Round 7

Silra slid her tools across the sybian's surface, fingers tracing the vibrating mechanisms with clinical interest even as her core clenched in remembered pleasure. The building's demands had shifted now—more, together, fill it—and she understood exactly what was required. But understanding didn't mean she'd blindly follow every command. "Jeane," Silra said coolly, not looking up from the machine's innards, "I appreciate your... enthusiasm for group coordination. But let's be clear—I'm here to solve a problem, not hand over control to whatever entity owns this place." She glanced at Hera standing nearby, saw the conflict etched across her face. The poor cleric was out of her depth here—religious conviction warring with biological need and group loyalty. Silra felt a pang of sympathy but pushed it aside; emotions had no place in technical problem-solving.