Plan? Taking a second to think things through, remind myself of key points and moves, accounting for things, they took time. It was time that she had to throw out some purple flame, setting the middle of the house’s living room on fire. It bought her space, as she moved in the direction of the window.

I’d come in through the side door, Caryatid through the front. The woman—pale and thin with thick-frame rectangular glasses, the sides of her head shaved and her hair tied into a messy bun at the back—had her trash bag of drugs in one hand and fire in the other. Jeans, sneakers, and a purple t-shirt with some new metal band advertised on the front, their logo surrounded by flame.

Her head turned from the flames, where a motion of her hand made the swiftly dwindling fire grow, to the window. She’d need hands free to haul it open.

In the heat of the moment, trying to consider my options, I turned to process, to follow the laws, and if that wasn’t possible, to do what was right—

I looked over in Caryatid’s direction. She’d crumpled over, and she looked like she was alternately trying to stop, drop, and roll and be very still while the flames licked her costume and skin. The skin I could see at her hand looked angry and red, her other hand gripping her arm at the elbow.

“Talk to me, Caryatid!”

“I can’t put it out!”

My heart broke at the composed, stylish young woman sounding so unlike she’d sounded.

I could circle the flame in the center of the room—it was swiftly dwindling. Edging around, I could keep relatively the same distance from the woman with the purple flame—

She moved her hand, and the flame swelled violently, barring my path.

“Let me—”

She moved her hand again. The flame billowed out in a slow moving explosion, though an explosion was the wrong word. It was though a balloon was swiftly expanding in the center of the flame’s mass, and the existing flame was forced to ride the surface, moving out as a wall with nothing beneath it.

“—help her!”

I was left to retreat, and I flew in the direction of an armchair. I hit it, Wretch-strength, and sent the chunks careening toward the woman.

But it wasn’t really possible to aim it, and I didn’t score any direct hits. One chunk hit her bag. Another rolled through the flame. A dismissive move of her hand extinguished it.