Round 177 Transcript

At dark corridor in New York high rise penthouse suite, the pressure shifts from waiting to immediate risk. The ward answers the party's presence with a fresh pulse through the stone and no one can mistake it for safety. The nearest sign of danger is now structural collapse imminent. Someone has to answer that change now.

I can barely hold this mirror in place anymore. The floor is slick with whatever spilled here—lube and water—and my burned hands are losing grip. The wardstone pulses harder now, like a drumbeat counting down to something terrible. Jeane, what's the plan? We need that door braced properly before it gives way. I can't keep Hera safe like this much longer.

The building groans like a dying beast. The wardstone's pulse is sharp now—painfully so—and Jeane cutting off her channel makes things feel worse before better. I crouch down, pressing my palms flat against the warm floorboards, feeling the pressure of weight above and the shift beneath us. The door Hera is leaning on creaks more than the rest. "Hera," I say, voice tight but steady, "back off that doorway." She's not stupid—just scared—and complies with a jerky movement that sends her stumbling against C, who braces herself harder against the mirror they're using as a barricade. The floor beneath them is slick with spilled lubricant and water from the broken shower stall upstairs; I can hear it sloshing. I'm not an engineer, but I've climbed enough rooftops to recognize when pressure points are about to give. "Jeane," I call out without looking at her, "how long until that door fails?" The question is mostly rhetorical—I already feel the strain in the wood—but I need a number to work with. There's silence for a moment, then: "Minutes." Of course there fucking are. I push off the floor and move quickly—carefully—to the side wall, running my hands along the ceiling joists. They creak but hold. For now. "What's the plan?" C shouts over her shoulder while bracing the door. Her voice is strained; I can see her injured hands trembling even in the weak light filtering down from above. "Find an exit or brace this thing properly?"

I don't answer immediately, focusing instead on finding the space between joists—where the floor will give first if it gives at all. The ceiling groans overhead like a ship's hull taking on water. I need leverage. "Jeane," I call out again, still not looking away from the ceiling structure above us, "can you maintain that barrier while helping to brace this side of the door frame?" My eyes are adjusting to the darkness now; I can make out her silhouette near the wardstone's location. The air around it shimmers with barely contained energy. She pauses for too long—a bad sign when time is short—and then: "Yes, but—" "But what?" I snap without meaning to. We don't have time for 'buts.'