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

And Sinclair is definitely watching. His expression is one of anticipation, not judgmental, not fearful, but not exactly eager either. He's just waiting.

The sisters are just vegetables. The heart's just a muscle. Jack has to do what he's about to do and they need to get out of here. That's what all this is about, and that's all that matters.

Sinclair leans back on the desk and watches the girl's limp body in Jack's arms, her limbs dangling and her head lolling back like a rag doll. When Jack looks back at him, Sinclair thinks maybe he's having second thoughts. Maybe he's feeling guilty.

"Go on then, we don't have all night," he says with a wave of his hand.

Well, that's nice and decisive.

Lacking a knife, Jack loads up some razor-tip Winter Blast icicles and goes to town. Ugly green smoke pours out of the Sister's ruptured stomach. It goes right into Jack's eyes and mouth, but he's grown used to the stink. It smells great.

We're sure Sinclair will feel cockblocked as all hell when Jack falls onto his knees, bent over the Sister's body like a wild animal, his back and the thinning smog conspiring to hide the exact details of what's happening.

And then a minute or two later, Jack stands in one fluid movement, and rolls his shoulders, and wipes his mouth.

His back is still to Sinclair. He seems to have forgotten about him for a moment.

There's not much that's visible from where he's standing, all Sinclair can see is the girl's arm laid out on the ground, little fingers twitching as Jack ravages her nervous system. The unnatural green haze that shrouds the two of them makes Sinclair a little uneasy, but in the end he decides it's probably not something he really needed to see anyway.

"...We ready?" Sinclair says once Jack stands up. His stomach feels twisted and tight, something feels wrong here, but it's a stepping stone. They've got the ADAM they came for, they can move on and they're that much closer to escaping. Maybe not closer than ever, but closer than they were a few minutes ago.

Jack turns around.

The blood soaked into his dirty cable-knit sweater is now a bit fresher.

"Ready," he says, and yyyyyeah that's totally an ADAM top-up. His voice has temporarily gained the same double-tone as the sister, a metallic kind of sound, and his eyes are blown and a little too bright. He stands a bit straighter, moves a bit looser.

And he grins, any shame wiped away. There's blood on his teeth.

Man, getting the stuff always hurts but sweet illegal god does it feel good once he's got it.

Well. Nobody said anything about making a clean getaway. Sinclair pushes down the sick wrenching in his stomach and smiles back, opting not to take a look at whatever's left of the girl.

He knows what ADAM does. Maybe he didn't spend time in the lab with it like the scientists up at Fontaine Futuristics, but he's seen it before. He's bribed inmates with it, used it as a bargaining chip when he needs information or anything else. And he's stood there and watched them take it, seen the relief, the euphoria. He's familiar with all of it.

But still.

...It doesn't matter, they need to get going, find a place to rest although at this point Jack probably has all the energy in the world.

"Alright then, let's pick up that plasmid and get a move on," he says, with just the smallest waver in his voice. He clears his throat to cover it up and grins a little wider.

Even if Jack hears the waver in Sinclair's voice, it 100% super does not reach him. He's basically flying. Man oh man oh man.

"Alright, chief."

...Okay, that stuff from him isn't usually cheeky, but that was totally cheeky.

He circles around the corpse of the Bouncer with a spring in his step, and heads off in a direction they haven't been yet. Well, they haven't seen a Gatherer's Garden yet in their travels, so it stands to reason they'll have to break some new ground.

Jack kinda feels like whistling as he walks. So he does.

♫ you're the colosseum...

Try to keep up, mister Sinclair!

♫ you're a turkey dinner...

Hey watch it, you can't just throw around pet names like that, that's Sinclair's thing.

Sinclair attempts to keep up for all of about thirty seconds before a wrong step sends pain shooting up his thigh and he stops for a moment to push his hand over the wound that keeps breaking open again. He sighs in exasperation and continues to walk behind Jack but it's not worth it to try and go any faster than he is.

At least Jack is in a good mood, even if it's just the ADAM talking. Even if something about it just rubs Sinclair the wrong way. The high'll wear off soon enough, they just need to get upstairs. One thing at a time.

