[The screaming, the growing paranoia, the inability to leave... it's just like Rapture again. Just add a few drops of water and rusting metal all about, bloody bits on the walls and the whispering, whispering of insanity and you have the city in a bottle, as it were. So of course, this affects our dear Mister Sinclair, bringing back some serious,
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He slams on the door three times, hard, with his fist.]
Mister Sinclair, are you here?
[Sinclair might note an unusual tension in his voice, and a blue-white glow flickering under the door.]
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If you don't answer, I'm coming in.
[And hoping to god Sinclair doesn't shoot him on sight.]
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Open.
He sidles in, watchful, cautious, and armed to the teeth: his wrench is in his belt, there's a revolver at his waist, and slung over one arm is his shotgun. His left arm glows white-hot with Electrobolt.]
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Carefully, ever so carefully, he moves to the bed, sits down beside Sinclair, and lays a light hand on his arm.
He looks odd himself, the usually soft curves of his face turned set and firm, his eyes hard; he looks more like Andrew Ryan now, with his eyebrows drawn in, his mouth set in a harsh line. There's something in his brain to suppress fear, to turn it to steely determination, though it still lurks there underneath.]
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[He leans over, shaking heavily, and whispers.] W-we've gotta get out've here.
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[He holds his hands up in the universal gesture of 'I'm not a threat,' but don't think he isn't poised to strike, should Sinclair become unpredictable or violent. Jack plans, at the very least, to get himself out of this alive.]
There's no way out. I've checked.
[He barely restrains himself from saying 'we're trapped,' which surely wouldn't help with the panic.]
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Take a deep breath. She's not going to touch you.
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It doesn't even occur to him that the same comfort he offers his girls might be beneath Sinclair's dignity. He leans in and carefully puts his arms around the older man.]
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Finally, his arms tighten. To hold someone is something he knows how to do, and so he'll do it.]
Shh.
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