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

4am means shit all to Jack, who is operative at all times of the night and day, so he just kind of mumbles and stretches. His various muscle groups already knew he was a jerk and this, hot on the heels of a Bouncer fight, has not improved their opinion of him.

Also the whole shaky tired splicer hangover thing. There's probably a lesson there, maybe an after-school special. Buuuut Jack has been lucky enough not to mutate into a zombie so far so he mostly ignores it.

Stretch, pout, stretch, is there any fresh water around here? The only place he's ever seen it was Arcadia for some reason, but he starts to poke around for it anyway, moving less stiffly as the minutes go on.

Jack's nosing around reminds Sinclair that he hasn't eaten since before they took off in the bathysphere, and his stomach gives a nice hearty grumble that. It makes the decision for him that he should stand up now.

"Didn't you say there was food in here?"

Well, there was a cache left over from whatever poor soul tried to live here before them, hidden in pockets of one or two cans all around the place. Jack knows this because he ate most of them when he first got here. But, uh, there might be a few left?

He noses around a bit further, checking in trashcans and behind bits of rubble that he doesn't think he's searched before. The whole optician's shop is in a bad way, so there are a lot of hiding places.

And then, in the bathroom, he finds two sealed tins inside a stack of broken spectacles. Jackpot!

One of them is beans. The other one is peaches.

Holy shit. Peaches.

Holy shit.

Moral choice: give Sinclair a well-rounded breakfast, or eat some actual genuine real delicious peaches?

A few minutes later Jack emerges from the bathroom, and tosses a tin to Sinclair, looking pleased with himself.

"I found some beans!"

Sinclair catches the tin and looks it over. Beans for breakfast. Okay. It's better than potato chips and creme cakes.

He offers Jack a thanks and peels the tin open. Bottoms up! It's not enough to satiate him but at least now he feels like he's eaten.

"You ready to try that stairway again?" he asks, thumbing away a speck of sauce at the corner of his lips.

Well he still kind of wants to go back to sleep, but he knows that'll change once they get moving. It's already started to fall away now he's eaten and run about a bit.

"Yep."

He still really really wouldn't mind some water, but the peach juice'll carry him until he can loot some coffee. Man, Fontaine didn't even need Code Yellow, he could've just strewn cakes and coffee flasks in Jack's path and given him a cardiac event much faster.

Aight, give him a moment to check his weapons and then they can go for a morning stroll.

Sinclair takes the opportunity to check his own, and...he's definitely running low on ammo. Two shots left, not exactly reassuring. He doesn't expect he'll need them as much as Jack will, but it's at least nice to know that he has the option of attempting to defend himself if he needs to.

"Got any pistol bullets on you, son?"

Uuhhh...

He feels around in his pockets. Maybe four or five armour piercing that the Bouncer generously let him keep. A handful of antipersonnel rounds. Tonnes of regular rounds, because he keeps on finding them and then never using the damn things.

Jack thinks for a moment, then tosses Sinclair a couple cylinder-fuls of the regular kind, still in the little sackcloth pouch he found them in. Sinclair probably won't have to do a lot of shooting, he figures. And Jack isn't rolling in ammo or the money for it either. But, you know, just in case.

"Thanks," he says, stuffing in four bullets and pocketing the rest.

And they're ready to go! He looks at Jack expectantly, thinking of what they're about to do. Suddenly he's not feeling quite as eager to leave. It's a good thing he's not afraid of heights, but...

"...You're sure you've got the whole telekinesis thing under control?"

This time, the response is not an amazing levitating Sinclair.

"Yes."

Or, well, he's as sure as he ever is about things, and he usually manages them anyway.

Well.

If he's wrong, at least a broken neck is a quick death. On the other hand, if they stay down here they'll die anyway. Six of one, half a dozen of the other, etc. etc.

"Well let's get on with it then," he sighs, gesturing at the doorway.

Jack sticks his head round the door to check the coast is clear, sucks some leftover peach juice off his teeth, gags a bit because he hasn't brushed his teeth since... well any harvests or even the petrol gargling incident wow that was a bad idea why did he even do that, and then heads out.

It's a quick enough jog to the broken staircase, but he hangs back a bit, hugging walls and keeping an eye out and letting Sinclair keep up. It really is like running through the Proving Grounds all over again. Except less smelly. Marginally.

Sinclair keeps up reasonably well, his leg healing a bit more easily with a secure bandage and some rest. He watches Jack closely though, in case he spots something up ahead that would require them to fall back and wait. But they make it to the staircase without incident and, well. Now's the moment of truth.

Stepping out into the middle of the room, Sinclair surveys the stairway once again. There's a banister at the top of it, if Jack can get him over that then they'll be home free. He shakes his limbs out a bit, trying to prepare himself. There's no way he's ever going to be ready for this.

