Jet brushing the blood from his face feels oddly muted until Albert remembers that he hasn't shaved in three weeks or however long it's been in the arena so far. Briefly, he imagines coming out after with a snowy white beard and is left wondering where the hell that idea came from. By the time the thought flees him, Jet's across the room again, huddled as if he's going to be sick.

"It must be the gimmick in this arena. First cold and mist then heat and haze. I expect it'll turn back again in several days so it's a good thing you stashed your supplies." He motions to the bundle of knife, pipe, sleeping bag, and shoes. "We've got food to last for a good long while now, but water we'll have to go hunting for."

Wiping off his knife with the torn edge of some cloth, Albert stands to stretch his legs from crouching for too long. He looks at Jet again, eyebrows furrowed. "Are you feeling any better? You look like you might vomit."