“Not-Dead Madison . . . “ Jack reflects briefly as if running through a list in his mind, “The woman with the parasol, yes, hard luck being born with skin that pale, inclement weather as it is.” Jack’s comments are pleasant enough, despite the fact that they obviate his only surprisingly pale flesh, and as if the scorching heat they endure isn’t the norm.<br/><br/>“She’s one of Esther’s favorites isn’t she? Good with her hands for compressors and engines and the like.” Jack’s tone doesn’t convey any sort of deeper implications for ‘maintenance’, but the fact that madison is more or less what passes for a pretty-young-thing in Gomorrah begs the question for him: What exactly would Jack know about all that, since he’s hardly the sociable sort. Seems like every time Jack knows something about anything people jump to the idea that he must be skulking about or stalking said person/place/phenomenon. He’d been here for long enough now not to have to resort to anything than his usual surreptitious observation for a general knowledge of things. He was a good listener, even if people rarely liked to talk to him, and had sharp eyes even if people didn’t like him watching them.<br/><br/>Jack’s quick pace urged on the two thugs all the faster to reach their location, the spring in his step spurring them onward despite the fact that he showed no signs himself of exertion; he might as well be out for a Sunday stroll.