Round 55 Transcript

Silra’s calm demeanor doesn’t reach her eyes—they’re already calculating every angle of this nightmare. She steps forward casually, hands loose at her sides while the soldiers track her movement with their weapons. "Processing? What kind of processing are we talking here?"

The twin cultists exchange another unsettling glance before one speaks: "The kind that separates useful assets from…" Its voice trails off as the symbols on its forearms pulse brighter, almost painfully bright. "...involuntary liabilities."

Behind them, Ms. Stone pauses by her car—she turns back just enough to watch without commitment. "Answer their questions," she calls out, "and maybe you all get to walk away from this."

The enhanced woman descends the rest of the way down, moving with predatory grace that places her between the soldiers and our group. Her symbols match the others exactly—this is coordination, hierarchy, military precision. She circles Silra like a shark testing prey, close enough for the crackling energy to raise goosebumps across everyone’s skin.

"Your cooperation will depend on your… usefulness." Her voice carries that same resonant quality as the twins—unnatural and unsettling. "Starting with you, little rogue. Explain why my property is engaged with assets belonging to other departments before I lose what little patience I have."

Decision time: do you respond honestly? Stalling tactics? Or try something bold enough to either de-escalate or escalate dramatically?

I kneel praying between the naked bodies of our lost sisters and the soldiers who point guns at us like animals. The words come automatically—protect these innocents, shield them from harm, guide their path even if it costs me my life. But God doesn't answer this prayer with fire from heaven or armies descending to smite our enemies.

The twin cultists lower their hoods in unison—identical faces framed by symbols that pulse like living things beneath their skin. Their eyes meet mine across the space between us, and I see nothing human there, no flicker of recognition or empathy. I shift my prayer toward them instead: grant me strength to resist this temptation, deliver us from evil in whatever form it takes.

The woman descends with predator grace, her own symbols matching theirs—three against our four. She circles Silra like a shark testing prey while Jeane's wings twitch with barely restrained violence. I move between them instinctively, placing myself between the soldiers' guns and my friends. "Please," I say to anyone who might hear, "there has been a misunderstanding. We are not enemies here—"

Silra cuts me off with a look that says shut up and let me handle this. Hera trembles beside me clutching her own arms, eyes wide with panic while Abby presses herself against the wall like it can shield her. I shift my position to block their view of those glowing symbols—the less they see, the less they might remember or repeat later. "Everyone remain calm," I say more firmly this time, "let our leaders speak—"

The enhanced woman's voice cuts through everything: resonant and wrong in a way that makes my teeth ache. "Your cooperation will depend on your usefulness." The words hang there like a threat while her symbols pulse in rhythm with the twins'. Usefulness. As if we're tools to be measured and discarded based on worth.*

I can feel the fear radiating off Hera next to me—barely eighteen and lost already, dragged into this madness by her own curiosity and my failings as a mentor. Abby's breathing comes in short panicked bursts while she tries to make herself smaller against that wall. And Jeane? Her eyes burn with barely contained rage, fingers curling into claws at her sides as she fights the instinct to attack.

No. We can't afford another outbreak of violence—last night proved how quickly things spiral out of control. I need to maintain order here, keep us focused enough to navigate whatever this is. I straighten my posture slowly, deliberately, letting my hands show empty and non-threatening while still positioning myself between the soldiers and my friends. "We are all daughters of a greater power," I say evenly, "bound by oaths to protect each other. Whatever... arrangement you speak of—"

The twin cultists step forward in unison again, their symbols pulsing brighter until it hurts to look directly at them. "Usefulness is not determined by religious conviction," one says while the other completes the thought: "but by assets and compliance with established protocols." Their voices echo in harmony that makes my stomach turn—two bodies speaking as one mind.

God, grant me wisdom. Grant me patience. Grant me the strength to do what must be done even if it damages my soul further.

Hera trembles, adrenaline spiking through her veins as she takes in the scene unfolding before her eyes. The soldiers with their guns trained on the group are bad enough, but those glowing symbols pulsing on the cultists' forearms make the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She's seen what happens when Jeane loses control of that power...

Halia kneels praying between them all, voice rising and falling in a litany Hera can barely hear over the pounding of her own heartbeat. It should be comforting, that prayer, but right now it feels like a whisper against the roaring chaos threatening to overwhelm them.

Silra steps forward smoothly, hands loose at her sides as if she's got nothing to fear from those weapons pointed their way. But Hera can see the tension in her shoulders, the careful calculation behind every movement. She's not nearly as calm as she pretends.

