She's soaked through. There's saltwater in her hair and on her clothes and deep in the cuts scattered over her skin. More than the smell of gunpowder or the sound of gunfire, the hastily coughed-out mouthful of sand, or even the pain of stinging salt in her wounds, it's the water that terrifies her. She skitters upright, coughing and shuddering; the water dripping out of her hair and from the tip of her nose sending a hard chill down her spine despite the humidity of the air. She sucks in a breath and calls out, on pure instinct: ] Help! Someone fuckin' help!
» TWO
What's your fuckin' problem?
[ That old adage about being seen and not heard has never applied to Ruth, who isn't about to let a bunch of locals stare her down without saying something about it. Who the fuck do these people think they are, standing in silent judgement like a bunch of PTA bitch moms with their hair all layered and their botoxed lips curling in judgement? She's a million miles away from home — from Wyatt, Three, everything she's ever cared about — and in some fucked-up new world, surrounded by judgemental pieces of shit that don't even have the gall to tell her what the fuck she's doing wrong. The longer she stands here thinking, the easier it is to work herself up, and it's obvious: her hands are tight fists, her shoulders square with tension that runs through her whole body, until one of the locals makes a sound something like a tut and all that tension snaps, sharp and sudden, as she launches herself at the woman with a knee to the crotch (still hurts, regardless of what you've got down there) and a hard, closed-fist punch. She's not planning on letting up, either: either someone's going to have to pull her off, or they've got a brief flash of entertainment as Ruth just bodies this woman, knocking the both of them to the ground. ]
» THREE
[ i'm up for anything! hmu on plurk at crowders if you want anything else or just to shoot the shit! ]
ruth langmore — ozark