Adrift

No knife in my ribs, or bullet. Or shouted call to his troops. When I can see again, Burns is just sitting along the opposite wall. Moping.

The foam smells like kids medicine – burns the skin. Ironic, that. Scooping it away from my eyes; shoving myself back against the helm.

Burns could be stabbing me while I’m blinded and coughing foam, except… he is too. Lesson: don’t start (or be) a fire on my ship.

Adrenaline encourages large gulps of air – *supremely* unhelpful when on fire, or coated in extinguisher foam. (Which I am, near-instantly.)

The blue-white brushtip shape of the lighter flame grazes my shirt; its ignition makes a hard WHUFF in the air. Adrenaline crashes into me.

Shirt soaked in accelerant. I keep choking him. Don’t know where he gets the stim-lighter, but it reminds me Burns is a verb, not his name.

He tries smashing something into my head, by my shoulder takes most of it. Fishes some aerosol accelerant out of a pocket. I get a faceful.

Now he’s talking about his son. Didn’t know he had a s- wait, what? What’s he saying about K- What? WHAT? Can’t talk when I’m CHOKING you?

For a few seconds, I even can’t sort out who he’s angry at, let alone what he’s angry /about/. It’s not me, though, which — wait. Kaetlyn?

As soon as we’re alone, Burns rounds on me, growling threats too… /honest/ to be ignored. However, they aren’t aimed at me, which is new.