It's a Slow Fire of Sorts: Part I

Fuvir

The word Fuvir doesn't mean much.

It's Kree, and the Kree aren't exactly on Brunnhilde's good side at the moment, but the way Vers says it does something to Brunnhilde's heart. Makes it all weird, and crap, and that- paired with all of the nausea- has Brunnhilde's mind out of sync with the rest of her body.

She's in a haze.

The adrenaline is practically gone at this point, and her reaction time isn't much better.

"Where are you?... got... leaving ASAP, 142-"

The comms are still active, fritzing out from all the interference. Apparently, Brunnhilde didn't tap them hard enough. "Hey, 142- come in- 142, where are you?"

Holding tight to Vers with one hand, Brunnhilde cups her ear with the other, a way to drown out the wind. "The roof of Mierella's," she tries to yell back. "About three clicks away- we're good... getting- getting there. Is everybody else out!?"

There's a bunch of background noise, screaming, then a static- filled: "Negative, negative. There are two gladiators still inside-"

"Gladiators?!" Brunnhilde closes her eyes.

Damn this man.

"We had a plan, Marks!" she groans. "One that didn't involve rescuing gladiators! Why can't you people just listen to instructions?"

"They're in the upper levels. What deck are they in- Yeah, yeah, the Kronan... the Titan mouth- seven? Seven." He turns his attention back to Brunnhilde. "They're in seven. Look, I'm sorry. Just pick them up and drop 'em at A54, alright? They don't deserve to die... need- coming down- can't use the line-"

Brunnhilde doesn't even bother arguing. She's too tired to do much of anything, so all she does is murmur, "They better be worth it," as she scans the opening of the GM's private hangar, hoping that the rest of them get out.

She can hear Gjewio's thankfulness as he signs off for the last time.

"Take care of... alright? The slit- out- East before you're blown- ashes, and don't flarking die, kid. You... or I'll murder you myself, you hear me?"

His voice is rushed, drowned out by overlying engines, but the grief is evident. Even though his words are broken up by crackles, Brunhilde gets the message. "Likewise," she responds. "Stop doing illegal crap and take care of Sal. I'll send some credits once I'm out," and before he can say anything back, she tears her comms out of her ears and shoves them into the side of her armor.

There are ships being boarded in the upper levels- Brunnhilde can hear the distant clicking of phasers calibrating and engines starting up. Four minutes until the bigger, more deadly blimps are primed, based on the flags lining the windows. Wiping the sweat from her forehead, she takes a breath.

Four minutes.

She tries to free her fingers from Vers' death grip to focus on the task at hand- get out of the East before you're blown to pieces- but V isn't having it.

She latches on tighter.

Brunnhilde attempts to claw her off.

"Our ship is a few clicks to the North. We really have to go- V, I need you to let me go-" but the pressure around her wrist merely strengthens, growing tighter and tighter. The heat is permeating into her skin and cracking through her bones until the burning is too much to bear. Her neck is already on fire. Her throat is sore. Her voice hitches, a mix of pain and utter exhaustion. "Gods! Vers- LET ME GO!"

The pressure releases.

Brunnhilde's wrist is free.

She hisses, flexes her hand as she takes stock of the enemy through her tears; smoky palace, angry soldiers... three minutes.