The warehouse, unsurprisingly, doesn't respond. It just continues to seethe.

Dylan, too, is brooding when Jack arrives, arms folded over his chest as he leans nearby where the network spits out. Some of his anger disappears, when he hears Jack, sees him, slipping behind a poker face he's had centuries of practice on, but there's something still lingering behind his eyes, something malicious.

"Hey," he calls, moving to meet him.