((ooc: I'll forgive yours if you forgive mine XD;; Until I find suitable icons, have a wall of text: Darran is 5'8, brown (some German, some Sioux, a little Mexican, and a lot of mutt), and has an orange fauxhawk. He's also holy shit scarred all over his chest, arms, and back-- various old bullet and blade scars, and even a brand-- and has two tattoos on his right bicep. I don't have an image for the bottom one, but it's similar in style.))

Darran was wandering the Labyrinth in much the same black mood, looking for things to stomp. The heat was really irritating him-- he'd stripped to the waist, tying the arms of his green jumpsuit so they'd stay out of his way. He was trying to keep his panic unease in check, but that was getting harder and harder as time passed. He knew he had a pack out there somewhere, and it couldn't be good that he'd separated from them. But why couldn't he remember their names? Why hadn't they found him yet? And what the fuck did "treason" mean? Of everything he'd ever done, he was no fucking traitor.

Despite spoiling for trouble, he'd found nothing whatsoever until he overheard a woman speaking around the corner. He grinned; he'd be willing to treat her as neutral for now, but if she turned out to be a fight, so much the better. And though he wouldn't admit it, deep down it was a relief to find a sign of real life amidst all the clockwork. "Hey there," he called as he stepped around the corner. Might was well be polite enough to give warning.