The question had been loaded. Just a little. But the answer seemed genuine, though the bandages made Harvey's expression more disguised, less disgusting.

Then he ducked out of that line of conversation altogether, and S.T. stifled a sigh of relief.

Harvey wasn't the only one who leaned more to the brains side. The only thing S.T. marathoned was movies. He kept in shape, between not being able to afford a car and lately spending his nights running from zombies, giant rats, and whatever the fuck those things had been last night.

"Maybe one of the boys in spandex will be up for this trip. Show us how it's done." Peter could pull off the brains department too, if he pulled his head out of his teen-aged ass long enough to think, but if there were sudden rolling boulders and bottomless pits, he'd be more help. Because who ever remembered the two guys who went in with Indiana Jones. If one of them was a hot chick, maybe, but them? Sidekick cannon fodder.

The frequency of casual march-by inspections of their work had remained fairly constant throughout the conversation. Now it picked up, bootheels ringing like a fascist music video dance squad. S.T. faked a little more effort, but it looked like they were about to let the lab rats out to piss and get some fresh air. Great. His knees were starting to ache from squatting without a chance to stretch.