"Ready when you are, chief," he says.

He's woken up properly now, and 'chief' makes him smile a bit.

And then his hand's up and Sinclair is rising into the air, fairly fast, though not at the massive speeds Jack usually throws things. Ease into it? What a concept!

Jack smiles even wider. He's had to get used to plasmids quickly, see them as a rationed tool rather than something fun, but every now and again he still gets to enjoy the novelty of the things. I mean, damn, a few days ago he was an average(ish) joe and now he's lifting a dude with the power of his mind. He's already picturing the havoc he can wreak among the splicers with this thing.

Spoilers: Jack Ryan enjoys being an overpowered sonovabitch.

(He fights the urge to make Sinclair do a pirouette.)

Sinclair stops. In mid-air, level with the banister two floors up but a good few feet away from it. And then he just hovers there, more or less upright.

"Are there splicers?" Jack calls.

You're his eyes now, man.

Sinclair holds his breath as he watches the ground distance itself from him. But it's a little easier to deal with when you're expecting it, and it feels controlled. It feels more like Jack knows what he's doing, and all he has to do is make it over that banister and--

he stops.

Why is he stopped. This is cruel, please just set him down on the other side of the banister, dear god dangling in midair with nothing to hang onto is not the most pleasant sensation.

He collects himself with a breath and looks around. There's a doorway that he can see through for the most part, but he can't speak for the areas out of his field of vision. "Not that I can see," he says, and whatever you just heard was not a nervous voice crack. You were imagining that.

Ups-a-daisy, kid, he's gotcha.

Coast confirmed to be clear, Jack floats Sinclair gently over the banister and sets him down--

okay this is awkward hang on, Sinclair is dangerously close to getting out of his line of sight and that would fuck things up so let him kinda

try to

okay

Sinclair spends a good few seconds rotating slowly, a few inches off the floor, while Jack repositions himself. He's really trying not to squash your injured leg, here, man. Or, you know, drop you on your head or something. Don't hate him for the hold-up.

Dumb plasmids and their dumb visual targeting requirements.

There's some shuffling around down below. Then, once Jack's regained a decent line of sight, they're in business, and Sinclair is let down ever so carefully onto his back.

In a puddle. But shut up. Jack couldn't see that.

Well at least now he's only a couple feet from solid ground, but okay...he's ready to be put down now. You can put him down now Jack. Jack? You can...oh.

Sinclair looks back and notices Jack repositioning himself, puts the pieces together well enough. Although landing somewhere dry might have been nice. Can't win 'em all.

He stands up, back of his shirt soaked through. There's nothing he can really do about it, but he figures it's probably the least of his concerns at the moment. Walking up to the banister, he leans over and calls down to Jack.

"Give me just a few seconds, sport, and I'll be back with a rope."

...Or something. Hopefully.

Jack nods and lifts both hands so that Sinclair can see the thumbs up.

Then he jumps a little as someone bellows "Five dollars?!" in a room not too far away.

Jack... keeps one thumb up, and uses the other (plus the rest of the attached hand) to pull out his wrench. Single splicer's probably not worth wasting bullets on.

No, no, it's cool, go right ahead with what you were doing Sinclair.

Concern flashes across Sinclair's face, but standing around isn't going to do anything. He leaves the banister and ventures into the next room.

It's looks like a reception area, and there are three doors lined up on the wall behind a rather large desk. One thing at a time though, Sinclair searches the desk thoroughly but finds nothing other than a few dollars and a couple creme cakes. He pockets the money and makes a note to come back for the creme cakes; Jack will probably be interested in those.

By the time he reaches door number one, he can hear Jack's splicer downstairs, but he can't really make out what's going on once he steps inside.

There's a bed close to the far wall. Sinclair opens up a cabinet and digs through it. Towels, towels, sheets, pillows, a bedpan. Lovely. There's a tray of surgical tools next to the bed, and if Sinclair squats down to look under the bed he'll find a med kit and two EVE hypos. Jack will definitely be wanting those. He picks them up and takes them back out to the desk in the main room.

On to door number two!

All that fancy finagling to get Sinclair upstairs unharmed leaves Jack feeling a bit more drained than he expected to, but he's still armed and ready to engage the splicer when it arrives. Electricity crackles across his knuckles.

As usual, the splicer's voice precedes him.

"Down five dollars," he's muttering, "down five dollars, Ryan Industries down f-four dollars twenty cents, Securis up a tenth of a percent t-to ten... to ten..."

You know what, Jack isn't interested in listening to a living stock ticker. He sneaks closer, homing in on the door he thinks the splicer'll come from.

"Still got the little nest-egg, just gotta... just gotta invest it right, yeah. Just gotta get back in... back in. 'S not too late, you're a, you're a young man yet."

wow boring get to the fight

Jack is tapping his foot out here, he's thinking of just giving up his advantage and rushing the room. Get on with it, man.

