He's close enough to the mouth of the bathysphere that there aren't many blind spots to be had. From this distance, I can't raise my speed enough to slip by without notice, or before reflexes will have him blocking my way. Each step I take echoes against the walls, and the lap of water against the smooth metallic surface clashes with their pace; if he isn't backing down, then there will be conflict, and the sooner I resign myself to the fact, the sooner I'll be likely to make it down to the city. (I have no doubt that someone has been sent below already, that Jason has allies by his side, or if nothing else, allies trying to make their way to his side. No guarantee that he'd accept their help. Not where I'm concerned.)

"No chance of convincing you to step aside where my son is concerned?" I ask. It's a thin chance; he doesn't look the fatherly type.

(Then again, neither do I.)

I raise my arm, holding it in front of me as I try to slip him by, hoping that the sharp edge might serve as any kind of deterrent. Or, if nothing else, as a defense.