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

Jack nods, just as something drops from a hole in the ceiling straight down onto their heads.

The air suddenly fills with shrieking. The spider splicer is a blur of rotten breath, shrill curses and vicious metal hooks. She takes a swing, and at the same time, Jack shoves Sinclair out of the way with a good bit of his strength. Where the man lands is a secondary concern. ♥

Then he lifts his pistol and gunshots overtake the splicer's screaming. There's quite a lot of blood and quite a lot of noise, and she crumples into a heap, her head one great jagged exit wound.

Jack's ~~love~~ shove sends him sprawling gracelessly back onto the door of the bathysphere with an equally as graceless noise of surprise. By the time Sinclair regains his balance, the splicer is already gushing blood onto the cement. Sinclair looks at Jack for a moment of wordless thanks, but even as he does it he's already moving for the door. That's going to have attracted the attention of others, they don't have much time.

He places himself by the entrance to the hall, gun drawn and ready as he takes a look around the corner. He sees nothing, motions at Jack to come forward. Sinclair could be the first one to run out, but he's always been a man of options and right now that doesn't sound like the best one. He'll just follow Jack, if that's alright with everyone.

Edited 2013-02-28 18:04 (UTC)

It's certainly all right with Jack. He's taken down Big Daddies single-handed, so in the face of the horde of splicers he doesn't even flinch.

In danger he has that feeling of serenity, almost moving outside of his own body as he counts the splicers -- the targets -- and readies a hand. Two drop from the ceiling in flames. A third is faster and a hook nicks his shoulder as he rolls out of the way. She yells Traitor! Parasite! as she somersaults towards him. The burning splicers are screaming and screaming and screaming. But they're dying, and he saves his ammunition.

He runs to meet the third splicer. Stays light on his feet. Electricity, then two bullets between the eyes.

A whistling noise is all the warning he gets before something explodes at his feet, bringing him back to earth and also into the wall.

Meanwhile Sinclair focuses on slipping down the hallway to get to the door as quickly and quietly as possible.

Which isn't possible, but Jack's more than capable of fending off the majority of the attention they receive. At least until a molotov cocktail sends him flying back against the wall. Sinclair's fingers work quickly at the combination lock on the door, but not quickly enough. He can hear the clinking hooks of another spider splicer and then the thud of it dropping to the ground. There's only time to turn, try and aim, shoot--

--the first bullet whistles past the splicer's ear, the second hits him squarely in the shoulder. It doesn't slow him down; the splicer is on him in seconds.

Jack stumbles to his feet, blinking the white out of his vision, and just barely catches the next molotov with telekinesis. It spins in midair, burning, inches from his face. He's about to lob it right back at the splicer, but -- Sinclair. He has somebody else to worry about right now. Returning the bomb to the splicer would put the explosion dangerously close to Sinclair.

Well shit, then.

The whole thing runs through his head in just a second, and then he reverses his telekinesis and pushes the bomb in another direction. It explodes in a fireball and utterly destroys the two burned splicers, who had just managed to put themselves out.

Jack's already moving in the opposite direction, ignoring his cuts and bruises. Sinclair is just up the hallway. Only he's on the floor. And a spider splicer is standing over him, its hooks catching the light.

"You bastard!" It slams a hook into the stone floor, hard enough to throw up a spark. "Bastard! Fucking bastard! That hurt!"

Jack starts running. He's blindsided by the nitro splicer and swings his wrench, throws fire and swings again into the man's blistering face. Not a clean kill, but a fast one.

"Don't tell them. They'll all laugh at me!"

As he runs, Jack sticks himself with a hypo of EVE. It doesn't even hurt him any more.

The splicer, arms raised, hooks aloft, is hit square in the back with a bolt of electricity. His whole body starts to shake and his yells turn into wordless yammering. Then, a moment later, Jack is there with his wrench.

CRACK! Blood flies and the splicer falls with a suddenly concave head.

Jack switches to the shotgun and then takes the dead man's place standing over Sinclair. Basically you're being guarded by Rambo now so enjoy that.

Probably he should ask if Sinclair's okay, but fighting is no talky time. He's got to focus here. But as he stares around, it turns out the splicers are all corpses, and the only sounds are the crackle of flames and the creak of timbers under the sea.

Edited 2013-02-28 20:59 (UTC)

The splicer falls on its face just beside Sinclair and he might be able to push the body away but he's a little preoccupied with the blood now seeping through the fabric of his pants. He presses his hand to the wound on his thigh. It's not deep, but that doesn't make it hurt any less.

He would say he's getting too old for this, but honestly he doesn't think he was ever cut out for defending himself against throngs of bloodthirsty drug addicts. It never bothered him before; some men are just designed to be soliders, other men are designed to hold the offices. But there is the odd moment during which Sinclair wishes he were a little less of the latter. This is definitely one of those moments.

