It's not the stadium. In fact, the place has never been a stadium in its life. Even in the empty husk of its belly, the station feels cramped, the rot closing in on her in a way it never did at home. Her back pressed to a wall, heart hammering, she doesn't move. Even if she's used to the hustle and bustle of tightly-packed bodies, there's a smooth danger in the lines of these people that begs her to stay out of the way. Without even a stick for defense, it's the best bet -- and that's after admitting the Cornucopia is a treasure begging to be picked. Supplies are limited, are always limited. Humans just picked up the rat-like tendency to harbor anything they could find with the least bit of use.

Speaking of rats. "Shit!" she hisses out through clenched teeth, a horrifically large specimen climbing the hill of her shoe and the whip-like tail just brushing her ankle. It ambles off, fat and content with the load of apple flesh in its hands. From the corner of her eye, the red of the fruit looks like it could just be a chunk of missing flesh. If rats eating people is all she's got to worry about, it'll be a breeze.

Right.

Her fingers itch for that crowbar, and she slides close to the ground to wait, deliberating, watching. Weighing options. Risk whatever, grab it, run. She's fast, she's learned how to run -- but she's also learned when the stakes are too high, when to pull back. Not courtesy of dad, by the way. Still. It's tempting, and it's a question of risk it now or risk it later. There's always something to defend herself from, it's just whether it comes up sooner or when she could really get screwed.