Bold of you to assume, Inej. Rarely ever does Jack know exactly what he's doing. He just sort of... does it, and it tends to work out like a solid eighty percent of the time. It's not a terrible track record, if you ask him, considering the statistical odds of his survival in reality ought to be closer to a nice round 0.

But here he is, and here she is, and there that thing goes. Flames lick up the roots and tendrils, and there's a high-pitched noise that could either just be burning tinder or the teeny, tiny sound of something screaming.

Whatever the case, her bindings begin to wither and snap.

Also, somewhere along the way he realizes fire breathing is a legitimate talent that requires skill and practice, which he has not done ever in his entire life, and little speckled mist of flames spew wonkily from his mouth, singing his arm hair and nearly lighting his shirt on fire.

"Fuck, shit, fuck-" he gaps, swatting at his torch-arm and trying not to inhale burnt hair.

Fuck this. Time to go nuclear. He dumps the remainder of the beverage onto the body of the plant-thing, then chucks the torch at it. May the Dark God forgive him for littering one day in the future. Right now, he needs both hands free so he can reach for hers and start to pull her out.

"Here, come on, grab on-"