Then the splicer goes silent.

Oh. Shit. Maybe he really was tapping his foot. Jack goes still, listening.

Then: a quiet rush of air.

Jack wouldn't notice it at all, if it wasn't so familiar. Fuck Houdinis fuck Houdinis forever--

There's a scream of "COME BACK TO GLOAT, HAVE YOU?!" and Jack spins to the side as ice thwacks into the wall where he was standing. Well, he got his fight all right.

The next room is very much identical to the room before it, only this one is empty of anything useful at all, Towels, sheets, surgical tools, a bedpan, more sheets and towels and a broom in the corner.

He's striking out here, and honestly he's not entirely sure where in a surgery wing he would find a rope anyway. But it just seems like there should be something he can use.

When Sinclair walks back out into main room, he hears the deranged shouting of the splicer going after Jack and debates sticking his head out to make sure things are working out in their favor. But with his luck, he'd be spotted in the process, so really all he can do is cross his fingers. This one seems to be taking Jack longer than usual, though. At least for being only one splicer.

The third door is locked.

Great. Excellent, perfect. There's nothing up here at all. All of that work for nothing. Now what are they supposed to do, tie a bunch of sheets together and--

wait a minute.

Jack hasn't even stopped dodging before he throws a bolt of lightning at the splicer. For a couple of seconds the splicer is prone, shaking and making a garbled noise, and Jack fires his gun. But he's a little too keen to kill the guy before he teleports again. He sacrifices aim for speed, and the distant splicer vanishes in a cloud of blue.

Ha ha ha god damnit.

Finger twitching on his gun, Jack keeps his back to the wall and stares around for the telltale clump of blue frost.

Or, you know, the splicer could scream "PUT ME OUT OF BUSINESS, WOULD YOU?!" and completely give himself away.

Jack throws fire this time, going for damage in case he misses again. At the same time, the splicer throws ice.

The fireball fizzles and dies out, but the ice keeps coming.

Fuck, what the fuck was that?

Okay wait he can figure it out later because right now he haS TO DODGE REALLY QUICKLY. He spins to the left, and more ice follows him. He dodges again, getting tired of this shit pretty quick, and fires off another shot more or less blind.

He keeps snapping his fingers as he goes, trying to reignite the pilot light, but nope. Apparently he's out of EVE. Motherfucker, how much does that upgraded plasmid have to cost per use?

More ice hits the wall beside his head and shatters into obscuring mist. He ducks hurriedly and fires another shot. He's rewarded with a pained yell, more by luck than judgement.

This is actually really embarrassing. Between the zero visibility, the lack of EVE and the unrelenting Winter Blasts, he has actually been cornered by a splicer. God he hopes Sinclair isn't watching this.

And to make things even more fun, he has two shots left till he has to reload.

G r e a t.

Jack holds his breath and squints through the free-floating ice. Then he realises: the ice has stopped coming.

A hesitant step forward -- the floor is slippery now -- and he can see enough to confirm that yep, the splicer is gone.

Then there's a chilly rush and a voice grates right in his ear:

"I'm putting you in the ground, Fontaine!"

As a combination of things he did not fucking expect, this kind of takes the cake. Jack spins and shoots, and definitely does not yelp like a little girl, and then there are two thuds of bodies hitting the ground.

The splicer is dead, most of his face blown away at point blank range.

And Jack is breathing hard, flat on his arse on a floor of slowly melting ice.

Sinclair busies himself tying the sheets together, end to end, pulling tight to make sure they'll hold. But there's a shot and a yelp and then silence and that is mildly alarming.

He drops the sheets and places himself on one side of the door frame, sticking his head out to check that the coast is clear. But he can't see anything beyond that damn balcony, and after a few more seconds of hearing nothing he decides to risk it and go straight for the banister.

There's a dead splicer on the ground, right next to Jack. Who's sitting up, thankfully, but that's still odd.

"You alright, kid?" he calls down.

Oh shit, Sinclair is watching.

Jack stares up at the guy and scrambles to his feet, trying to look totally cool and unruffled and un-just-got-pinned-with-ice.

Speaking of ice, though, it's still all over the floor right under his feet. You see where this is going.

Jack starts to say that yeah, he's fine, but it turns into definitely not another unmanly squeak as his feet go out from under him and he lands on his rear again.

Sinclair can't help but snort laughter as he watches Jack attempting to get to his feet and failing hilariously.

Jack is okay, that's what he came out to determine.

"No rope up here," he says, still laughing. "But I think I worked out an alternative."

Jack gives up on the standing thing, and carefully starts to scoot himself over to frictional dry land. His cheeks are bright red and it's not just from the cold.

"What is it?"

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