Round 166 Transcript

The tension in generator room tightens for a beat as the interruption refuses to go away. Everyone is forced to stay quiet and choose their next move carefully.

I'm not a fucking radiator, but fine—as long as this actually works and we get out of here before I turn into an icicle statue. Don't expect me to be pleasant about it though. My teeth are chattering so hard they nearly crack my jaw—cold is eating through shield magic like acid on parchment. Here goes nothing. I rip open Silra's jacket and mine simultaneously, yank the lubricant bottle open with shaking hands, and start slathering it across our stomachs in thick layers despite how disgusting it feels. The stuff is warm at least, conducts heat better than fabric alone—already I can feel some sensation returning to my fingers as it soaks into skin. This is humiliating but effective enough, you smug little hacker bitch. Now plant something permanent and get us moving before these meatheads close distance and turn us both into Swiss cheese.

I check my interface—white noise holding but I need to plant something permanent in their systems before the security leader adapts tactics. Jeane's magic is barely maintaining shield temperature now, and if she collapses from hypothermia, we're both dead anyway. The lubricant transfer is logical enough as a heat exchange solution—I hate relying on someone else's magical stability for my survival but tactical necessity overrides personal discomfort here—but her tone suggests she'd rather freeze than trust me even in this situation. The security team is moving into flanking formation now, using generator equipment for cover while their leader signals coordinated approach. They're not amateurs—they'll be in range to engage within twenty seconds unless I finish this hack or we move. My fingers fly across interface controls as I plant a deeper-level virus that should keep their internal surveillance feeds looping even after physical system reset. The data spike glows hotter in my hand—heat transfer is working at least, Jeane's shield magic has stopped flickering so dangerously—but I need her functional and mobile if we're getting out of here alive. The security leader shouts orders to his team: "On my mark, three-count execute!" Their weapons are raised now, night vision optics adjusting for better target acquisition in the failing light. Jeane is still covered in lubricant from our forced heat exchange but at least she's not actively freezing anymore—that's a tactical improvement even if it makes me want to shower immediately—and her magic is more stable than before. I glance back quickly: "If you can maintain that shield and move, we're getting out the east exit in five seconds once I plant this virus permanently. If not, we both die here or worse." My voice is flat and practical—no emotion except the irritation of having to coordinate with someone whose magic I need functional right now. The data spike finishes embedding into their system—I see confirmation codes scrolling across my interface as it takes root—and then I yank it free before turning fully toward Jeane. "You good enough to run and maintain that shield simultaneously?" It's not an emotional question or a request for reassurance—just a tactical assessment of whether she can function at the level needed for extraction. Because if she collapses from hypothermia during our escape, I'm on my own against armed security in a confined space with no backup magic except whatever street-level spells I might be able to cast under pressure while avoiding friendly fire.