[ if sound travels, then so do smells, and the distinct scent of a cookout is unmistakable. how the sizzle of a cookout isn't attracting unwanted attention is beyond him, but he supposes not to look a gift horse in the mouth. the deck's wide open. a gaggle of strangers are coming in and out, and there doesn't seem to be a need for an invitation.

it's the perfect place to steal things from, even it's just the small bits and pieces. (what can he say, he feels naked unarmed.)

it's not to say that he's not helping out; he does when he's hailed by the burly man who seems to be running the show, as well as the others who catch his attention, but one of the commands he's getting is just a little too vague for him to get.

he makes the universal gesture of what?, face crumpled up in confusion with palms held up loose. ]

[ a fight club. or, more likely, a fight garage. imagine that.

tetora watches as pairs face off, and it's mostly a quiet affair - muted oofs, cut-off grunts, near-silent drops in what would otherwise be a room full of shouting but is no less full of blood spit out on the floor. it's a different kind of exhilaration.

he can't wait for his turn, and it shows in how antsy for a turn he is. he's itching for a fight; he's been stripped of his things, understandably, but did they have to take his knives?

his eyes are bright and alive. pick me, he communicates with the white of his knuckles and the shine in his eyes, fight me. ]