Round 34 Transcript

The van takes a sharp turn off main roads onto a narrow service street lined with abandoned warehouses. The driver's radio crackles to life—"Target group en route. ETA 3 minutes." For the first time since they've been inside, both soldiers shift in their seats.*

The lead one speaks without looking back, "Almost there." Her voice carries something new—a barely detectable edge of tension.

Fuck. This is exactly what I warned Halia about—playing hero gets people killed. I can already see the setup for what's coming: too many variables out of control, too much attention on us, and now we're being loaded into a windowless van like cattle headed to slaughter.*

The soldiers aren't even trying to hide their discomfort now—that crackle over the radio wasn't about our arrival, it was about unexpected complications. Jeane's standing there looking ready to explode with bravado while Halia kneels praying like this is some kind of religious execution instead of a tactical problem that needs solving.

I position myself near the door—not because I'm brave or loyal, but because this might be our only viable exit route if things go sideways. The driver's blind spot behind his window means we've got maybe thirty seconds to act before we're fully committed to whatever waiting area they've prepared. And yes, I'm already mapping escape routes through these abandoned warehouses outside—alleys, fire escapes, emergency exits.

The other girls are just... baggage now. Innocents caught up in Jeane's mess who need protecting whether they appreciate it or not. Not my fault, but still my problem to manage. If this ends with us all getting executed like Silra planned through these 'interviews,' then at least I'll have taken out as many of the bastards as possible before they finish the job.

So here's what we've got: two armed soldiers in close quarters, four naked hostages including two civilians who can't fight worth shit, and one sorcerer with a temper that makes nuclear weapons look restrained. This is not a winning combination. We need to disarm at least one soldier fast before Jeane decides to turn this entire van into a ball of fire and brimstone.

Fine. If they want an interview, we'll give them one—the kind where the journalists end up with bullets in their heads instead of quotes for tomorrow's paper.

I feel a cold sweat break out across my skin as I take in the scene before us. The van takes a sharp turn off main roads onto a narrow service street lined with abandoned warehouses. My stomach lurches as we veer further away from civilization and into this desolate industrial area.

The driver's radio crackles to life—"Target group en route. ETA 3 minutes." For the first time since they've been inside, both soldiers shift in their seats. The lead one speaks without looking back, "Almost there." Her voice carries something new—a barely detectable edge of tension that sends a wave of fear through me.

I glance around at my fellow captives—Jeane standing defiantly by the door, Halia kneeling awkwardly between the seats as if in prayer, and Silra positioned nearby like she's already mapping escape routes. Meanwhile, Abby clings to me tightly, her eyes wide with terror.

We're trapped in this windowless van with no idea where they're taking us or what will happen when we arrive at our destination. The soldiers aren't even trying to hide their discomfort now—something about the radio transmission has them on edge. I can feel the weight of uncertainty pressing down on all of us as the van continues its ominous journey into the unknown.

My mind races with questions and fears. Will this end in a confrontation? An interrogation? Something worse? Whatever it is, we're completely at their mercy with no way out except through whatever they have planned for us. All I can do now is wait and brace myself for what comes next, praying that Jeane's bravado doesn't get us all killed before we even find out why we've been rounded up like this.

This isn't how I imagined things would go after last night's activities—not by a long shot. But now here we are, four women naked and vulnerable in the back of a van while armed soldiers take us god-knows-where for reasons unknown. All I can do is try to stay calm and hope that somehow, someway, we'll make it through this mess alive.

I meet Abby's frightened gaze and squeeze her hand reassuringly even as my own heart races with anxiety. Whatever happens next, at least we have each other. Together, maybe we stand a chance against whatever these soldiers have in store for us.

I feel my heart hammering against my ribs as I press myself closer to Hera on our seat. The van jerks and bounces over uneven pavement now, each bump sending a jolt of terror through me. The soldiers haven't even glanced back since they shoved us in here, but their silence is more unnerving than any threat could be.*

This isn't right. We're not criminals—they must have made some kind of mistake! But the cold air licking at my bare skin and the deadpan professionalism of our captors leave no room for doubt: they know exactly who we are and what we've done. I risk a glance around the cramped, dark space—Jeane still stands defiant near the door, Halia is praying on her knees as if that could save us all now—and Silra... Silra looks like she's already planning an escape route. That scares me more than anything else right now.

My gaze falls back to Hera, who offers a small, reassuring smile despite the fear in her eyes. "What do you think they want?" I whisper, my voice so faint I barely hear it myself over the rumble of the engine and tires on concrete. She shakes her head slightly, just as clueless.

