The fire extinguisher wasn't a weapon.
It was a statement.
And that statement, screamed in a high-pitched hiss of pressurized foam, was: "I am very, very tired of you cybernetic ghost-dogs in my workplace."
HSSSSSSSSSS!
Dr. Aris Thorne, a man who looked like he'd lose a debate with a nervous intern, stood in the doorway, blasting the lunging Phase Hound with a torrent of freezing, white foam.
The hound let out a screech that was half-shriek, half-static, as the intense cold hit its exposed cybernetics.
Its phasing ability, which relied on a delicate energy balance, went completely haywire.
It flickered, stuttered, and for a glorious, solid three seconds, it became fully corporeal, its form locked in place as its internal systems tried to reboot.
It was the only opening they were going to get.
"Well, I'll be," Jax breathed from the floor, a look of pure, unadulterated awe on his face. "The nerd has a plan."
Jinx didn't waste the opportunity.
