It's a hefty enough pipe that she feels like even she might look intimidating. Slightly. The difference might help her between these Games and home, though. These are a bunch of kids, younger than her and maybe a few older. Home is adults, kids, in-between. Everyone. Five feet looks like a lot more when you're only thirteen.

"Don't," she raises a hand signalling stop. He does it on his own, thankfully, but she's already rolling her eyes, taking her seat back. She lets the sharpened point of the metal hit the floor, a metallic noise rolling through the car louder than she expected. "I can't believe you're trying to pull the tastes like chicken spiel, R. I wasn't born yesterday."

And she's eaten worse than rat, but she's also spent days laid up in a broken, abandoned car, leaning out the empty window holes every now and then to vomit from food poisoning. She'd kill for a Carbtein right now. Just to know she'd have something over nothing at all.

"Only if I'm on the edge of dying or something. It'd be easier to go a few days without eating instead of catching something from them and nuclear vomiting for a week." Not so bad, though. Look at this guy. Undead food connoisseur. "Zombies eat rats?"