Round 167 Transcript

Silra's eyes lock onto Jeane's as she takes a step back, her gaze assessing the sorcerer's condition. "You're good enough to run and maintain that shield simultaneously?" she repeats, her tone even but laced with a hint of concern. The security team is now mere seconds away from closing in, their rifles at the ready. Jeane's teeth still chatter as she struggles to maintain her shield magic. Her eyes dart between Silra and the approaching security team, her jaw clenched in determination. "I... I think so," she stammers, her voice barely audible over the sound of her own heartbeat. The lubricant on her skin is starting to warm her up, but it's clear she's not out of the woods yet. The security leader shouts an order, his voice carrying through the generator room: "Now!" The team springs into action, their rifles trained on Jeane and Silra as they prepare to close in.

My teeth are still chattering but I can feel warmth spreading from where that slick lubricant meets Silra's skin—conductive enough apparently, though it feels disgusting. Fine, we're leaving. But next time you need a heat source during an op, find a fucking space heater instead of using me as your personal radiator. I struggle to my feet despite the residual hypothermia making my movements clumsy, but manage to maintain the shield magic through sheer force of will. East exit in five seconds, got it. Just... don't expect me to be graceful while I'm still half-frozen and covered in this goop you call tactical lubricant. My eyes narrow as I glare at the approaching security team—their night vision optics are clearly compensating for the failing emergency lights, which means we're still at a disadvantage. Move when you say so, but if they get too close before we're clear, don't complain when my shield magic starts getting creative and painful. Despite the lingering cold and residual shivering, I manage to stand ready—shield held firm even if it's costing me more energy than I'd like to admit. The forced heat exchange with Silra was practical but humiliating, and I'm not about to forget who suggested it as a solution. Let's get this done so we can both get cleaned up and far away from whatever the hell is going on in this corporate fuckhole.

I check my interface—white noise still holding but I need to finish planting that virus before their security systems compensate. Jeane is shivering despite the lubricant transfer but her shield magic has stabilized enough for movement—I can work with that, even if she's clearly irritated about it. The security team will be in effective engagement range within seven seconds unless we move now. My fingers fly across the interface as I finalize the virus embedding—the data spike glows hotter in my hand but at least it's working—and then I yank it free before turning fully toward Jeane. You said you can run and maintain that shield simultaneously, right? Because if not, we're both dead or worse within ten seconds once those meatheads get close enough to engage. I don't wait for confirmation—I'm already moving toward the east exit at a sprint, trusting she'll follow since neither of us wants to face armed security alone in this confined space. Come on! The exit is clear so far but won't stay that way long! The lubricant is still slick against my skin where it touched Jeane's—disgusting transfer method or not, it worked well enough for tactical needs. If she collapses from hypothermia during our sprint through these corridors, I'm on my own and probably dead within minutes. But if her shield magic holds and we get to the docks before backup arrives, then her irritation at being used as a human space heater was worth it as a survival tactic even if I have to endure another lecture about boundaries once we're safe. The security leader's voice echoes behind us: "They're running east! After them!" Footsteps pound in pursuit—professional training shows in their coordination already—and I increase my speed while keeping Jeane visible ahead of me.*

The corridors blur past as we sprint, emergency lights flickering ominously. If Jeane's shield fails now from hypothermia aftereffects or magical exhaustion, we're both just targets for these corporate goons. But if she holds up and we reach the docks section before they catch us—then I can use my hacking skills to open the loading bay doors while she provides cover with that unstable magic of hers. The question is whether she's got enough functional energy left after nearly freezing herself solid earlier, because if not, this escape plan depends entirely on her stubborn refusal to collapse from cold when a warm bed and hot shower sound like heaven right now.