Jesus Christ, what the hell is this place, Joel is thinking once he's fallen into step behind the kid. The people here look weird. The place looks weird. The smells are weird. Joel can't help eyeing everything with wary suspicion as he walks through the district, his skin prickling with unease at how unsafe he feels and his nerve-endings on edge and hyper-vigilant to any sudden noises or movements.

He comes to a stop next to the kid to wait for traffic - traffic, actual traffic - and watches with blank consternation as the traffic and the people move by in a flurry of activity. The kid speaking to him cuts into his thoughts; he looks down quickly at him, his brows coming together in a vague frown.

"Gazelle?" he echoes. "As in, an antelope?"