The crowd is roaring around him as he steps into the cage. The man opposite him has about six inches on him and is packed with exposed muscles, wearing — just like Eoin — just jeans. A lamp above heats them up uncomfortably, and Eoin can already feel his sweat glands going to work.

A deep breath in; no fear. Calculated confidence. Yes, he looks out of his league, and that's how the Cornerstone profits from him. Put the 5'11" kid whose build and muscle groups are more geared towards speed and agility up against opponents that both tower above and outweigh him. Eoin's not scrawny by any means, but audience not regular on a Friday will think that's an open-and-shut case. Maybe that would've been true if they were dealing with a person, and not an animal in a person-shaped suit.

The big man grins wickedly, and Eoin just stares him down; the first hit lands to the chorus of a round of cheers. And Eoin doesn't even dodge. He's fucked now, isn't he? Too slow, couldn't even dodge a single blow, can't even hope to win against his more advantaged opponent.

But there's doom in his eyes. Another punch, this time to his stomach, and Eoin doubles over and growls. His entire world goes black.

It's over within seconds in Eoin's experience, but the crowd goes a bit more hushed; another punch misses as Eoin dodges flawlessly and angles a fist into bare ribs. The hiss and bubble of skin as the sulfuric acid ravages the flesh there; the skin is black and flaking like ash with every movement of the other man — who seems largely unaware — indicating a fourth-degree burn. Eoin doesn't hit hard, but he doesn't have to. His hits just have to land.

Hit by hit, the man's skin turns from healthy to irreparably burnt, until he's sweating and on a single knee. Like a utahraptor with an opening, Eoin pounces and pins the man to the floor, straddling his chest, and punching; punching; punching…

Eoin's optical recording switches back on and the animal in his eyes blinks back to something more rational when he's forcibly pulled off the unmoving man. What's left of his face, underneath the blood, is blackened and charred. Should he feel bad? Probably. But as he shrugs hands off his shoulders, he doesn't care. People should know better than this.

7.) How does your character feel about sex?

Answered here!

8.) How many friends does your character have?

An hour and fifteen minutes. Time has slowed to a halt. To most people, five hours being surrounded by people in a place like the Garfield Conservatory should be nothing. A walk in the park — or the greenhouse, supposing. For three hours, Eoin managed to feign some sense of duty, and as the minutes ticked by, his resolve went with them. He finds himself sitting on a bench, shirt only half tucked in, his tie half undone indicative of continuous pulling on the knot until it starts to slip. Elbows on his knees, the distinct smell of the smoke pouring from his nostrils is lost in the pronounced scent of the assorted plants and flowers he’s surrounded by.

It’s not like he can’t function when he’s stoned. In fact, if you ask Eoin, he does his best work under the influence of weed, or drugs in general. Sober, it’s like there’s an itch in his brain that he can’t scratch unless he breaks open his own skull, or that of someone else. The tension that has been gathering in his body slides off him in slow, gentle waves with every additional drag of the joint. With his eyes closed, one might just mistake him as peaceful.

After an eternity, Eoin straightens up again, joint barely hanging between his lips, and casts his eyes down to the watch he’d inevitably stolen from some rich sod a few years ago. 8:46PM, it tells him, as the smoke he’d only just exhaled is inhaled again quickly in annoyance. Time just does that, doesn’t it? He likes it much more when he can spend ten minutes staring at a ceiling for sixteen hours, when time simply slips away from him and he has no qualms about keeping up with it.