There were a fuckton of ships on this flotilla. A fuckton of ships with a fuckload of dipshits wandering around on them. And ‘wandering’ was the key word. Laura knew she could scavenge every goddamn corner of a boat, not find even a hint of crack anywhere on it, and leave a split-second before a group of coke-toting motherfuckers arrived. The longer she took to find her prize, the more likely it would be that someone would have already taken all of it.
So.
“HEY!”
Sometimes you just needed to take direct action.
“LEVIATHAN MOTHERFUCKERS!”
Laura jogged along the jetties, Doc Martens providing a merry percussion accompaniment as they clomp clomp clomped along, with the occasional splash of a saltwater puddle cutting in, like the band’s drummer had suddenly slipped and ate shit in a pool of jello.
“WHICH ONE OF YOU CUNTS HAS GOT THE COKE?”
Her bag slapped against her back, like a really shitty, limp drum solo, more of a 'clomp clomp clomp' than a 'smack smack smack' - actually, fuck, this was really starting to hurt, and the strap was digging into her bare arms like a motherfucker.
“YOU’D BETTER NOT HAVE ALREADY TAKEN IT ALL, ELSE I’LL BE REAL FUCKIN’ MAD!”
Yeah, the odds of getting sniped in the dome were, like, sky fucking high, but fuck it, what a way to go out, right? It’d be on highlight reels for years to come. Besides, far as she could tell, most people tended to avoid the running, yelling, probably-totes-insane ones, both in life and in SOTF. Honestly, she was more at risk of getting a stitch in her side than a bullet. Probably. Don't, like, fuckin' quote her on that, she was a streamer, not a fuckin' physician, or mathematician, or any other boring boffin job ending in 'tician'.
“IF YOU’RE NOT A LEVIATHAN THEN, LIKE, FUCK OFF, THIS MESSAGE AIN’T FOR YOU.”
Laura ran on, leaving the echoes of her voice and the bobbing, waving jetties in her wake.
((Laura Hakštok continued in Time Out))