Metal, then. Told Quentin I'd send him some vinyls if we make it out of here. I'll hook you up, too.

[Jeff is under no illusions about their likelihood of escape. It's a platitude for himself, a self-soothing balm, because he refuses to just give up entirely. He'll keep looking for that glimmer light through the fog as long as he's able to.

(Not that he's immune to despair. Not that things don't feel just a little more crushingly futile every single time he watches someone skewered by a hook. Dangerous, stupid thoughts-)

He shakes his head.]

You'd like moshing.