Deacon's pointedly not looking at the ground. It's a wonder he doesn't trip and eat shit in the water he's averting his gaze from. He doesn't need to see it, he's lived it. It haunts him even now, skin crawling with an unclean feeling, stomach lurching, dread and regret piling high.

There's another death playing out now, same gang as before, minus the redhead. Their victim, however, is the woman he'd been seen with. Targeted and taken down in cold blood.

As this plays out behind him, Deacon feels Danse's comment prick him like a needle, digging into his skin. He whips around, flickering into sight and ready to give Danse a mouthful when he sees her laid out, cold and dead.

It's then that he breaks, sucking in a breath that when exhaled, whispers her name: "Barbara..."

It's no mistake now, not just because of Deacon's reaction, but because of the way he stares horrified, his reflection mirrored as the younger, redheaded man, similarly struck with tremendous grief, his shaking hands handling the synth component ripped from her body.

Deacon feels weak, taking a few steps backwards, his silhouette misty at its edges. He feels like he could collapse, and having forgotten everything he'd been ready to snarl at Danse before there's only one thing he can say.

"It isn't," he croaks, "Not anymore."