jack with his life. And Jack hasn't yet let him down. Which is considerably more than he can say about himself.

Either way, Jack has got to be out of his damn mind, jumping straight in front of a security camera like that. Sinclair hides around a corner, out of sight, as he would have done with or without Jack's advice. And right on cue, two security bots meander into the room, beeping and buzzing furiously as they get set to fire.

Sinclair holds his breath. This is probably madness.

And then there's a fwoosh, fwoosh of cold air, and a thunk, thunk of the bots hitting the floor. And another fwoosh to freeze the damn camera, for good measure.

A little bit of clanking and fidgeting around.

And then the buzzing starts again, and hey, presto, Jack appears around the corner to give Sinclair a thumbs up. Coast clear.

The bots appear above and behind him, jostling for space like a couple of heavily-armed flying mechanical puppies. They seem to have lost the urge to fill Jack full of holes.

...Incredibly productive madness.

The best kind.

Sinclair smiles wide. "Nice going, chief," he says, clapping Jack's shoulder. Those guys should stand in reasonably well as the backup Jack needs. The backup Sinclair couldn't provide even if he tried. Which he has no intentions of doing. Ever.

And it's on to the Big Daddy in the next room. You'll forgive Sinclair if he's still got a few apprehensions about sitting back and idly watching the show. He's still going back an forth with himself over whether or not this is a good idea. On the one hand, he's seen exactly how mean Big Daddies can be. On the other hand, Jack's seen it too. And he says he can take one down in a couple minutes.

But again, it's a coin toss. No matter where he goes, there's going to be a risk. So he'll stick to the tie breaker. Jack knows what he's doing.

...Right?

When it comes to killing Big Daddies? Better than anyone else in Rapture.

While Sinclair gets himself comfortable, Jack sizes up his opponent. Big bastard, big drill... big deal. He should go down just fine so long as no complications arise.

The sister he pays less attention to. It only matters that she's there.

His heart's already racing.

Jack takes a deep breath, vaguely wishes that the revolver in his hand was a shotgun full of electric buck, and then hits the Bouncer with Winter Blast and unloads six bullets into its faceplate.

The portholes of its damaged face turn a furious red. The sister screams. "Unzip him! Unzip him!!"

The Bouncer rallies quickly and charges the fuck out of Jack, roaring its anger and pain. Jack's already running out of the way. Scrambling to reload his gun. Shit shit shit he should have gone for the clip size upgrade, why did he upgrade the grenade launcher, he hasn't even touched the launcher since he got Langford's chemical bazooka thing anyway, twenty-four uninterrupted bullets would be really nice in a fight like this.

...Twenty-four bullets arrive, and then some. The two bots, who were previously fucking around getting caught in a doorframe, have entered the fray.

The Bouncer is distracted enough for Jack to finish reloading, and then hit him with more plasmids, more armour-piercing rounds. Then it swings and one of the bots is suddenly inside out, bits of pipe and wire decorating the daddy's drill.

Noooooh, Chaaaarlieeee.

Zap, reload, shoot, run, repeat. It's not a super impressive strategy, but it does the job. And Jack definitely only goes arse over elbows maybe three separate times, when the Bouncer slams the floor and makes the whole room shake.

Man alive, does he tear through the EVE and health packs, though.

The second bot goes down in a small explosion -- honestly, Jack was probably saving it from the Bouncer rather than the other way around -- but the Bouncer is stumbling. And so is Jack, but a med syringe later, he's the one with the advantage.

So he presses it. A final arc of electricity pins the daddy in place. Six bullets chips off the last of its ability to stand.

And then it's nothing more than a suit of broken, steaming metal, folding slowly to the ground.

The little sister screams her dismay as the Bouncer's helmet lights fade. Then she begins to cry. Even her sobs are strange and distorted by the mass of ADAM inside her.

"Mister Bubbles! Mister Bubbles, what's wrong...?!"

And Jack...

Jack takes a moment.

He's bruised and battered and out of breath, slowly pushing antipersonnel rounds into warm chambers. His heart's going a mile a minute, from exhilaration and anticipation both. And they never run away once the Big Daddy's dead.

So he takes a moment, reloading his gun, and wondering if Sinclair is impressed with him.

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am i funny yet

not enough blingee

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