[All in all, he's actually had rougher awakenings. And after a...productive conversation with the illustrious Mr. Crook—(kind of on the nose, isn't it?)—he's more than ready for a lay of the land. Takes the offer for a serviceable enough motorbike to get him to town and figures he'll sweat the catch later.

(A loan for a ride and a clean bill of health, buy-one-get-one free? That sounds like a racket if he's ever heard one. But six months is a lot of time to figure out how to get clean before the legbreakers come collecting.)

If nothing else, Jason's in his element in the city. Better to spend his time getting a feel for it. So: some few days after his arrival, he's perched with deliberate ease at the edge of the roof of one of the crappy motels. Not exactly drawing attention to himself, but easy enough to spot if anyone were coming out for a smoke break, or some stargazing, or some better signal on their spotty new cell phone. One tallish guy in a leather jacket and jeans, the red hood of his sweater pulled up over his head to fend off the light mist of evening rain. Maybe 20 years old or so. Leaning against a wall, legs stretched out in front of him, boots crossed at the ankle.

He's been out here a bit, apparently. He's a little damp, there's a wilting paper cup of what passes for shitty hotel coffee sitting cold beside him, and he's turning his phone over in his hands kind of restlessly as he watches the people pass by below. It's got a good view of the street and the sporadic evening traffic. Since he's got himself some company, he spares a glance over. Then he turns his attention back toward the street, though he gives the newcomer a lazy wave of his phone.]

Y'want a go? I'm really racking up a high score on snake.

[That's...obviously not why he's up here. But he doesn't exactly seem inclined to share the details of his little stakeout, just yet.]

[The unreliable power isn't much of a shock, given the state of the accomodations. Sure is a pain in the ass, though, especially at times like this, when the whole East side seems to have gone dark. Doesn't exactly do a lot for a sense of security. Case in point: There's a sudden bit of a commotion from down the hall. Something slamming. Raised voices. Hard to tell the tone at a distance—it's anger, maybe. Fear, probably. Familiar enough to know it can't mean anything good.

Tracking down the right hallway, things seem to quiet just as he gets close. But he's not the only person who'd come looking. (Or hey, maybe you just have noisy neighbors. It's a tough market for motels these days.)

He looks between the door and his company in the hall. (It's oddly quiet, now. Suspiciously so, even. But this was the right direction.)

Wry—]

So, are you gonna knock, or should I?

[Only seems polite. (He's...probably joking.)]

[He's kicking himself, really, for not seeing this coming. Going in without an exit strategy is about as rookie a mistake as you can get. But in his defense—well. Not like he's working from the most advantageous of positions. Nothing to do but adjust on the fly, which means figuring out what the hell to do about the lockdown. The computer is nice enough to give a hint, so all he's got to do is find the code. (Easy, right?)]

3.a : [Given the state of the sloshing cargo, it stands to reason this is some sort of medical facility. There could be plenty of plausible reason for the the spiky scrawled notes that keep cropping up as he flips through files. One of them, though, stops him before he can skim past it.

Tell me. How does that feel?

Oddly phrased, but plausible enough. Until he flips it over.

Forehand? Or—

The rest of it is blotted out by apparent water damage. (Doesn't matter, he knows what it said.) He's frozen a moment, free hand clenching and unclenching at his side. Or—it feels like a moment. But the water creeps up, and he doesn't seem to notice.]

3.b: [He'd been nice and quiet about it at first. Did the methodical searching thing. But then the water starts to rise. And shift. And the third time he catches himself hackling at the blurry bobbing faces in the water he starts losing his patience. There's a time for quiet, and there's a time for hauling the filing cabinet off its feet and chucking it experimentally at the window just to cover your bases, and he figured the seeing things that shouldn't be there means he's hit plan B about fifteen minutes ago.

For all the good it does—the cabinet bounces off the window with a horrific crash but the glass is stubbornly unscathed. The splash it makes as it falls back into the floodwater sends even worse waves lapping up and down the walls, the scattered furniture.

Okay. Plan C, then.

But also: What the fuck.]

[Or, some other poor sap has landed themselves on the interior. And given the frankly nightmarish look of things on the inside, they could really stand some springing before things get worse.

Luckily, Jason's a pretty clever guy. Even better—Bruce taught him to read lips when he was twelve years old. Assuming the person stuck inside has lips...it doesn't take too long to communicate the problem. Shouldn't be hard to address it.

But he's then gone from the window for...a minute. Comes to the window to doublecheck the sequence, looking kind of harried, jaw tight, eyes gone flinty, and then ducks off again. The next time he comes back, it looks a hell of a lot like someone's worked him over while he was gone. A split in his lip, new bruise already going dark on a cheekbone. He hammers a frustrated fist into the window like it'll catch any attention through the soundproofing. Then, when he's sure he's got it— he raises a hand. Leather gloves all slick with rain and...something else. Don't ask. (Or, do. But y'know, not right now.)

He holds up 3 fingers. Then 4. Almost there. He needs those last two symbols again, bud, please and thanks.]