the funeral

there exists a tipping point between gods and monsters

"It shows," Jack mutters - he plans to have a real scout around the Exchange once he's found his bearings in King's End, to test just how mature it really is in its dealings (seedy or otherwise). He's been here a decent amount before, of course, so he knows the ropes, but this is different. This is putting down roots, setting balls rolling, the sort of shit he hasn't had to do since he was a much younger man in Torchline.

And he can feel the vague prickle of creativity, of hope that the Flood has for his budding region, though by and large it seems as though they've been against the odds with the onslaught of the void. Tearing his gaze away from the stalls and shops at their back, he falls into step with Sunjata, a hand in his pocket, the other taking the cigarette from his lips.

"Tch, you mean the way you abandoned Torchline," Jack corrects with a brief raise of his eyebrows that dares the other man to challenge him on it. It might be a long time ago now, but Jack hasn't had nearly enough opportunities to needle him about it just yet. As for his father... "If he's washed up, it ain't pinged anythin' in any of my networks," he confesses. "Then again, might be he's been smashed to bits or picked clean or both. If that's the case, I'd not expect much to wash up other'n bits of bone an' rags."