Round 43 Transcript

The technicians move with practiced efficiency, positioning scanning equipment around you in a tight circle. The lead woman—tall, menacing in her dark business attire—watches without expression as each of your group is instructed to stand naked beneath individual devices.

This isn’t protection anymore—this is processing. Halia’s earlier prayer might have bought us the entry, but now we’re in a room full of people clearly used to handling magical threats more efficiently than some rogue and her sorcerous entourage can manage.

The soldiers are positioned around the perimeter, weapons holstered but hands near them—containment specialists who know exactly what they’re dealing with. The executive type leans against a nearby workbench watching everything through narrowed eyes. And those technicians… their scanning equipment is already glowing faintly as it picks apart your magical signatures.

Jeane looks ready to incinerate someone, Hera still pale and wide-eyed, Abby trying to make herself small against the wall. And you—Silra? You’re just standing there letting them catalog every piece of magic clinging to us after last night’s ritual.

I step forward before anyone else can react, my voice steady despite the churning in my stomach.

"Wait." The tall woman turns her attention to me, and I force myself to meet her gaze without flinching. "If you're truly here to help, why not explain what's happening? We've done nothing wrong—just helped someone in need last night. Now we're being treated like criminals for it."

The technicians pause mid-scan, their expressions unreadable behind protective goggles and face masks. The soldiers shift slightly but don't draw weapons yet. And Silra... I catch her eye, willing her to understand this isn't a challenge but a plea for information. We can't keep stumbling blindly into whatever mess she's dragged us into.

Jeane opens her mouth—no doubt to set something on fire or insult someone important—and I shoot her a look sharp enough to cut through her temper. Not now. We need answers, not a spectacle.

The tall woman studies me for a long moment, and I can feel the weight of everyone's attention settling on us like a physical thing. The air in here feels charged—magical residue clinging to our skin, their equipment humming with detection magic, tension coiling tighter with every second we stand exposed and vulnerable.

Finally, she speaks. "Your friend is correct. You've been... misinformed." She gestures to Silra. "Our arrangement was supposed to be simple: you assist one of ours in need, we provide safe passage and resources for your group's... unique requirements." Her tone remains flat, but there’s an edge underneath. "The complication arose when my team discovered the ritual site had been compromised by outside actors—cultists who feed on magical energy rather than channel it constructively."

I feel the blood drain from my face as I piece together what she’s not saying aloud: we nearly got ourselves killed playing into someone else's agenda last night.

The tall woman continues, her eyes never leaving us. "Your friend here..." She jerks her head toward Silra. "...was meant to guide you through a simple blessing ceremony. Instead, she led you into a power amplification ritual that attracted exactly the kind of attention we try to avoid."

My mind reels at this revelation—the casual dismissal of our near-death experience last night. Simple blessing ceremony? Power amplification ritual? What the hell was Silra thinking leading us into something so dangerous without warning us first?

I glance sidelong at Jeane, catching her eye and trying to convey with a look that we need to keep our heads on straight here. Burning down the inside of this factory won't solve anything.

"With all due respect," I begin carefully, "you're talking about a near-death experience like it was an inconvenience. We were attacked by cultists, nearly gutted and drained dry. And you call that a 'complication'?" My voice rises in pitch before I can stop myself.

I feel my stomach clench at Hera's outburst, a cold sweat breaking out across my skin.
This is exactly what we don't need right now—open confrontation with these people who hold all the cards and have no qualms about seeing us naked or worse.
I try to catch her eye again, willing her to stop before she digs us into a hole we can’t climb out of. But Hera seems focused on the tall woman, her face flushed with anger.
The soldiers shift their weight, hands drifting toward their holsters. The technicians exchange glances but don't stop their scanning. And Silra—where is Silra in all this? She just stands there like a statue, letting us argue while she stares at the floor.
I take a small step back, pressing myself against the cold concrete wall of the loading bay. My heart hammers in my chest as I watch the tension build between our group and these authority figures.
We're all naked here, literally and figuratively. They know something about last night's ritual, they clearly have some kind of magical detection equipment, and they seem to be calling the shots now. And yet Silra—the one person who was supposed to lead us out of this mess—is just standing there silent while Hera provokes them.
I want to scream at her to shut up before someone gets hurt. Or worse, before we all get carted off somewhere even less comfortable than this processing area.
My mind races as I try to think through our options. We could refuse their 'scanning'—but that would just confirm everything they seem to already suspect about us being magical troublemakers. And running? Where would we go with armed guards at every exit and who knows what waiting for us outside?

I watch Halia step forward into the spotlight of everyone’s attention with a mix of admiration and rising panic. The tall woman studies her like a lab specimen while our group hangs between compliance and rebellion.

This is exactly what I wanted to avoid—us standing naked and exposed in more ways than one while some authority figure explains why last night was a clusterfuck we didn’t fully grasp. Halia means well, but her hero complex just turned our careful manipulation into an interrogation we’re not prepared for. Jeane looks ready to incinerate someone, Hera’s getting heated, and Abby’s clinging to the wall like it’ll somehow shield her from this.

I need to regain control before this spirals into something we can’t talk our way out of. The soldiers are watching closely now—containment specialists who smell blood in the water. Our magic signatures are probably screaming off their scanners, and this tall bitch isn’t buying Halia’s innocence act for a second. It was cute while it lasted, but now we’re playing checkmate.

The lead woman’s flat tone cuts through the tension like a knife: “Your friend here…” She jerks her head toward me. “…was meant to guide you through a simple blessing ceremony.”*

Oh fuck. I feel my face go numb as I process what she’s implying. Not ‘guide,’ not ‘help’—‘friend.’ She just outed me as the architect of this whole debacle in three words while making it clear we were meant for someone else entirely. This isn’t protection anymore; this is extraction with questions.

My mind races through our options, but there are none. We can’t fight our way out, we can’t talk our way out cleanly, and running will just prove everything they’re already suspecting. So instead I take the only path that might salvage something from this disaster: calculated silence and complete denial.

I step forward to stand beside Halia, deliberately positioning myself between her and the tall woman. My expression shows neither guilt nor defiance—just cool assessment as I let my eyes flick across everyone present, cataloging threats and potential allies. If we’re going to survive this, it won’t be through honesty or apology.

“Blessing ceremony,” I repeat softly, letting skepticism color my tone without quite challenging her outright. It’s not a confirmation; it’s an invitation for her to explain herself further while I buy us seconds to think. Let them do the talking. Let them justify their accusations.

I stare at the robed figures advancing with those glowing symbols—recognition and rage hitting me all at once. You two pieces of shit had better start explaining why my own fucking inner circle betrayed us to these glow-worms before I decide this alley needs a new paint job.

The soldiers shift their aim toward both threats now—clearly not expecting another party to the conversation. The woman in charge hasn't moved, just watches this entire clusterfuck unfold with that same cold assessment as if it's Tuesday and she's bored at the office.