[b]Lynn[/b] Cordelia Lynn Holmes was a great many things, but wise enough to avoid taking the bait was most assuredly not one of them. Since Lynn had come on-board the Promise, she'd had a noose around her neck just loose enough to let her breath. Strapped and collared on the flight. Bound to a bed and told she wasn't medically clear to leave. Detained for something she wasn't remotely involved in by the sort of security force Lynn could only assume was literally making a game of seeing how far they could fit their heads up their own asses rather than stop these freakshows. She couldn't knock Natalie's teeth out for narc'ing on them, she couldn't slap Amelia for coming and talking to her at the cafeteria, and she couldn't knee Archie in the groin for picking flowers for every bitch who looked at him twice on this station. Up until juvy, Lynn had not ever dealt with that shit. If you insulted her, Lynn made a diss track. If you slapped her, Lynn punched back. And if you punched her, Lynn burned your fucking world down. Lynn was five feet closer to Salamandra before she made her feet stop moving. "Keaton get the fuck out before I glass this bitch," Lynn spat out, some back corner of her mind that was desperately trying to hold back the rest, like a child trying to stop the ocean from demolishing his sand castle. And a kid was what Salamandra had made her fucking feel like. [i]You were the one,[/i] Lynn wanted to scream, if the deep down parts, the Che parts and the Lucy parts and the cold parts, could even admit it, [i]You were the one that was never fucking afraid.[/i] Lynn was Salamandra when she was getting beat in, or beaten by the six foot two hundred pound bitches in juvy, powerless and frail as any other hundred pound girl, curled on the floor. Lynn was Salamandra when they'd made her burn. When they'd - when they'd laughed. You didn't laugh at someone who wasn't your bitch. And Cordelia Lynn Holmes was not anyone's fucking bitch. Not ever again. "You Nelson Mandela sounding fuck," Lynn said back. She'd taken her hoodie off, sometime, she wasn't sure when. Lynn's hair was white, her eyes burning to match, and around her the air shimmered and broiled, the bottom of her shoes just barely starting to run out onto the floor. Where Lynn's knuckles split as she clenched them tight, steam rolled from the cuts as her superheated blood met whatever cool air was left around her. Visibly, the food in her belly had already begun to shrink. "You belong in the pen. You're Gennedy's little bitch." Lynn spared one moment to glance at Archie, curled on the floor, grasping at his knee. [i]Get the fuck up, Boats,[/i] Lynn thought. [i]I -[/i] Salamandra's next words cut through Lynn's thoughts. She wanted a date. Archie was sixteen, seventeen? He hadn't had any fuck-ups 'til tenth grade. [i]There was a man, older, screaming on the floor, his left hand smoking from the fingertips, the number Lynn had dialed in her right idly forgotten, she was gone - "Lynn, they tried to - " "They tried what? They tried fucking what?"[/i] Lynn walked towards Salamandra. Ten feet. Nine. Eight. This fat bitch was probably nine, ten inches taller. Maybe eighty pounds. Lynn was going to make her eat her own fucking heart. "Square up." Lynn hissed, hands rising to her jaw. Along the knuckles, Lynn's skin burned bright enough to hurt the eyes, and her tanktop burned and split where it came in contact with her skin, the acrid smell trailing off her. Where Lynn exhaled, there was a brief flicker of blue flame that traced her breath. The Fire Worms were a bunch of pussies anyways, and the West Coast had shitty rap.