<strong>Character</strong>: Rich Han<br/><strong>Location</strong>: Gary Danko Backroom, Fisherman's Wharf<br/><strong>Time</strong>: Present<br/><strong>Attire</strong>: Running shoes, cargo pants, t-shirt, backpack<br/><strong>Tagged</strong>: Rich, Rose<br/><br/><hr/><hr/><br/>Rich let out a soft sigh of relief as he cracked open the pantry door: the floor had a thick layer of dust on it.  There were only two tracks of footprints, presumably made by the late Gary Danko's leather loafers, and a wide arc where the door's opening had swept the dust aside.<br/><br/>He took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darker room.  Slowly, the lumps, ridges, and canyons of the rear wall resolved into metal racks and plastic bins, sacks of foodstuffs and stacks of metal cans.  Rich's eyes widened, both from excitement and from nightvision.<br/><br/>"Jackpot," he hissed through a tight smile.  There had to be enough food here to last him months.  Longer, if he rationed properly.<br/><br/>His smile faded when he noticed the small, dark piles on the floor: moldy oats mixed with rat droppings.  He muttered a curse under his breath and stepped forward to the rack.  He ran his hands over one of the sacks, frowning at the soft, dimpled feel.  He picked it up, feeling a shifting weight at one end and a patter on his right shoe.  He looked down, watching as the oats filtered out of a gaping hole chewed in one corner of the burlap.  Small black specks were mixed in with yellow and brown grains.<br/><br/>Face twisted in disgust, Rich dropped the bag and tried another.  Same thing.<br/><br/>The third bag was full and intact, however, as were the next two after that.  He grabbed them and slipped them into his backpack, then grabbed a couple of cans and tossed them in as well.  After a few seconds of further searching, he found a bag of beans and added them to his growing store.  He paused, considering, then added a second bag of beans and a small sack of flour.<br/><br/>His backpack now bulging with the foodstuffs, Rich slid it back on, tottering slightly as he found his new center of gravity.<br/><br/>And then he stopped cold.  Something was moving, something inside the restaurant.  Right there in the kitchen by the sound of it.<br/><br/>Every muscle in his body tensed as he listened.  Whoever or whatever it was, it hadn't changed it's pace or rhythm, so it probably wasn't aware of his presence.  What a stroke of luck!<br/><br/>In situations like these, Rich preferred stealth and evasion.  At worst, he could knock someone off their feet and let his own carry him into the clear, but he loathed direct confrontation.  Fights were messy.  People were hurt, bones were broken, supplies stolen.  They were difficult to predict and even harder to control.  People were morons, and they often fought like them.  This made it all the harder for him: it's impossible to predict what a fool will do.<br/><br/>Worst of all, fights were noisy, and noise was death.<br/><br/>His backpack's straps were pressing into his shoulders, putting a slight pressure on his chest.  That wouldn't do.  If things got rough, the weight would throw him off balance and restrict his breathing.  He silently slid the backpack off and made his way to the entry of the pantry.  If he was lucky, it would just be a random zombie.  He had gotten what he came here for, so he didn't care if the place was overrun or not.<br/><br/><div class="spoiler_container"><div class="spoiler_header" onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button">OOC</div><div class="spoiler_body">Rich attempts to stealthily move to the entrance of the pantry and spot whoever or whatever's there.<br/><br/>Stealth roll: 8 (https://elliquiy.com/forums/dicebot.php?r=63490)<br/>Note: Not sure I did it right.  Double check for me Jr?</div></div>