The girl's face goes red underneath all the powder she caked on, clashing with her neon pink blush and eyeliner. She faintly quivers with rage as a piece of apple-drenched crust drips down her dress in a long trail and finally plops off at her feet. Her eyes brim with tears. R almost feels bad for her (he doesn't like seeing people cry, whether it's because he's tearing off their legs or because Howard's being way too harsh). Sniffling, the girl turns and flounces off, jostling several people entering the Speakeasy and vanishing into the night.

Come tomorrow, some of Howard's ratings may have gone down. He won't get any gifts from her neighborhood next Arena.

R watches for a few seconds longer, fascinated. So that's what total rejection looks likes.

He turns back to Howard, coming up with a single word that somehow sounds disapproving. "Uncool."

Maybe he's too dead to get offended. R has no idea. It's hard to bother when half the time your mind washes in and out on itself like the tide. What he does know, in the here and now before he forgets, is that he thinks Howard went too far. Zombies aren't high class; the Living girl was right on that front. R tries to frown at his new friend, but his corpse only manages an awkward twitch and starts drifting slightly to the side like the chair wants to shift out under him. R lists to the left to compensate, his colorless eyes fixed on the other Tribute. At least he hasn't told Howard to go apologize.