It would have been too much to hope that this guy is a dumber than the brickhouse he's built to resemble. Alas. Dave can't feel too bad running when he's pretty goddamn outmatched. There is a vague sense of manly pride berating him for it, but the louder voice in his head is telling him to get the fuck out of there. He won't die now, not this early, and it won't be at the hands of a goddamn Makara. No way.

The rock misses, just barely, but it hits the ground near by him with a force that makes him skid and change directions suddenly. Through the fog, it's hard to imagine where he's going, but he holds onto the hope that the bigger guy will lose him if he keeps on trucking.