[b]Lynn[/b]

The girl's sputtering was wasted after the first few words. The heat in the clearing rose slowly but steadily, and Lynn's clothes started to smoke faintly. The acrid smell of burning cloth fumed up around her, and Lynn cocked her head to one side, looking up at the girl before her with a growing smile. She didn't have any scars. She didn't need her hair on fire to be healthy. Lynn, for a moment, was jealous, the sad kind that just sighs and goes along its way. There was too much else to linger on it.

"Funny," Lynn whispered. "I didn't get these tattoos in prison here. That's some shit my celly did because she got bored." She was dodging the question. Lynn took a step closer, fingers dancing. "If I can trust you, I'll cremate that fucking body. But I don't think I can. So I'll ask you again - if you were a prisoner here, what was your number? Six digits. Spit it."

Her eyes and hair were reddish orange around the tips, but a faint hint of blue lit the roots and center of her eyes. [i]I do not have much in me,[/i] Lynn thought, merely tipsy rather than fully drunk. Just once, Lynn thought, she wanted a fucking downhill fight on this station. Regardless, there was no need for her to know that. Lynn knew far better, drunk or sober, than to let on you weren't half as strong as you acted. Lynn stepped forward with the confidence of someone two feet taller than her, hands ready to grab her. What had Keaton said about her? Something about alarms and that was it. Goo? Hrrng. "Six numbers. Six numbers and I'll do whatever you need me to. I don't love these bastards. But I'm not turning around to leave and getting a shovel in the back of my head." Lynn's expression almost softened. Maybe it was empathy. Maybe happiness. "Lemme help you."