Round 182 Transcript

The tension in collapsing dock (east side) tightens for a beat as the interruption refuses to go away. Everyone is forced to stay quiet and choose their next move carefully.

Jeane snatches the jacket with shaking hands, her crimson eyes flashing dangerously. Fine. Five minutes of your… creative problem-solving, she hisses, pulling the damp fabric around herself. But if I start glowing like a fucking Christmas tree before then, we're improvising, not explaining. The wet jacket does little to stop her shivering—if anything, it adds another layer of clammy discomfort. Her shield magic flickers ominously in response to her irritation. And don't act like you're doing me some great favor! She mutters through chattering teeth. I'd rather freeze solid than be grateful for your… unique methods of heat transfer. Jeane's demonic pride wars with her body's desperate need for warmth. The cold is winning, and she hates every second of this vulnerability. But since you insist on playing hero, she continues in a low voice, at least have the decency to make it quick. I don't fancy explaining to those guards why we're pressed together like cheap whores in a back alley. She pulls the jacket tighter around herself—Silra's scent still lingering in the fabric. And if you screw this up, Jeane adds with a venomous undertone, remember that I can burn through rope faster than you can talk your way out of restraints. So don't fuck it up.

Silra's teal eyes narrow as she watches Jeane struggle with pride and physics. Five minutes, just like I said. And I don't care how much you hate it—cuddling is better than dying of hypothermia or getting arrested for 'demon activity.' She shivers—the cold still seeping through her wet clothes despite her bravado.

To the approaching guards: Officers! Thank goodness you found us—we were trapped under debris when the water pressure built up. My friend here was injured, and I'm not exactly a medic. Her voice trembles convincingly. We're so grateful for your help. Back to Jeane through gritted teeth, Keep that shield stable. I'll have them disarmed in thirty seconds—you just need to hold out for five minutes of close contact. Silra's pointed ears twitch with irritation and cold. And if you can't maintain it, say something before you start glowing like a fucking bonfire. We don't need half the dock security down here wondering why there's a succubus in heat. She shifts her grip on the wrench—cold iron against elven skin feels wrong but necessary. Focus on maintaining that shield. I'll handle the guards. Silra's fingers are clumsy from hypothermia, but she's managed worse. Just… try to keep your glowing to a minimum until we're through that east hatch. Her teal eyes lock onto Jeane's crimson ones with an edge of annoyance and calculation. Five minutes of mutual discomfort for freedom. Or we improvise something messier in front of armed witnesses who'll definitely report 'demon activity.' Your choice, princess—cold intimacy or corporate interrogation.