Page 5 of Playing with Fire

The smell hit me just as I was sealing the last container. Not chocolate or vanilla or the lingering astringent scent of Wattson's medical-grade hand soap.

Smoke.

I frowned, looking at the oven, but it wasn't even on. The air felt suddenly different, heavier somehow, pressing against my skin. My lungs seized, refusing to draw in what they sensed as poison. "Doc, did you…"

The smoke detector stayed silent, but suddenly the air felt wrong. Thicker. My heartbeat accelerated, pounding so hard I could feel it in my fingertips, in my temples. Blood and adrenaline flooded systems, preparing for fight or flight.

A whoosh from the front of the trailer, followed by instant, intense heat. Smoke started curling under the front door like probing fingers, seeking entry, seeking flesh.

"Wattson!" My voice cracked as another whoosh came from the back of the trailer. "Fire!"

The heat was already building, making it hard to breathe. Hard to think. My glasses started fogging up from the smoke and I could taste panic in the back of my throat, metallic and sharp.

"Front door's not an option!" Wattson was already moving, grabbing his medical bag from its spot by the counter. "Back window!"

I ran to my room, stumbling as smoke burned my eyes. My laptop. Had to grab my laptop. Everything I'd built, everything I'd coded, all our security systems... My mind fragmented, priorities shifting and realigning under pressure. What defines us when we're forced to choose in an instant? What pieces of ourselves do we save?

My fingers found my phone on the desk, muscle memory taking over. Had to tell Xavier. Had to let him know. Even with flames licking at the walls, with death breathing down my neck, my first thought was of him. Not of my own safety, not of escape, but of making sure Xavier knew what was happening. This level of dependency wasn't normal. But in that moment, it felt like the only truth that mattered.

"Leo, move your ass!" Wattson's voice cut through my panic. Right. Survival first. Objects later.

I snatched my laptop bag and my phone, nearly tripping as I bolted for Wattson's room. The heat was worse now, pressing against my skin like a physical force, like hands trying to push me back into danger. Through the thin walls, I could hear the shouting of other members of my mercenary company who must have spotted the fire. The sounds reached me as if through water, distorted and distant despite their urgency.

Wattson's window stuck. Of course it stuck. Everything in this damn trailer was older than I was. I slammed my shoulder against it once, twice, the impact jarring through my bones. The pain was clarifying, focusing my scattered thoughts. On the third try it gave with a shriek of metal, letting in a rush of cool night air that made the fire behind us roar louder, hungry for the oxygen.

"Go!" Wattson shoved me toward the opening. I pushed my laptop through first, heard it thud on the grass outside. The window frame was hot under my hands as I wiggled through, trying not to think about how close the flames must be.

I fell more than climbed out, landing hard enough to knock my glasses askew. The gravel and dirt of the compound scraped my palms. Somewhere nearby, I could hear Boone shouting orders, the heavy footsteps running to help. The sounds seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, my senses overwhelmed by pain and fear and the terrible brightness of flames.

"Doc?" I scrambled to my feet, heart pounding. A sudden, vivid image flashed through my mind—Wattson trapped, burning, because I'd gone first. Because I'd saved my stupid laptop instead of making sure he was out. Guilt and terror collided in my chest. “Wattson!"

Wattson dropped his medical bag out first, then started squeezing through the window. The flames were visible now, licking around his doorframe, otherworldly in their beauty and horror. I grabbed his arms and pulled as more voices joined the shouting. The acrid smell of burning plastic filled the air as the fire ate through our home.

We collapsed onto the packed dirt of the compound, gasping. Around us, the familiar maze of trailers and salvaged cars cast weird shadows in the firelight. It might’ve been home, but I'd never seen it like this. Never from the outside, never as something vulnerable and breakable rather than a sanctuary.

"Jesus fucking Christ!" That was Boone's voice. He was half dressed standing out in the cold in nothing but his pajamas. "Someone get the extinguishers! Ragnar, check the other trailers! Someone wake up Xion, tell him to get the truck and pull around! Bowie, get the hose!"

I couldn't focus on the chaos. My hands were shaking as I pulled out my phone, barely able to see the screen through my smudged glasses. The world seemed to tunnel down to the small rectangle of light, the message I needed to send. There was only one person I needed to hear from right now.

LEO:Someone just tried to kill me and Wattson. Trailer's gone. We're okay.

Xavier's response was instant:

X:Where are you?

LEO:Compound. By what's left of my trailer.

X:Stay there. I'm on my way.

Just three simple sentences, yet the authority in them made my knees weak. Even through text, Xavier projected a confidence that felt like physical shelter. Even now, even in crisis, my body responded to his command. That just those words—I'm on my way—were enough to make me feel like I could breathe again.

Wattson's hand gripped my shoulder, steadying me as we watched flames consume everything we owned. The fire cast strange shadows across the familiar landscape of stacked cars and scrap metal, turning our home into something alien and terrifying. Other Junkyard Dogs were gathering now, some still in sleep clothes, faces lit by the growing inferno.

"Doc!" Xion jogged up, his body blocking some of the heat. "Leo! You two okay?"

I tried to nod, but nothing felt okay. My throat burned from smoke and my hands wouldn't stop shaking and somewhere in that inferno, my Sailor Mercury figure was melting. Dammit, I'd forgotten to grab the photos. Why hadn't I grabbed my photos?

"Forget the damn trailer,” Wattson shouted. “Soak the ground to keep the fire from spreading."

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