[Dillon looks - off. His clothes are neat as always, unrumpled, untorn, stained here and there with perfect ovoids of blood where he was wounded and healed, his shirt automatically mending, leaving only select signs of an earlier wound. The waterline on his pants from wading is as even as a level. His hair is in crisp array, like any airbrushed hollywood hero's, out of place with the tired, ragged way he holds his shoulders, the tight bitterness around his mouth. There's blood dried on his hands, too, and that isn't his. He should be looking where he's going, especially in the maze, but he isn't. He's stumbling, angry and reckless, and his healing clears the gas as quickly as he breathes it, leaving no illogical fear to replace the logical sort he lost long ago, when danger became something that only happened to people around him.]
laaaate