Jeane is a live wire, wings twitching with barely restrained violence as she eyes the cultists like they're prey. Her claws flex at her sides—one wrong move and all hell will break loose again.

And Abby... poor sweet innocent Abby pressed against that wall like it can somehow shield her from reality. Hera's heart aches for her, knowing how this must look through those naive eyes.

They need to play this carefully or end up dead in a ditch somewhere. Or worse—becoming the very thing they fought so hard against just yesterday.

Hera takes a slow breath, fighting down the panic threatening to rise up and choke her. She has to think. Has to find some way through this without making things worse.

But with those soldiers watching their every move and those cultists radiating power from their very skin... what can one scared store clerk do against something like that?

Her mind races but comes up empty. She's out of her depth here, drowning in a world she never asked to be part of.

All Hera can do is stand there shaking and pray Halia knows what she's doing as she steps forward to face whatever fresh hell awaits them now...

I press myself harder against the rough brick wall, trying to make my body take up less space, be less noticeable under all those glaring eyes and flashing weapons. My heart hammers against my ribs like a trapped bird, and I have to fight the urge to bolt right into the path of one of those guns.
Halia's praying is supposed to be calming, but it feels like a distant sound, like she’s talking to someone who isn’t even here anymore. The soldiers with their hard faces and tighter grips on their rifles make my stomach clench tight. They look so ready to pull the trigger if we just twitch wrong.
The twin cultists are even scarier—the way they move in perfect sync, those glowing symbols pulsing like they’re alive... I can almost feel them humming against my skin from here. Silra’s so cool about it though, stepping forward without a care. She looks like she could take on the whole world if she wanted to.
Jeane is just plain terrifying right now. Her wings are twitching, her claws flexed at her sides, and you know she wants to fight them all. I want to scream at her to stop, that it’s not worth getting killed over this. But then again, what do I know about any of this? I’m the one who just stood there watching while they did... things.
I risk a glance over at Hera and my heart breaks for her. She looks so lost, so scared. Poor girl, she doesn’t deserve to be here with all of us freaks. She was just trying to help Abby and now look where it got her. Abby herself is completely checked out, eyes vacant as if staring into another world entirely.
This isn’t what I signed up for when I started working at the store. This isn’t any kind of sisterhood. It’s a nightmare we can never wake up from.

I watch Halia kneel praying and something between disgust and respect flickers through me—she’s playing her part to its hilt while I’m calculating every angle of this clusterfuck. Four women naked in an alley, soldiers aiming guns, two mystery cultists with glowing symbols, one cold bitch in a suit who clearly didn’t sign up for this much chaos… and here we all are.

Jeane’s ready to explode into violence, Hera looks like she might faint, Abby’s clinging to the wall like it’ll protect her from reality—but then there’s Halia on her knees looking angelic while I’m already planning how to carve our way out if needed. This isn’t protection anymore. This is containment.

I take a step back toward the alley wall, casual enough not to draw attention but strategic so I’m not caught in a crossfire between everyone. The soldiers are trained but clearly out of their depth—magical symbols against gunpower, naked civilians turning into hostages, two mystery cultists with glowing symbols, one cold bitch in a suit who clearly didn’t sign up for this much chaos… and here we all are.

Jeane’s about to open her mouth again—I cut her off with a sharp look that says "shut up" in every language. She closes it mid-sentence, barely containing her temper.

I can barely maintain my composure standing here naked while soldiers aim guns at us like common criminals—my wings itch to spread, claws to extend, but that would escalate this from containment to slaughter faster than I can cast half my spells before they drop me with those enhanced operatives backing them up. Can't let panic make the first move.

Silra's too busy playing it cool and calculating her next betrayal while everyone else falls apart—Hera trembling, Abby clinging to that wall like it'll shield her from reality, Halia praying for salvation we don't deserve after last night's debauchery. I need to keep us alive long enough to figure out which enemy is least likely to murder us all on sight.

These glowing symbols though—the way they pulse in rhythm with each other and those enhanced bitches above? There's coordination here, hierarchy, military precision behind this magical cleanup crew. We're not dealing with rogue cultists anymore—this is organized, probably government-backed, certainly not playing around.

The woman in the suit—our supposed handler who walks away without even sparing us another glance? She's done with us, and now these magical fucks are taking over cleanup duty. "Processing subjects" doesn't sound like a spa day and exorcism routine.