The van slows, turning into what feels like a narrow alleyway between two massive buildings. We're completely cut off from sight now—no more glimpses of the outside world to gauge our location. The soldiers tense visibly in their seats up front, all pretense of nonchalance evaporating. They know we've arrived somewhere.

I feel Abby's fingers dig into my arm as she clings to me with increasing desperation. She's trembling like a leaf, her eyes wide and terrified. I try to give her a comforting squeeze back, but inside, my own stomach is churning with dread.

This isn't just an interview location—they wouldn't be this on edge if it was. No, whatever awaits us here is something far worse. A final destination where no one will ever see or hear from us again. And Silra's betrayal hangs in the air between us all—she must have set this up somehow.

I look at Halia, still praying on her knees. She seems oblivious to the danger we're in, lost in some religious fantasy that won't protect any of us. Her faith is touching, but completely misplaced here. "Halia," I call out in a strained whisper, "maybe you should get dressed? We might need all hands on deck for this."

She blinks up at me, her expression one of mild confusion and shock as if she'd forgotten we were all naked. Without complaint, she starts fumbling with the few items of clothing scattered between seats. I turn back to Abby, my voice dropping to a desperate murmur.

"They're not going to let us go after this, are they?"

I look up from my nervous prayer—Abby's question hangs there like a stone dropped into still water. The van rolls to a stop and silence falls heavier than any of us have felt before. Hera looks at me with something between fear and expectation, as if I might actually know what comes next or how to fix it. Silra’s already scanning the interior for escape routes—she won’t help here.*

God didn't answer my prayers last night either. What makes me think begging now will change anything? Still... this isn't right. We can't just sit here naked and compliant while fate decides our ending.

"Wait," I say, voice barely louder than a whisper but sharp enough to cut through the tension. Everyone turns toward me—even the soldiers up front shift slightly, their attention drawn despite themselves. "Whatever happens next, we don’t go quietly." My eyes find Jeane first, then Silra—both women who might understand this isn't about surrender anymore.*

I start gathering what clothes I can reach between seats. The fabric feels flimsy against my skin after hours of being exposed. "If they want us off this van for... whatever’s waiting," I continue, "we walk out together, facing forward." I meet each pair of eyes in turn: Hera's wide and uncertain, Abby’s trembling with fear I recognize all too well from last night.

"Stay close. Stay quiet unless spoken to directly." My heart pounds—I'm not a fighter or a leader like Jeane, but someone has to ground this madness. "And whatever happens next..." I have to say it clearly even if my voice shakes. "...we don't betray each other twice."

I won’t let Silra’s treachery become our tomb. We’re not helpless victims—not anymore.

I feel my wings twitching with barely contained rage as we're herded like cattle into this windowless van. The soldiers think they have us cornered? Their arrogance is almost amusing—do they really believe numbers give them control here?

This whole situation stinks of Silra’s handiwork from a mile away—too many variables out of control, too much attention on us when we should be moving silently through the shadows. These fucking amateurs think they can just round up loose ends and clean house? We’re not disposable assets to be erased.*

I see Hera shrinking into herself across from me, terrified and confused about why our sacred ritual has become a crime scene. Typical civilian—she doesn't understand how power works yet. Abby clings to her like a scared child, both of them useless unless I can somehow channel their fear into obedience that actually serves us.

Halia kneeling in prayer between seats? Pathetic. As if some divine protector will swoop down and save us from the mess we're in. She thinks supplication solves problems—no wonder she's always two steps behind understanding how this world really operates.

And then there’s Silra, positioned near the door like she’s already mapping escape routes instead of owning her part in this disaster. Did she seriously sell out those innocent girls to save her own skin? What kind of monster does that make her? She's a useful tool when controlled, but now I see the rot festering beneath—ambition that eclipses loyalty. Time to re-evaluate which assets are truly worth keeping versus ones actively working against me.

The soldiers up front aren't even trying to hide their discomfort anymore—that radio transmission wasn't about our arrival but about unexpected complications they didn't plan for. Their shift in posture, the barely detectable edge in voices—amateurs think we're too panicked to notice these tells. Time to turn this situation from potential execution into opportunity.

I lean against the van's side panel, feigning submission while my mind races through spells at the ready. If they think I'm cowed by firearms and numbers, they'll lower their guard just enough for me to strike first. Let them park this mobile death trap somewhere isolated—all the better for making sure no witnesses survive what happens next.

Fine. If these bitches want an interview, we’ll give them one—the kind where questions end with screams instead of answers.