"Alright lad," says Atlas -- his voice crackling in Jack's ears as well as on the radio waves. "Getcherself pulled together and get goin'. Time's been wastin'."

Jack nods, forgetting for a moment that Atlas can't see him, and then crawls the last few inches to the wall and sits against it. His whole body is flush like lava and so the damp stone feels wonderfully cool. And he indulges in a bit of mental window-shopping -- what's he going to use all this ADAM for? Everything he can buy, all the plasmids. He might get so much that he can straight up blast his way out of Rapture. Not a bad idea!

He grins broadly at no-one in particular, then stands. Perfectly normally -- there's none of the blurred unsteadiness of being drunk -- his edges are sharpened, not dulled. Happier, braver, smarter, faster, stronger -- the strongest asshole in Rapture. He reminds himself to keep looking out for splicers, though it's not like any of them could touch him if they tried.

Jack breaks his shotgun and starts to reload it with antipersonnel rounds, whistling tunelessly. From here, to the docks, to the sub, to the surface -- it seems about as daunting as a hop, skip and a jump.