the smuggler’s bible

Lone

Lone sprints down the corridor, trying to gauge by the gentle rasping sound of scales against polished wood whether he’s gained sufficient distance to stop, turn around and take a shot.

This is actually extremely difficult and is complicated further by the ringing in his ears from the botched stun grenade he ricocheted off the doorjamb to land smack-dab at his own feet. A wasted opportunity, since this whole debacle began as an attempt to settle the question of whether or not the fucked up snake things in the greenhouse even have ears.

But, like, they have to, right? Right?