Damien Wallock sat alone in his seat, the shadow from his hood covering most of his face. He was silent as he stared down at his jeans, studying the fabric covering his left thigh. Without realizing it he'd started to count the diagonal patterns made by the stitching in his pants. He slouched, gripping his right tricep. His fingers wrapping around his upper arm cupping it tightly. His right leg extended to the seat opposite him and his knee bent just slightly, his left planted firmly in front of him; a ninety degree muscular support. The fabric from his jeans swayed slightly as the train rocked back and forth on the rails.

After one too many tries, Damien gave up his quest to inventory the patterns on his thigh; realizing that the motion of the train, and the small size of the lines made his task impossible. Not to mention the fact that he was currently wearing the jeans, and so the lines wrapped around his leg anyway. He tried to focus on something else to keep his mind from wandering too much. He loosened his fingers and removed his hand from his arm, balling his fist and resting his head on it. He placed his elbow on the window's edge, unifying his movements with the train.

His left arm still ached, but he tried not to think about that. He reconsidered letting his mind wander and decided it would be a good idea. He started to think of the things outside his window: the vague dark, the shadows, the certain trees and gravel on the ground. He thought of the rails, and where they lead back to. He thought of the steel they were made of, of the titanium his bike at home was made of. He thought of people who used bikes because they couldn't afford cars.

He stopped. Checked the time. The digital clock on the wall read 6:05. It's yellow numbers scrolled across slowly, blurring into one another and streaking away from him. He was tired. He felt himself slipping into the train as it slowed to let more people off or on. He'd stopped paying attention to who boarded. The only ones he needed to worry about were a few stops back, nothing to concern himself over any longer.

He slipped a bit more and started to think of the station where he'd last seen Barry and Joanna Reeners, and Carl Malloy. He focused on the area around them, the cement and concrete that made up the platform, the lines and angles supporting the area, the blurred noise that raped the scenery every time a chain of cars would pass through. The screaming and hissing of every mechanism involved, human and otherwise. He felt his body swept along by the howling. His mothers voice ringing in his ears, his mind focused on the sweeping motion of that metal through the air. He suddenly felt pinned down.

He stopped again. Jerked his head forward and tried to catch himself from falling out of his seat. He felt his body again, very real and very weighted. No longer pinned down, but not as free as he'd felt moments before. He checked the clock again. "Six twenty." he read aloud. His voice scraping out of his lungs, tired and low. He thought of his mothers words again as he sat there. Every time his arm ached, a stress or a rest placed itself in his minds ear. Her concern was present in the clack of the train cars as he traveled.

"I don't like those kids."

He coughed, shifted his weight a little, and wiped some sweat off his face with his sleeve. Then he rested his head against his knuckles again, applying pressure to the car's window.

"Damien, are you sure about this?"

He coughed again. He tasted sweet on his tongue, and lifted a few fingers to check for blood. There was none. That moment of fear brought him to a solemn resolution. One that he should not have had to come to through experience, but arrived at none the less. "That's the last time I make plans with heroin addicts." he mumbled as he settled back into his seat, and once again let his mind wander.

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Connor's done. It's not all typed, it's only a first draft, but he's done.
I'll do something more with him eventually I guess.