After a couple of Marlowe's fist clenched so tight that the knuckles turn white, he draws back, muscles tensed and prepared to plant a full-out, windmill of a punch on Jones's shot shoulder... reared back, gritting his teeth against the pain, he readies and--<br/><br/>Stops, blinking with suprise, at Jones' words.<br/><br/>"Did you say the armoury..?"  He shakes his head to clear it, and levels his gaze at Jones... "What kind of weird shit..?"  he follows Jones down the corridor, clenching his shoulder and trying to keep an eye out without appearing horribly suspicious.  A tough trick for a half-pale, blood-soaked, unshaven young man with fatigue pants and machinist's boots.