Blake watched Mallory jump down from the barrel, and the look she gave him said it all. His thoughts on female emissions, and on whether or not that was what they were actually called (he was pretty sure they were actually 'tune-issions', but then again that might have had something to do with tuna, and Mal was never wrong) were interrupted by the sound of his stomach rumbling.<br/><br/>It was at that moment that he recalled that the only thing he'd had to eat all day was a single, rather moldy cracker. He still didn't know where Mal had even gotten the things. He turned around, mindful of the throbbing pain still emanating from the arm that had been broomed (or had it been a mop? He wasn't sure), and sniffed the air, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the area.<br/><br/>Thin legs began moving of their own accord as something reached his nostrils; if there was one thing he'd picked up on from his time on the streets, it was how to find food. And not just<span style="font-style: italic">any</span>food, either- the<span style="font-style: italic">right</span>food. Smelling fish meant the market or the boats, and that was usually no good (it didn't help that fish was 90% of everything he'd smelled for his entire life, living by the coast), and smelling things cooking was no good either because they'd need money for that. No, it was something different he sought after, something-<br/><br/>He froze, his eyes widening excitedly as his pockmarked face stretched itself into a grimy grin.<br/><br/>"Chick'n," he muttered, abruptly changing direction and plunging into some bushes on the other side of the street, nearly getting himself trampled by a group of dockworkers as they moved past the market stalls that made up a considerable portion of the area. He was so intent on the smell that he never turned around to check on Mal; hopefully she was right behind him. He thought he heard her back there, anyway.<br/><br/>The bushes led to even more bushes, and soon he was feeling digs and scratches on the exposed skin of his arms as the branches grazed him, but he still kept onward, now crouched down if only on instinct.<br/><br/>After an amount of time he couldn't possibly identify, he paused and turned painfully to his right (a thick branch was jabbing him hard in the midsection) and extended his hands into the bush in front of him so as to part them. He stared, wide-eyed, at a man snoring in the shadow of a large oak tree. To his right was a basket, from which the aroma of fried chicken was rising, now more pungent than ever.<br/><br/>There was also a bottle tucked under one of his arms, which Blake stared at longingly for a moment, mindful of his injury, before turning back to the basket. His hunger trumped everything else at the moment, even if he was still in pain.<br/><br/>"Y'see it, Mal?"