Somewhere between Jack being swept off his feet and being blown straight up into the bird-haunted storm, a scarred and heavily-muscled arm lashes out to snag the fox around the middle and tug him tight against a large body that smells of heated metal and machine oil and, oddly, singed feathers.

"I gotcha!" assures a woman's voice, and that might be familiar as one of the new arrivals, if the bright red skin of the arm holding him in a grip that's probably too tight to be entirely comfortable isn't.

Even with the wind and driving rain, she radiates heat like a small furnace, and there's a faint sizzle as water hits the glowing, metal-riveted vents that dot her shoulders like horrifying freckles, visible if he turns his head much at all.