After a few more seconds of getting past the intial shock of the pain, Sinclair uses his other hand to push himself up, lean back against a wall. "Thank god for you, kid," he laughs, grimacing. "Thought I was done for. Should've invested in a few shooting lessons."

Jack's prowling slightly, still on alert, not allowing himself to get too stationary in case he has to move on a moment's notice. But if there are any more splicers out there, they don't make themselves known. It does look like the coast is clear.

Slowly, he starts to wipe his wrench off on his trouser leg.

Now that they're out of danger, he's not too worried about Sinclair's wellbeing; Jack has sustained far worse on the battlefield and come back good as new. Silently, he pulls a med kit out of his inventory and holds it out where Sinclair can reach.

Sinclair shakes his head. "Can't use those," he says. "I've got the stuff to take care of this in my room, we just have to get in. Hope you were right about being able to disable those turrets, chief. You're only gonna have a few seconds once you get in this door."

He'd ask why Sinclair can't use it, but you know, that part about the turrets seems more important right now. He nods and cycles through plasmids, and sparks of blue lightning crackle away into the air as they're replaced by frost and icicles.

"Are they behind the door?" he asks, looking at Sinclair sideways. Uhh you can get up now dude, it's cool like no rush, but probably actually yes rush.

Um, excuse you. Sinclair was just slashed in the thigh by a rusty metal hook, I think he's allowed a minute or two to get over the blood dripping out between his fingers.

"Two of 'em," he says, nodding. "Side by side. Door combination's one-five-two-five." Meanwhile, he's going to try and figure out how to actually pick himself up and walk the rest of the way to his own medical supplies. Standing up does not seem too appealing right now.

It finally dawns on Jack that Sinclair might consider the injury kind of a big deal.

He kind of looks at the guy for a moment in mild surprise and consternation, because how is Sinclair still alive if all it takes to fell him is a gaping wound and the shock and pain therof? Dang.

Jack starts towards the door, then hesitates, hovering between the twin duties of the combination lock and the guy on the floor.

"Get up," he says, at a worried pitch.

Sinclair gives Jack a somewhat resentful look. "Go on and take care of those turrets, I'll be along."

He heard that, Jack. Luckily his ego is not constructed atop his muscularity, but the concern in Jack's voice delivers a minor blow to it all the same. He doesn't prefer to be defenseless in any sort of irreversible situations, and the least that could happen right now is for Jack not to notice the severity of it.

Oh, well, if you say so. Jack turns his attention to the door.

He clicks the numbers into place, then leans around the doorframe quickly and blasts ice first to the left, then to the --

KTCHAKTCHAKTCHAKTCHA

-- OW JESUS CHRIST right.

He bellows for a moment in pain, though to be fair he has had worse. And then he and the machines are silent.

Well.

That didn't go entirely perfectly, and now there's a bullet somewhere in his arm. Even with his genes upgraded that hurts like a bitch.

But he's on a time limit here. Jack grits his teeth and dives towards the first iced-over turret.

The frozen liquid inside is sluggish, but his cocktail of tonics let Jack work just fine in the cold. The hacking goes smoothly even with an injured arm. When the ice melts, both machine guns are lit a friendly green, and he's able to breathe again.

Sinclair lets his head fall back against the wall once Jack is in the door, pushing a little harder on his wound for pressure and wincing. There are definite reasons he usually works alone, if only for the sake of routine. Sure, on the one hand if Jack had not been there, Sinclair would probably be dead. But if Jack hadn't been there, Sinclair wouldn't have taken this route, none of this would have even happened at all.

He's halfway through a tired sigh when he hears Jack cry out. Reflexively he bolts upright, and it pulls his leg the wrong way but he's able to mostly ignore it.

"Kid!" he calls through the door frame, once the turrets have quieted. "You alright?"

Jack comes back through the door and nods.

His left arm is limp and bleeding pretty badly, but he's already fumbling open the med kit that Sinclair refused.

The concerned look touches his face again when he sees that Sinclair's still on the floor. Come on, man. Stop sitting down on the job, Jack doesn't want to have to straight up carry you out of Rapture.

"Not quick enough," Sinclair says, grinning. What, he's allowed to be proud of his turrets. Jack'll be okay, it's only a flesh wound.

And so is his, but unfortunately he doesn't have the luxury of patching himself up in a second with one of those convenient med kits. It's tempting right about now, but it would be a bad decision in the long run.

He's also not too excited about how he's going to get himself standing again. Whatever he does is not exactly going to be graceful, and on top of it he has the pleasure of knowing Jack is going to be watching the whole process.