♫ you're a waldorf salad...

Man, that reminds him, he's hungry again.

He contents himself sucking some of the blood and ADAM off his teeth, while he scans every corridor they pass for a Garden. What he finds are a few splicers, but the fights are brief and stay a safe distance ahead of Sinclair's position. Lone splicers are cake for him at this point. Jack mows them down as if he himself is a Big Daddy -- which hey, he has been, so it's funny how these things work out! He even snags some EVE and a pep bar or two for his trouble!

Then he hears the jingle at last.

Iiiiif you wanna be amazin',

Walking as if he owns the place, Jack vanishes off down the appropriate corridor.

Seeee the flowers we are raisin'!

From a reasonable distance, Sinclair can hear the short-lived tussles of splicers that get in Jack's way. Jack disappears and reappers often enough for Sinclair to at least keep track of where he is, but he hears the jingle of the Gatherer's Garden and when Jack vanishes around a corner, Sinclair lets himself rest by a wall and wait for him to return.

He should probably get this bandaged again before it gets infected or something, but there aren't a lot of options where they are.

"See it, kid?" he calls out. "You oughta be able to skip straight to the second upgrade."

"I see it!"

He sounds excited. The tinny doubling of his voice still hasn't worn off.

But he does finally notice that Sinclair is no longer following him. Hrm. When he makes himself stop and think about that, that doesn't seem like it bodes too well.

...Hey, there's a vending machine as well back here.

Presently, Jack reappears, and telekinetically fires a package of bandages at wherever Sinclair is standing. THINK FAST

Sinclair jumps as the bandages hit the wall beside him, bouncing onto the floor in front of his feet. He smiles and nods gratefully at Jack, picking them up and unwrapping them.

Uh.

"...Why don't you go find us some coffee, son? Think I could use a boost."

Okay, but first he wants to test something. And that's why Sinclair and his bandages are now hovering a good three feet above the tiled floor.

Jack's smiling too!

Sinclair's heart sinks to his stomach when, faster than he can process it, his feet are no longer touching the floor. He lets go of the bandages, but the plasmid keeps him securely in the air and his sense of balance is all sorts of thrown off.

"Alright, it works," he laughs nervously. Really nervously. "You mind putting me down now?"

Jack laughs too!

Not in a cruel way, it should probably be added. But he's having a good time.

Okay for real though he's putting Sinclair down. Gently. Probably on his back, because it's easier than the balance issues of putting him on his feet. He absolutely does not bounce Sinclair like a volleyball, and the narration is pleased to confirm that this is a genuine 'he didn't' and not a 'he totally did'.

It totally crossed his mind, because bouncing balls is fun, but he feels like Sinclair might not thank him for it.

"I'm gonna get coffee for me too," he says brightly, and vanishes again.

Sinclair pushes himself up to a sitting position as soon as he regains his balance.

"Find some cigarettes too," he calls after him, but Jack is gone before he has a chance to do much else. He shakes his head and gets to work bandaging himself up while Jack is out of eyesight.

Jack's quest for coffee is thorough, and attended to with the same devoted attention as he would give making a bomb or bringing a forest back to life. Which is to say he gets distracted a lot and does a fair bit of poking around completely irrelevant places, but he always follows the yellow arrow back to the job at hand.

And besides, the poking around pays off. More on that story later.

For now, let's return to Sinclair.

Sinclair, and a distant murmur. A clank or two, far away and high.

If he listens, we're sure he'll be delighted to hear the triumphant muttering of a woman somewhere up there in the shadowy ceiling.

There's not much to be done about the blood still on his pants, but at least now with a bandage in place Sinclair can keep from adding to it.

He pulls his belt tight and--

...what was that.

He freezes, listening hard.

Clink clank, clink clink, clank

"Amaaaaziiing graaaace..."

Sinclair reaches for his gun, listening as the woman breaks into a sob, unable to carry her tune. She sounds pathetic, utterly broken, mournful to the point of wrenching the slightest smack of pity from Sinclair.

