Reunion

You, Groblidor the Pugilist, are connected to Ramasker, Spider Conman
Ramasker, Spider Conman: "...crap."
Groblidor the Pugilist: "JON! Oh my goodness, you're alright!" Groblidor ducked her head, leaned forward and opened her palms flat like she did when about to dip into a break-neck sprint. Four, five shaky steps towards her beloved, and she faceplanted, sliding across the turf. Wobbly, she tried to muscle herself back to her feet, but it wasn't working. Eventually, she resorted to just crawling. Once there on her stomach, her back became visible.

The silk of her cape was scorched, the whole of her bare back a mosaic of fist-sized holes, cauterized by the same bone-deep burns that covered the entire back of her body. Her mighty spine and ribs were visible in the open air, the soot of her own partially incinerated flesh making them grey, white, and black all at once. She smiled all the same, overcome with joy that nothing had gotten to her husband. "Don't worry, Jon! I'm coming!"
Ramasker, Spider Conman: "Holy, I...what...what happened...to you?" His face looked queezy and he began to back away. "What the...fuck?"
Groblidor the Pugilist: There were still embers, orange coals smoldering their way up her nappy hairdo, which'd been reduced to about shoulder-length. The smell was awful. "Someone bad. Dangerous. Dishonorable. They may still be around, coming to hurt us. But do not worry." Somehow, she managed to get a knee under her body, starting to use her legs to try and press up to her feet, rather than try to use her arms, which were useless with nearly every muscle in her back missing in action. "But do not worry. I...will be ready...this time."
Ramasker, Spider Conman: "Just...just lie down, okay?" He place one of his hands on her, trying to push her down. "Yo...you shouldn't move like that!" Was this his fault? He was just feeling sicker and sicker.
Groblidor the Pugilist: Groblidor's skin felt cold and clammy, not like the vital heat he's felt from her those nights ago. She was missing a lot of blood, not that she could be convinced of her condition. Even scarier; he was able to push her down quite easily. "Oof," her open back struck the ground as she lost balance, dirt and rocks and grass crashing up into her exposed bone. "Ahh...Dont...do that."
Ramasker, Spider Conman: "L...look! Okay, uh...just...just drink this, okay?" He hands, shaking, reached into his pack to find a water flask. "Don't move anymore!"
Groblidor the Pugilist: She nodded, tried to raise a hand to receive the flask, to no avail. Now, he could see that the hand of one arm was completely incinerated, nothing but a charred stump of a wrist. The other was broken, the bones warped from heat, twisted ugly and unnatural. Then, the flask exploded in a flash of ceramic and water in all directions, the sound of whizzing air and something slamming into the dirt following soon after. A crack of gunfire.

Across the meadow, the Capitol spires sprawling in the distant horizon behind them, a tall frame sauntered across the grass and spring flowers. They wore a Stetson with grey hawk feathers, had a shemagh hanging lazily on their shoulders of the same hue, a brown blazer, ratty jeans, and a single black glove. The shouldered a long rifle, with a scope nearly the same length as the entire weapon. The other hand lugged a smoking revolver.

Even at this great distance, the awful sheen of an evil acidic emerald eye pierced the pair.
Ramasker, Spider Conman: "...stay here, okay?" He lightly patted her and scuttled off towards the figure-notably putting himself between them and her. He nervously waved towards them.
Groblidor the Pugilist: "Wait- no, no, no, Jon," Groblidor couldn't even lift her head to try and see him scuttling away. "Where are you-"