the smuggler’s bible


The cat is a quiet, warm lump curled on Fiona’s lap beneath her sweater. The white tip of its tail drapes out under the hem, flicking back and forth across her knee.

“It’s like they’re trying to be half lunatic cannibal and half scavenger warband,” Fiona says, tossing a pebble at the rusted out drain pipe across the alley. “They’re so confused they’d probably try and eat the bike if they caught us.”

She hears loud whooping a few blocks to the west, then tires screeching on pavement.

“God, I hate factions,” she says. “Especially shitty ones with terrible themes.”