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Summary
Ratio raised his own glass with some reluctance, and with the rest of them, took a sip—
—just as something slimy rolled down his tongue.
He swallowed. It felt a little bit like a spot of phlegm that would build up during a cold. He cleared his throat, once, twice.
“Avent—” he tried, before sound closed up and he grabbed at his neck, choking on a cough that would not come.
“...Ratio?”
Heimlich maneuver. He could—he could do it with the chair, Ratio thought, but he could not pry his own hand from futilely scratching at his throat. It would be no use. He could feel it, the phlegm growing in his throat, expanding up the back of his tongue and down his esophagus, like something more unnatural than a common bit of food.
A hostile Borisin ship is an unfortunate place to navigate the fragile beginnings of a new relationship, and perhaps an even more unfortunate place to be assassinated.