Luke crouches by the stable door, hidden in the shadow of a stack of hay bales. Behind him, Fulk sneezes softly, and Luke nudges him with an elbow. It’s six fifteen am, and they’re expecting the phantoms any minute. Trawl and Galligher are behind the house in the woodshed, and Wrens and Thomas are in the side pantry.

The Jacklun family had sat down for breakfast ten minutes ago, and they’ve been lying in waiting since then, so Luke figures it’s perfectly understandable that his knees have taken up arms in protest, and the picture of the joints marching up and down a protest line with flags and placards he got from that is just ridiculous.

A horse across the aisle snorts and moseys forward to hang her head over the stall door. Luke eyes her nervously, hoping she isn’t about to…whinny.

“For the love of—” Luke mutters, his voice covered by the shrill neigh of the chestnut mare. And it’s about then that he realizes probably she was whinnying in response to something, and edges forward just slightly to peek through a knothole in the barn wall. “Bingo.”

“What? Do you see something?” Fulk hisses, and Luke silences him with a raised hand. The house door appears to be slightly ajar… The tiniest breeze confirms that for him as it nudges the green door open just an inch.

“Lets go.”

Luke rises to his feet, knees creaking, gesturing for Fulk to follow. Slowly, carefully, he moves into the open doorway, feet scuffing quietly on the grass as he steps outside. From there, it’s a short jaunt to the front door, and he covers it quickly. Fulk shadows him, and holds the hinges as he carefully eases the door further open, to cover any squeaks.

And that’s when Mr. Dawson’s daughter, Jenny, screams.

Luke bolts for the kitchen, closely followed by Fulk, and he can hear the back door banging open as presumably Galligher and Trawl do the same.

He has wind in hand as he bursts through into the kitchen, and only that protects him from the man watching the door. A quick twist, and it strengthens tenfold, slamming the man into the far wall and holding him there even as he struggles.

Luke barely has time to take stock of the situation before another is on him, and damn he’s big. He’s suddenly thankful of the lead cored collar that’s part of the Fleet uniform as a knife flashes upwards, and that’s all the incentive he needs to pull the oxygen as far from his attacker as possible. The molecules quiver in his grasp, but he holds them firm, creating a bubble of solid carbon dioxide around the man’s head. He feels rather than sees Thomas’s entry into the fight, heat screaming by him as what he guesses in the kitchen table explodes.

He throws out a stream of pure oxygen just in time to redirect a spurt of flames coming in his direction. He reshapes the poisonous air around the man in his sights as he begins to slump towards the ground, ensuring it will go with him.

A scream grabs his attention, and he spins to see a third OL pinned to the wall with a carving knife, two candelabras, and a handful of rough cutlery. Trawl advances on him, a dull butter knife floating ahead, and Luke turns back to the man he’d pinned earlier as the knife works its way slowly into the OL’s neck.

The fiery mess that was the kitchen table is between him and the former guard, and it takes only a small breeze to waft it towards the back wall. Behind him, he can hear Fulk dragging the family for the door and Wrens fighting hand to hand with a fourth man. Luke inhales deeply, and grins a bit madly at the OL on the wall. The flames are licking at his heels now, urged on by the gale force wind holding him in place and making the chandelier swing wildly.

They’ve been instructed to use as much force as is necessary, and he’s barely getting started.

Slowly, almost lazily, a storm builds overhead.

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Scene 5-I

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