[Conversely, Richie might be running but he is on the highest alert for strangeness and sounds. The footfalls heading his way give him pause. He slows, but doesn't stop, listening, turning to check behind him and to the side.
The fucking echoes in this place. It's their fault he checks the wrong direction first, one hundred percent.
Richie's bowled over by some two-hundred pounds of Soviet swagger and clatters to the ground in an ungainly heap. He goes down with a yelp and an open palmed swat to whatever part of the assailant he can reach.]
no subject
The fucking echoes in this place. It's their fault he checks the wrong direction first, one hundred percent.
Richie's bowled over by some two-hundred pounds of Soviet swagger and clatters to the ground in an ungainly heap. He goes down with a yelp and an open palmed swat to whatever part of the assailant he can reach.]
Augh — get off!