[ a bloodcurdling get out is one hell of an alternative wake-up call to what quinn considers singing. he's up, he's at 'em, and he's stuck in some new goddamn hole that's — what his money's on as — undoubtedly waller's doing. the woman has a fetish; there's no two-ways about it. she likes watching them suffer. put 'em in the maze and watch the little rats scurry.

first thing he notices is the lack of a fail-safe. there's no familiar weight of exploding turtlenecks or anklets laced with nitric acid. it's a test. has to be. so, he'll play. without orders, without any sign of what to do next, he goes with gut instinct. floyd's turning the place over, the scope that serves as vision in his right eye is honed in on the metrics, pulling in what information he can. life forms outside of the room, their thermal marks visible in varying distances. they left him armed, practically strapped in and ready for a fight. ammo across his chest, glocks in their holsters, bulletproof vest, and a few other toys strapped to his legs and ankles — what the hell is she up to?

it isn't until he's combing through the lockers that he finds it. one of the pictures of his daughter, zoe, he keeps folded up and tucked in his vest. it's a sick fucking gesture, but it motivates him, gets him ready for whatever the hell else she's got planned for him. ( under the bed's a small purple something he figures for an egg. he doesn't question it; what's the point now? it goes into one of the leg pockets of his pants. )

he adjusts his scope with gloved fingers, allowing it to focus as he braces himself for what's coming next. he turns the knob, almost offended in all its ease. he points the gun forward, slowly making his way from the room with caution. one step closer to getting out of here.

one step closer to being thrown back in the hole until the next time waller feels like playing god. ]

[ gunshots attract them. he tries not to take that personally.

find him doing the following: ]

↪ floyd's stopped pointing fingers at waller by the time he reaches the medical bay. whatever this is, whoever's behind this, it's bigger than ARGUS. maybe even bigger than waller. he raises a brow at the set-up the compound's got and it's almost cute. the clamor of what feels like a goddamn circus causes him to disappear and continue a more extensive search for answers.

↪ the living quarters don't hold much. other than a headache and more bodies panicking, following suit in confusion. no familiar faces, and a part of him is almost glad for it.

↪ he takes the time to investigate the weapons shed, coming in for sloppy seconds at this point. without much room for anything other than the sniper rifle that he throws over his shoulder, he tucks some spare ammunition and a pistol ( yes, another one ) into wherever he can.

↪ which brings our devilishly handsome anti-hero to the rooftops to do what he does best — see from a distance and finally get a good goddamn vantage point on the situation.