[Jimmy darts quickly to the side when Chica goes down hard, skidding around the corner and quickly into the kitchen. He has no time to think, just act. He just hopes that Joker will be alright out there.
In the meantime, he starts searching frantically through the supplies, crates and boxes of things lined on the shelves. Most of it is aged from disuse, since the place has been due to close soon anyway. (It's a wonder that they're even guarding the place, to be honest). He feels his hands brush glass, and without stopping long enough to check what exactly he's holding, he shakes the bottle, feels liquid sloshing inside, and throws it against the ground.
The crash of shattering glass carries with it the scent of alcohol, meaning he's on the right track. He tosses a few more down, reaching up to the shelf that's up high and out of reach, bottles clearly placed up there for workers to indulge in when nobody was watching. Thank God for these long legs of his. He can also feel the alcohol splashing up around his legs and soaking into the edges of his jeans, but he ignores it until he's gotten as many of the bottles down as he can manage.
Matches, matches....he yanks the matchbook out and fumbles for one of the matches, trying to remember what he saw Joker do with them. A few strikes and false starts before the stick flares into life, lighting up the room.
And there, just in the far corner, stands Freddy. Still as death, white eyes wide and staring down at Jimmy with a permanent grin, shattered glass being the only thing separating him and the rule breaker. ...good thing he doesn't need to worry about that.
Joker will hear a strangled cry of terror as Jimmy falls back against the shelf, the match dropping from his hand. Almost immediately, the entire floor is alive with flames.]
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In the meantime, he starts searching frantically through the supplies, crates and boxes of things lined on the shelves. Most of it is aged from disuse, since the place has been due to close soon anyway. (It's a wonder that they're even guarding the place, to be honest). He feels his hands brush glass, and without stopping long enough to check what exactly he's holding, he shakes the bottle, feels liquid sloshing inside, and throws it against the ground.
The crash of shattering glass carries with it the scent of alcohol, meaning he's on the right track. He tosses a few more down, reaching up to the shelf that's up high and out of reach, bottles clearly placed up there for workers to indulge in when nobody was watching. Thank God for these long legs of his. He can also feel the alcohol splashing up around his legs and soaking into the edges of his jeans, but he ignores it until he's gotten as many of the bottles down as he can manage.
Matches, matches....he yanks the matchbook out and fumbles for one of the matches, trying to remember what he saw Joker do with them. A few strikes and false starts before the stick flares into life, lighting up the room.
And there, just in the far corner, stands Freddy. Still as death, white eyes wide and staring down at Jimmy with a permanent grin, shattered glass being the only thing separating him and the rule breaker. ...good thing he doesn't need to worry about that.
Joker will hear a strangled cry of terror as Jimmy falls back against the shelf, the match dropping from his hand. Almost immediately, the entire floor is alive with flames.]