Like killing people is a merry-go-round ride, is what that question reminds Deacon of. He doesn't entirely disapprove, even if he raises an eyebrow. "Night's young and there are alive people left to eat," Deacon says, almost good-humoured, looking down to adjust shirt sleeves beneath leather jacket, standing casual in a room where the smell of death is already beginning to expand to fit the size, and he can hear the implications of terror in the other corners of the place.

"I can do the heavy lifting if it's not your thing." He only sounds slightly condescending. He only dimly recalls that Fish had been able to fend him off for a few moments, and maybe that as more surprise than brute physicality.

Because it had been pretty fucking surprising.