He pauses, looking over at the old...well, older Quentin. He was more serious. Maybe he'd grown up. Maybe they all have. He'd lost the hope he had for the future. He fought out of necessity, because he couldn't be useless, but he couldn't hope to change things. Not anymore. The man who'd been willing to do anything to ensure the future would continue, and he was old and hitting fifty had been a miracle. He still had hoped he'd burnt out, been killed.

Not that he was suicidal, no. He eyed the kid cleaning up, still a kid, at least in comparison to his age. He started stripping down, and Mitch eyed the gash with a wince.

"Yeah, so what the fuck happened? That looks nasty."