Don't think R doesn't hear that little indelicate snort behind him. It's like a giggle if Julie lassoed it back before it morphed into a laugh. He likes that too, right up there with her scrunchy face. She knows how bad this is – how bad it all looks – but she’s still able to laugh and he thinks that’s Something. R rolls his shoulder in a shrug. Trust him, there’s a shrug for every occasion and R’s had plenty of time to come up with every variation in between. This is the “I’ll make it work, trust me” flavor.

“Lots…of…smells,” R admits. He’s the first to make to the bottom of the escalator, R peering into the shadows. He can’t see much more than she does, but the smells do jump out at him. Life…here and here and oh yeah, over there. Small. Not what that hunger needs. Probably more rats. They don’t pull at him with the same kneejerk reaction he gets around, say, someone like Julie. They’re there, though, if he concentrates past the general smell of rot and mold and dead things in the dark.

“…Cuh-clear.”

Maybe he’s playing at being an army puke today or maybe it’s something he remember from his Living days. Too much Call of Duty or Medal of Honor? Who knows. All he does know is he gives it his stamp of approval, for all that’s worth, and R even flaps a hand at Julie to give his all-clear. He’d give her a thumbs up if he knew how. (R wishes he had a machete to give to Julie, though).

R stands there waiting for Julie. He refuses to shuffle off until he knows where she is. She brings this weird, funky little focus spearing through his grey matter and he’s determined not to disappoint. Maybe he didn’t nab her a machete, but he can at least help her through the tunnels, maybe nab her a little dinner if she doesn’t mind rats. R’s hand comes back groping for hers.