At first, the lurching and clanging of the mechanics distract him, throw him off, but it doesn't take long for him to gather his bearings. He can sense someone following him, but he's careful not to let on that he knows. Every so often, he slows in his steps to glance deliberately over his shoulder like he's expecting someone to show up in his peripherals. The man eludes him; he seems like a sharp guy.

The tarp slung over his shoulder jostles with the few items he's acquired, the bazooka clinking against the plastic syringes within the tight confines. Begrudgingly he keeps them, knowing that they'll come in handy, somewhere in the future. He doesn't want to use the bazooka on some asshole tailing him like this, not even as a last resort. Hell, he can't remember the last time there was a 'last resort' for him. It's not like the guy could kill him.

Maybe. It's hard to say anymore. Things about him have changed already, regarding his physical inability to respawn endless guns. Who knows what else about him has been altered?

"And down the rabbit hole he goes." It's murmured under his breath in a ragged way, like whispering a curse for his pursuer, and with another sharp turn of the corridor, he suddenly leaves his tarp o' stuff on the ground. A bit of a distraction. Reaper himself nowhere to be seen. He hasn't entered any of the rooms yet, using the twisting maze to his advantage first before resorting to finding a 'kill room', so to speak.