“You know, it’s a sad, sad day for the city when even a saint can’t trust his fellow man.” Leaning casually against his cane, Pestilence’s smile is everything that could be expected of the eldest horseman; that is, mockingly cheerful and condescending which makes the sparkle in his eye all the more worrying. There’s also a genuine touch of surprise – oh, not at the lock, only an idiot would leave anything unchained in New York. Well, a great idiot than even Catholic canonization could produce. Rather, he’s simply shocked at running into one of scampering do-gooders in a city packed full of other immortals. It was sort of like finding the Virgin Mary in Vegas; though that had surprised him significantly less than how obscenely easy it had been to get Her Holiness really pissed drunk.
He relies on the cane to limp the few feet to Martin’s bike, making a show of examining it, idly thumping a wheel with his cane. “Well, I see sainthood pays as well as usual. Big Guy still not giving you a raise? You know, if I were, I’d have claimed he grabbed my ass and sued for sexual harassment by now. Just a suggestion.”