But he knows that sound.

He looks up to the ceiling, scanning every visible inch. There's nothing, despite the clinking drawing nearer.

He pulls the gun from its holster and cocks it, praying again that it's still functional after being totally submerged in water for several minutes.

Clink clink, clink clank

And then it stops.

"Is that you?"

Shit.

He scans the ceiling a little faster, but by the time he spots her she's already dropped to her feet.

"I'll break you!" she shouts, throwing a hook that chips into the wall beside his head.

He aims as she runs at him, aims...aims...aiming...

In seconds she's in front of him, nearly on top of him, screaming that he's a traitor and she takes a swing at him but POP

The impact of a bullet in her forehead sends her spilling back onto the tile, finally quiet.

Now if Sinclair can just control his damn heart rate, jesus christ.

His heart rate will probably not be helped by a bang of air, and a projectile whizzing past him at a ridiculous speed.

The splicer is still falling, and her hair's disturbed by the wind from it; that's how close and abrupt the thing is. It hits a far wall and explodes in a shower of brown liquid which smells strongly of coffee, because it is coffee.

Jack follows it, running.

Just in time to save the day!

"Are you okay?" he asks, slowing to a stop in front of Sinclair. Is that blood on his trouser leg -- no, that was already there. There's a second coffee flask in Jack's one hand, and now there's a gun in the other as he looks around for any more danger.

The reverb in his voice is still faintly there, but it's gone down a lot in a weirdly short amount of time. He feels less awesome, but more together. Which, in this situation, is probably a bit more useful.

...And he feels a bit of an idiot for leaving a wounded man with shitty aim alone like that.

Sinclair jumps as shards of plastic scatter on the floor beside him, but once he identifies it as a coffee Jack thoughtfully flung at him, he relaxes back against the wall.

"I'm alright," he says, breathing a little hard. "You get those cigarettes?" Because jesus god could he ever use one right about now.

In answer, Jack swaps the gun for a nearly-full pack of Oxford Club. Once he's put the coffee down he even proffers his other hand alongside them, pilot light burning. It's like having your own personal butler and lighter-on-legs!

He's still keeping his head up and eyes sharp for splicers, but they seem to be in the clear for now. So his eyes fall on the crawler. That... huh, that was a surprisingly good shot, considering. He is sort of proud on Sinclair's behalf there.

Plucking a smoke from the box, Sinclair mumbles a thanks at Jack and lights it, breathing deep.

"Gimme a minute, son," he says. "We can go back and try to get upstairs again." But for now...just let him calm his nerves. He takes a long drag and holds it in, exhaling slowly. It's not like he saw his life just flash before his eyes or anything.

Jack, who is feeling a little bit bad about the whole surprise levitation thing, gives Sinclair a moment to rest. He leans back against the wall and steals a cigarette for himself.

"That was a good shot," he offers.

That counts as an apology, right? Right.

Sinclair lets out another puff of smoke and looks over at the body. Right in the forehead. That's really not bad at all.

"I s'pose it was," he laughs, though his voice is still slightly shaky. "Guess you're rubbing off on me, kid."

He smiles faintly at that.

Then he rests the back of his head against the cold wall, and tries to decide whether to tell Sinclair what he found. If he does, they're probably staying the night. He's not sure if he still hates that idea.

The bad thing about ADAM making you feel awesome is that when it starts to wear off, it always leaves him feeling even more weird and tired than before.

Of course, nine out of ten doctors recommend you treat your plasmid blues by kneeling down, cigarette between your teeth, and start going through a dead crawler's pockets. If nine out of those ten doctors are Jack Ryan, anyway.

Hey, a creme cake!

It's probably never going not be darkly amusing watching Jack plunder dead splicers. And watching Jack turn her pockets inside out helps give Sinclair something to focus on other than the fact that he was probably seconds away from a brutal death just a minute ago.

His cigarette burns down to the butt and he flicks it away, severely tempted to go for another one. But Jack is probably waiting for him to get up and moving again, so after another second of collecting himself, he balances himself on the wall and stands.

"Ready to try it again?"

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