The guard is not hard to hit, even with the haze of smoke - the trouble with coughing your lungs up on a battlefield is that it doesn't exactly leave you fit for battle. He falls, not dead, but dying. The grass around him, still damp from an earlier rainshower, sizzles sadly.

"Thanks," Layla gasps. Then, "Fuck. Not doing that again."

How often could holding something flammable against a pyrokinetic possibly come up? Probably more often than she's remotely comfortable with.

She gives her head a sharp shake to reorient her senses, forcing herself to ignore the nagging sense that her joints are going to flex in all the wrong directions as she pulls out the components for the third charge.