Sawyer sat by the outer wall of the Dojo, his large and callused hand tightly gripping the stem of an old bottle of champagne. He had siphoned a nice, hard lager into it, good enough to make his vision topsy-turvy after years of drinking, and clothed the thing in an old brown bag. Slouched against the cold and metallic barier behind him, he tipped the bottle forward and parted his lips enough to let the vile swill trickle down his throat. The man closed his bloodshot eyes and felt just a second of reprieve, a minor and fleeting comfort before his mind drifted back to other thoughts. His body in the New Haven flat. Lifeless, fingers pressing into the cold porcelain, still and naked with blood running from his neck, trickling into the contours of his muscled chest. Not his, but someone made to look like him. Someone to cover his tracks. [i]Don't think about that[/i]. He scolded his mind for its involuntary migration towards the image seared into his mind with a scorching brand and took a swig of his drink once again. [spoiler]Open. Just to really establish relationships. Talk to the old man if you'd like.[/spoiler]