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Summary
“Hey, how long do we have until this thing sinks?”
“I’d say ten minutes.” Yasopp calls, having scrambled up the mast, peering about at the wreckage with a hand sheltering his brow, “Maybe less, depending on what you’re planning to do.”
Shanks hums. He lays back against the wood, rubs his throat, coaxing the rise of blood and the crystallization of thought. He enjoys the touch, the coarse rasp of the thin hairs scattered on his throat, even if by his own hand.
Ten minutes sounds good enough to him.