However, the mild alarm on Jack's face is enough motivation to just get this over with. That's going to drive him crazy. He braces himself with one hand on the wall and uses his uninjured leg to start to push himself into a standing position. It's a slow and extraordinarily uncomfortable process, but eventually he's sagging against one shoulder. This counts as standing, don't look at him like that.

Apparently nobody ever taught Jack that it's rude to stare. He watches the whole painful process attentively.

...Sinclair's already refused a med pack, so he doesn't offer one again, but he has to admit he has no idea why all this messing around is necessary when he has one or two still stashed away in his cable-knit sweater of holding.

While he keeps an eye on the other man, Jack takes care of his own injuries with a handy med syringe. You're sure you don't want one? Well, whatever. Jack'll just be over here taking the easy route. The shrapnel cuts and shiny burns on his face smooth away, and a few moments later the pain in his arm subsides. There's a weird popping feeling of something being expelled; he brushes his sleeve, and two crushed bullets rattle to the floor.

The blood now dripping down his leg is not the most reassuring sensation, but it's nothing Sinclair can't ignore. After a moment of preparation, he ventures a step forward--

--and immediately stumbles, letting himself fall back against the wall. Talk about instant regret. He'd rather not look at Jack right now, he'll solve this problem on his own thanks.

"Go on ahead, make yourself at home," he says, waving a hand towards the inside of the apartment. He's obviously aggravated, and he doesn't really care too much about covering it up.

He drifts towards the door, but only for a moment. Honestly this whole situation is kinda distressing him.

"Why won't you use the med kit?"

There's almost a plaintive note in his voice. In Jack's mind it's simple: Sinclair's hurt, med kids make people not-hurt, one plus one equals two. In a logical world, the man would not still be leaning on the wall just to stay standing.

Sinclair shakes his head. "Those things run off of ADAM, sport. Watched the development of 'em myself. You think there's something else down here that'd grow the skin back just like that?"

Which, now that he thinks about it, raises another question. Jack's only been in Rapture for a few days, but judging by the ease with which he injects those EVE hypos, he wouldn't say that he's been taking it easy on the splicing. And yet...he's rational enough, he's not violent unless provoked, no unusual growths or deformities that he can see. The kid's almost completely unaffected. Maybe it just hasn't had a real chance to take effect yet, but...it's a question for later. Right now he needs to find a way to stop this bleeding, and pretty fast.

Jack actually has a few questions about that himself, but he's in a better position to answer them, at least with hypotheses. All the same, it's something he'll be asking about sooner or later.

Right now, though, he has to admit that he didn't know this wasn't just medicine. He lacks a point of reference, and he never really thought about it.

He doesn't have to admit to that out loud, though.

He just frowns, frustrated again by the limits of the knowledge in his head.

...There is something he can do, though.

"You need to get into the house," he says, definitely not stating the obvious at all.

"I can carry you. I'm strong."

"Oh no," Sinclair says, laughing in earnest now and shaking his head a bit too enthusiastically. "I'll make my way in, you go on inside and make yourself comfortable," he insists.

The medicine cabinet in his bathroom is really not that far away, under normal circumstances it would have been ten, maybe fifteen seconds of walking time from the front door. He just needs to get used to the feeling of putting pressure on that leg and then he'll be hobbling his way over there in no time. Yeah. No time at all. He's not being stubborn or anything okay, he can do this.

Jack smiles a bit helplessly at the laughter, though his eyes are still worried.

But Sinclair must know what he's doing, right? Even if Jack doesn't quite get it, there must be a good reason for declining assistance, otherwise he wouldn't do it. All that matters to you is you, after all.

So he nods compliantly, and starts to head slowly into the apartment, still keeping an eye on Sinclair but no longer trying to tell him what to do.

And that's when the distant mocking laughter starts.

Ah yes, the unmistakeable noise of approaching splicers. Looks like Sinclair's gonna have to double his hobbling speed.

He reaches for the door frame, hooking his fingers in it to try and swing himself around in one movement. And it works...in that it gets him inside the door frame. But his balance is off, he can't stay standing, and rather than fall over entirely, he lets himself slide down onto the carpet.

This isn't working. And that splicer commotion is only getting louder. Sinclair looks at Jack. The options here have become very few. That's the only reason he's even considering this.

"...Kid," he says. And leaves it at that.

Self-explanatory order. Jack unceremoneously hefts Sinclair up in some kind of bastard cross of a fireman's carry (see?? do you believe him now?????) and the way you're supposed to hold a baby.

...The man is heavy, and Jack wobbles for a moment as he finds a new centre of gravity. But the chemical thrower isn't light either, nor the grenade launcher. And bulking up your body does more than let you swing a wrench. He's gotcha, Sinclair; if anything ends up failing it'll be his balance.

Without further ado, Jack strides past the turrets and into the house.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject