He held up his hand, watching it tremble.

The Gatorade, red flavored, was gurgling out of the dropped bottle. File under Nasty Carpet. Of course he hadn't dropped it on the concrete part of his theater's floor. The arm holding up the hand started to tremble too, then slowly twitched, and finally was shaking. Back muscles protested. Especially down low. He was scared to sit down.

The carcass of the metal chair he was dragging watched it all in silence.

A kick sent the bottle flying, and treacherous muscles spilled him onto the ground. Now? He was kind of glad it was carpet. Gatorade seeped into his clothing, soaked up from the floor. Sweat stung eyes like drops of Tabasco. Was it all sweat? Maybe.

Quivering hands covered the sweat-slicked face. He hadn't totally lied about the chairs. He didn't want help. He probably needed it, though. Probably just like he needed to be in the other theater.

Complicated? Totally, yo.

No, he did not want to wrestle around with the girls. The easy answer? Because girls. The real answer? Because embarrassed. The stupid furball was probably stronger than he was. The chairs? They'd change it. Eventually. He'd get back to normal. Skip the stupid part. Where he wasn't going to get a body builder roommie to help him.

Eventually.

He just needed. To. Get. Up.

Get up. Laying down? It's what did this. Spend a year in bed. It's why he'd ran. Why'd the Illusionist run the race? Because he could. Get over it. Get back in shape. Nothing to it but to do it. Just like The Wall.

Just. Get. Up.