Round 198 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.

The floor heaves again—something massive shifting above—and Hera's whimper cuts through the groans of straining metal. I can feel the wardstone responding like teeth finding flesh, its energy sloppy and eager against my carefully constructed barrier held in place by a dildo plugged into the wall socket. "How many seconds?" Halie grits out from behind the door she's trying to hold shut with her burned hands while water floods around her ankles. I don't have time for precise calculations—my demonic reserves are already being tapped beyond safe limits, and maintaining this spell requires focus I can't spare for Silra's timelines when every pulse of that wardstone makes my teeth ache. Silra appears at the edge of the darkening corridor, her face illuminated by emergency lights. "Three major breaches above—structural failure is seconds away, not minutes." Her voice is calm but tight with urgency, and I want to trust it because she's competent when she's not hesitating like this morning. I adjust my stance, channeling more power through the dildo into the barrier while balancing on one foot—the other leg still weak from the fall. The effort makes my core clench and my breasts tingle; I feel a warm trickle start down my thigh but ignore it. We're not dying here because of water between my legs or Hera's panic breathing or anyone else's hesitation. "Take the service tunnel," I tell Silra, voice even despite the strain of holding hundreds of pounds of concrete and rebar at bay with magical dildo-fuckery. "We'll handle this end." It's a lie—we can't handle it for long—but sometimes leadership means presenting false choices to avoid panic spreading. Halie: brace your feet wider or you're going down when the floor shifts again. Silra: get moving—every second counts and I don't have patience for debate right now. Abby & Hera: stay calm or we all die together screaming from terror instead of just crushing. I push more power into the barrier, feeling it strain against the wardstone's insistent pressure. The dildo heats in my hand—I'm channeling too much demonic energy through it for too long, but what choice do I have? If this keeps up much longer, I'll start lactating from arousal or corruption sets in and changes me visibly—neither option is ideal when we're trying to avoid attention.

The building groans like a dying beast above us, and I don't have time for heroic posturing or romantic gestures. The wardstone is answering Jeane's call—fucking predictable—and the floor beneath Halie is literally melting from her own magic mixing with whatever demonic juice Jeane's pumping through that dildo. Three breaches in the ceiling above us, and every second I spend watching Hera hyperventilate or listening to Abby whimper is a second less than we have left. The corridor behind me is dark, but it's an exit—and right now, an exit is more useful than a moral high ground that doesn't even exist. "Halie," I say, voice sharp. "How many seconds do you think you can hold that door before your hands literally fuse with the frame? Because I'm not carrying you through service tunnels when it all goes to shit."

Halie's hands screamed against the door frame, her burned skin protesting every second of contact. The metal was getting hot—wardstone energy seeping through like poison gas. "Silra!" she called out, voice steady despite the fear twisting in her gut. "How many seconds?" Her feet were braced wide on the slick floor, trying to find purchase against the lubricant and water that had flooded in from somewhere unseen. Behind her, Hera was hyperventilating again—fucking useless, but Halie couldn't leave her here alone with this thing answering their presence. Jeane's voice came next, channeling something demonic through a dildo to hold the wardstone at bay—a cleric should never approve of such things, but right now she was grateful for the power. "Silra?" Halie repeated, louder this time. "Tell me when we need to move." Her hands were slipping on the hot metal—seconds, not minutes, and they might already be out of time.