Thank God Howard hadn't asked him to untie the shoes. R's limber, breathing, and his blood is as red as anyone's now. Still doesn't mean he knows how to work shoes.
Relieved, R glances around for something to do and gets the brilliant idea to move some of the stuff outside the gift shop. Pile it up, go back in for more. He reaches down and collects his crowbar, the towels because those could work as blankets, and a few boxes of Animal Crackers. Those he'll surprise Howard with. They're not in the shape of animals, but Tributes, and these boxes are apparently from the last Arena - he spots a little cartoon of Howard in khakis sprinting through tall grass.
He'd like to ask about this John thing, but he's not sure if he should. Seems private. He respects Howard's right to privacy even in the middle of an Arena. So he lets it go, files it away in the back of his mind. So at least two people aren't buddy-buddy with Howard. Got it.
R sticks the rest of the loot outside. He disregards the voice because he'd always ignore the intercom back home. It'd been automated, buzzing on and off whenever the generators kicked in and he'd long since stopped listening. R steps in through the gift shop doors.
The air splits open as he sets off the alarm.
R makes a strangled noise of surprise as his body does the rest: it claps his hands over his ears as his knees lock up, not sure if he should stay here, sprint left or take his chances going right. Was it him? It was him, wasn't it? He'd tripped something or opened the door wrong.
He swings around, desperately trying to find Howard. What do they do?
no subject
Relieved, R glances around for something to do and gets the brilliant idea to move some of the stuff outside the gift shop. Pile it up, go back in for more. He reaches down and collects his crowbar, the towels because those could work as blankets, and a few boxes of Animal Crackers. Those he'll surprise Howard with. They're not in the shape of animals, but Tributes, and these boxes are apparently from the last Arena - he spots a little cartoon of Howard in khakis sprinting through tall grass.
He'd like to ask about this John thing, but he's not sure if he should. Seems private. He respects Howard's right to privacy even in the middle of an Arena. So he lets it go, files it away in the back of his mind. So at least two people aren't buddy-buddy with Howard. Got it.
R sticks the rest of the loot outside. He disregards the voice because he'd always ignore the intercom back home. It'd been automated, buzzing on and off whenever the generators kicked in and he'd long since stopped listening. R steps in through the gift shop doors.
The air splits open as he sets off the alarm.
R makes a strangled noise of surprise as his body does the rest: it claps his hands over his ears as his knees lock up, not sure if he should stay here, sprint left or take his chances going right. Was it him? It was him, wasn't it? He'd tripped something or opened the door wrong.
He swings around, desperately trying to find Howard. What do they do?