Deacon's been oddly insistent on going fishing, and for once, you manage to convince him to let you tag along. But as you both reach the riverbank, it quickly becomes clear he's not really fishing-he's taking potshots at Freakers wandering the shore.

"Some fishing trip," you say, rolling your eyes as he reloads. He shrugs, grinning.

"What? I'm getting my dinner and clearing out freakers."

Despite yourself, you find his laugh infectious as he reloads, aiming at a particularly sluggish one with the same focus he'd have for an actual fish.

"Who needs a pole when you've got this?" he says, patting his gun proudly.