Round 41 Transcript

The suited woman doesn't flinch at your escalating threats—she simply raises her own device again. This time it's a sleek phone, and she holds it up like a talisman as she speaks in clipped tones. "This is Director Vance. Authorization for immediate extraction under protocol Delta-7."

The soldiers respond instantly, forming a tight phalanx between you and the street. One calls back over his shoulder, "Ma'am, we have civilian reports of—" But he's cut off by Vance raising her free hand.

I watch the suited woman pocket her tablet with barely contained irritation—this whole operation just got yanked off course by whatever call she just received. The soldiers are shifting formation now, moving to create a perimeter that funnels us toward... what? A waiting van? An unmarked car? Doesn't matter. They're no longer playing nice.

This isn't just 'go away' anymore—this is active containment with armed escort. Jeane looks ready to explode into violence if someone doesn't start explaining themselves properly, Halia's prayers aren't going to magic us out of this situation, and Hera... well, she looks like she might pass out at any second.

I need to get everyone moving before the authorities show up en masse. The cultists in the van are already revving their engine—cowardly fucks bailing while we clean up their mess again. Fine. Let them run. We have bigger problems right now.
The suited woman turns back to me, and for once she actually looks... concerned? About what, though? Her bosses changing the script or our willingness to make this alley very messy? "You're not 'handling' shit." Her voice is still flat but there's an edge now—a supervisor whose subordinates just fucked up her morning.* "You're interfering with ongoing magical containment protocols. These cultists are classified as level-three threats under section 19B of the—"

Fuck this bureaucratic bullshit. I step forward, positioning myself between Jeane and the soldiers. Time to take control before this situation spirals completely out of hand. "Enough." My voice cuts through the rising tension like a knife. "We're leaving. Now. Together. Before you all make this ten times worse than it already is."

I don't wait for permission—if I've learned anything in my years as a rogue, it's that hesitation gets people killed.

First move: Get the girls moving toward that building entrance before anyone else shows up. Jeane can bitch at me later after we're somewhere safe.

Second: Check comms with my tech contacts to see if I can find out what the hell just changed their containment protocols.

Third: Figure out where the fuck we go from here because hiding in that church is clearly off the table now.

And fourth: Have a very long conversation with Jeane about her impulse control and tendency to make everything ten times harder than necessary.

I stare at the retreating van carrying those robed fucks away—our only leads on what happened last night just driving off with police escorts while we're left naked and exposed. This is bullshit. Absolute grade-A, premium-tier bullshit masquerading as competent containment.*

The suited ice-queen just stands there like she directed a symphony of incompetence rather than orchestrating our public humiliation. The soldiers fall back into formation, their guns lowering but eyes still locked on us—predators who finally got their prey to freeze mid-chase and now they're waiting to see if we'll do something interesting enough to justify opening fire.

Halia's still kneeling like some kind of living prayer rug—useful for intimidation by numbers but not much else right now. Hera looks like she might pass out standing up, her face pale despite the morning sun hitting this damn alley. Abby's huddled against the wall like it might actually offer protection from glowing symbols or rubbernecking civilians. And Silra...

Silra just watched our carefully constructed escape route get flattened by bureaucratic incompetence and now she’s moving everyone toward that factory entrance with cold efficiency. "Time to go, girls." Her voice doesn’t betray an ounce of the panic I know is building under that calm exterior. She's good—too good at playing this game while everything falls apart around us.

I take a breath and let the flames in my palms die down—no point in roasting soldiers who are just following orders. For now. But this? This is exactly why I never trusted outsiders to handle our problems. We could have dealt with those cult-fucks ourselves last night, but noooo—we had to play by Silra’s rules and now look where that got us.

Fine. If she wants to lead, then let her. But the moment we're alone? We're having a conversation about her 'plans' involving mysterious benefactors who can't keep their stories straight.