[size=9pt]Inevitability and scars. Funny this was what was on the stranger's mind, because, for Moon, these two topics in particular had been all he'd thought about, these past few days. How death loved to take the few things he treasured and how scars loved to mold themselves into his flesh so regularly. How futile it was to run from his past and how the eventual return of what made him wake in a cold sweat every night would come, raising it's ugly head over the horizon soon enough, and up until then, it was only a waiting game. So he'd lie in the dirt and watch a stranger tear a dummy to bits, let his recklessness take the wheel and be the dramatic adolescent the movies spoke of.

"You need a better punching bag." Comes his voice, raspy with exhaustion. The side of his face is freshly stitched up, skin knitted back together messily after yesterday's ordeal, and, complete with the ribs that poke out from his sides and the gaunt look he'd carried around with him, lately, Moon was not looking like the world's most imposing opponent. But there was an electricity in his veins, fear that ran, steady, up and down his spine, and if he didn't move, soon, he'd surely lose it. He drags himself up from the ground, saunters forward. "And I'm about the only thing 'round here close to your size. Wanna' get your paws on something real? Usually, the only thing off limits is the face -- delicate merchandise -- but this is a special occasion. Do your worst."