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</div><br/>​</div>Another man's voice startled him out of his quiet contemplation, causing Darius to blink, a tad startled. He'd assumed everyone was either getting used to their respective rooms, or checking out the accommodations-no doubt far more modest than some of them were used to. It had not escaped Darius's notice that, of the patients he had seen, he was by far the poorest. That used to be something that had sat badly with him, eating further at his already deep insecurities-but nowadays, he could have cared less. He was a street junkie-there was no nice way to put something like that. And, beneath the extra luggage and the expensive clothing and the multiple prescriptions, they were all the same as him.<br/><br/>This man, though-this man hadn't been on the bus. Darius was almost sure of it.<br/><br/>He looked arguably even worse than Darius did, himself. His hair was unkempt, as if he'd been sweating and hadn't yet washed it out. His eyes were a bit bloodshot. But there was a certain confidence and swagger with the way he walked, like he knew full well that he belonged there, and was not about to answer any questions about it thank you very much. It was a confidence that Darius lacked, and so, he found himself admiring it.<br/><br/>Ordinarily, he would have kept the lighter to himself for fear of it being ripped off-but it was a cheap plastic one, maybe good for a handful of uses before the fluid ran out. Darius shrugged and handed the orange plastic over, the small sound of liquid swishing in the plastic sounding as he did so. The temperature outside was steadily growing, and he could feel dampness starting to gather at the back of his neck.<br/><br/>He shrugged at the question of putting the smokers out in the sun-sure, it was probably unfair. But it was meant as a deterrent against indulging in that habit, Darius was sure. A subtle implication that you were 'other'. Choose to inhale ten different kinds of chemicals if you want, but these actions will have consequences in polite society. Funny-he'd spent most of his time high, and no one had suspected a thing. Some had even preferred him that way-more docile, less likely to argue.<br/><br/>He looked over curiously as the man introduced himself. Talkative fellow for a place like this. For a moment, Darius simply observed him, cigarette smoke drifting lazily in the air from the lit end which rested between his index finger and his ring finger. This guy....Darius knew this guy. Had never met him personally, but had seen many just like him every day during his various stints in prison. Knew what the bruises scattered across his cheeks and arms were signs of; where they had most likely come from. Knew why he looked sick; had a fairly certain idea what he might have been sick from. Knew from the gautness of his eyes that he had likely known hunger before, just as Darius had.<br/><br/>He was a comrade. From Darius's side of the fence; not like the playboy kids still indoors.<br/><br/>Seeming to come to a decision about River, Darius gave a small nod. He lifted his cigarette and inhaled deeply, tasting hot ash and tar, exhaling away from River out of a superficial sense of courtesy. "Darius." His name always sounded so stupid, like some lofty professor rather than average street fare.  The name of some long-dead Persian emperor. Picked from one of his mother's high-school level college textbooks.<br/><br/>Eager to steer the subject away from any reactions to his name, Darius spoke again. "Your accent-French?" There was definitely a lilt to it, but it didn't sound Spanish exactly, or at least not the city-shaped Spanish he'd heared spoken in San Fransisco. But it wasn't Tolowa either, like the kids on the reservation near where he grew up had sounded.