Round 35 Transcript

The van's engine cuts. For a moment, there's only the sound of our own breathing filling the sudden silence. Then came a sharp rap at the rear doors—authoritative and unmistakably final.*

Before anyone could react, both soldiers up front exit in tandem through their respective doors, clearing the way for what comes next. The back doors swing open to reveal not an interview room or safe house but a wide alleyway lined with abandoned factories. The space is shadowed despite morning light filtering from above—ideal for isolation and... other things.

A figure steps forward into view: female, tall, dressed in dark business attire that somehow manages to look both professional and menacing. Her face remains obscured by the glare off glass doors behind her. "Step out one at a time," she commands without preamble or introduction. "Hands where I can see them."

This is clearly not what anyone expected—not even Silra looks prepared for this particular turn of events. The soldiers move to flank us as we emerge, creating an obvious gauntlet between van and factory doors.

I feel my wings flex instinctively at being commanded like a common prisoner—this bitch thinks she can order us around? But I bite back the reflexive snarl and force myself to think strategically instead of reactively. These soldiers are just meat shields; the real power here is whoever sent this woman. And right now, we're standing naked in an alley at her mercy while trying to figure out whose mercy exactly that is.*

The way she stands, completely unphased by four naked women emerging from a police van—this isn't our first confrontation today. Those aren't interview rooms awaiting us, and these soldiers aren't here for questioning. The smart money says Silra's betrayal wasn't just to authorities but to someone... higher.

Halia’s trembling prayer won’t save us this time, and Hera looks ready to faint at the prospect of standing exposed in broad daylight. Abby’s just a liability if she panics—and I will not have my plans for world domination hindered by civilian hysterics today. The girls need to understand: survival right now means submission until we figure out who we're dealing with and what they want.

Fine. If this is the new game, then we'll play it smarter than Silra did. I step forward first, hands raised slowly but not subserviently—confident but compliant until I understand the angles here. My wings fold close against my back in a gesture that screams non-threatening even as they itch to unfurl and find out what happens when you fuck with a succubus’s territory.

"You have our attention," I say evenly, scanning the alley for exits, watchers, anything besides this sterile confrontation setup. "But we need more than demands if we're meant to cooperate." I won't kneel until I know exactly who's pulling these strings—Silra might have sold us out once already, but I won’t let my whole operation die in a back alley because of some power play I don't even understand yet.*

The soldiers shift their aim slightly—professional enough not to shoot first and ask questions later, but trigger-happy enough that one wrong move could escalate this from standoff to bloodbath. The woman doesn’t blink, just stands there like she owns the entire fucking block and we’re trespassing.

Time to dance then. But I’ll lead.

I stand frozen for a moment—numb and exposed in more ways than just my naked skin. This isn't right. We're not criminals being carted off to prison, but here we are anyway: shoved into a windowless van like common thieves while armed soldiers watch us with dead eyes up front.*

My mind races but finds no sense in this—Silra called for help last night after the ritual gone wrong, and now... this? I risk a glance around our makeshift prison on wheels. Hera looks terrified beside me, clinging to her own clothes like a lifeline while Abby tries to hide behind them both.

And Jeane? She stands defiant at the door as if sheer bravado could shield us from whatever's coming next—typical. Even Silra seems unnerved for once, pressed against the opposite wall with eyes darting between exits and our captors. That alone speaks volumes.

The van turns off main roads onto service streets lined with abandoned warehouses—no witnesses here, no escape routes obvious enough to justify hope.

We're isolated now, cut off from the world we know while these soldiers drive us god-knows-where for reasons unknown. My stomach churns with each turn of the wheels—this isn't how sanctuary is supposed to work.

I fall to my knees between seats without thinking, hands pressed together in prayer that feels pathetic even as I do it. God didn't answer last night when we needed Him most—what makes me think He'll save us now?

The driver's radio crackles to life with a voice that sends a fresh wave of dread through the cabin: "Target group en route. ETA 3 minutes." Both soldiers shift in their seats up front—posture changing from bored transit to something sharper, more dangerous. The lead one speaks without looking back, voice carrying an edge that wasn't there before: "Almost there."

I look up from my useless prayer at the others—they're all frozen too, each processing our situation in their own way. Except for Silra, who looks like she's already planning her escape route even as we're being driven into whatever trap awaits us.