#deacon.

“i don't think it's paranoia if you've got a valid reason to be cautious.” case in point: the state of the world. too many people looking for a fight, to claim what's yours — or your life. deacon's arms cross together, absentmindedly rubbing the still-bubbled, scarred skin of his forearm, where a tattoo had been, long ago — before it had been burned away.

he sniffs, and he thinks, for a moment, that he can smell burning flesh.

        ‘ TYRANNICIDE’S  a  beautiful  word . . .   if  you  look  at  it  from  the  RIGHT  ANGLE .  ’

“yeah, i think i'm good.” a watery stream of blood dribbles from his nose, words strained through pained breaths, chest heaving as deacon lifts his bike: slow and unsteady in its initial ascent, a hard sigh of relief coughed up once it's righted. it's far from his first crash, further from the worst — a stretch of road not as littered with the husks of long-dead cars, where he could catch some more speed, and perhaps he wouldn't be able to stand so quickly.

another hacking cough produces some more blood, spat out on the asphalt before deacon glances upward, eyes narrowed in a glare; not at aaron, but just beyond him, centered on the freak that'd prompted him to swerve — splayed out on the road, little more than a head and torso, its legs crushed to hell.

by a car, he presumes.

“bastard wasn't here last time i came through.” hands still cling to the bike's grips, deacon resting himself against the frame — breaths slowly coming easier, but not without pain, sharp and deep. a fractured rib, maybe. deacon's had enough in the past that he feels comfortable diagnosing it.