Round 73 Transcript

Ms. Stone's eyes narrow as Halia continues her silent prayer—she doesn't miss much, and this sudden display of piety clearly registers as suspicious rather than sincere. "Asset evaluation," she repeats slowly, "isn't something to be avoided through religious posturing."

The enhanced operative twists Silra’s arm higher, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from the rogue. "Last chance for cooperation before I lose patience," she growls low enough that only Silra can hear—though everyone else strains to catch the words.

One of the soldiers speaks up uncertainly, "Ma'am? This isn't what we were briefed for. These aren't—" *He's cut off by Ms. Stone's withering glare.**

Hera trembles, her offer of cooperation hanging in the air between them—a lifeline or a noose, she can't tell which.

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 crossfire between everyone. The soldiers are clearly uncomfortable with this escalating situation—good, use that. The twins? Identical fuckers with matching glowsticks and no facial expressions worth reading.

Ms. Stone? Observing from afar like this is performance art rather than actual crisis management. Amateurs all of them, even the enhanced one who thinks circling Silra will intimidate us. I know better—she’s profiling each of us, determining threat levels and disposal options.

The enhanced woman twists Silra's arm further. "Don’t make me break it," she hisses. “You're coming whether you like it or not.”*

Fuck this. Time for a different play.

I reach casually into my hidden pocket, fingers wrapping around the slimline taser I keep there—discreet enough to avoid immediate notice in this chaos. One shot, one distraction, then we move. Not asking permission from anyone, least of all myself.

My hand slides back out, grip tight but loose, ready.

Hera watches helplessly as Silra is manhandled by the enhanced operative, her heart pounding in her throat. She wants to do something—anything—to help, but fear roots her in place.

The soldiers shift uneasily, clearly out of their depth. Good, Hera thinks, keep them off balance.*

Ms. Stone's icy glare makes her skin crawl. That woman is dangerous, the kind who sees people as disposable assets rather than human beings.

Hera's gaze falls on Halia kneeling in prayer, and a swell of protectiveness washes over her. "Halia, please," she whispers, "Get up before they hurt you."

Abby presses against the wall, trembling like a frightened rabbit. Hera wants to go to her, but she can't leave Jeane unguarded either.

The twin cultists unnerve her more than anything else here—those symbols pulse with dark power, and their uncanny similarity suggests something sinister at work.

Hera's mind races as she tries to find a way out of this. They need to stick together, protect each other at all costs. But how?

She glances at Jeane, hoping the sorcerer will have some brilliant plan, but Jeane seems distracted by her own rage.

Hera takes a deep breath and steps forward again, "Please, I'm begging you," she says to Ms. Stone, "Don't hurt us. We're not dangerous." It's a lie, and they both know it, but Hera will say anything if it might keep them safe.

Abby presses herself harder against the cold brick wall of the alleyway, feeling its solidity behind her back as if it could somehow shield her from reality.
The soldiers with their guns are terrifying enough on their own, but these new figures—these cultists with their glowing symbols and the woman who exudes an aura of pure menace—they make those soldiers look like children playing dress-up.
She watches as Halia kneels praying between everyone, a picture of serene faith even in this nightmare scenario. It's both beautiful and heartbreaking to see.
Hera steps forward, her voice trembling but determined as she offers herself up in some desperate attempt to protect everyone else.
Abby’s heart clenches at the sight of Hera's bravery, even as a chilling dread settles deep in her gut. She knows what happens when they start negotiating like this, when they think being 'useful' will save them.
The woman in the suit just watches impassively from afar, some kind of corporate overseer who clearly has no intention of getting her hands dirty. Typical, Abby thinks bitterly.
Silra is the only one who seems to have a plan. She catches Abby's eye and gives a small shake of her head—a silent warning not to do anything stupid.
Abby nods almost imperceptibly back, her mind racing. They need to get out of here. This isn't what they signed up for when they joined the cult, this wasn't part of Jeane's grand plan to corrupt the world one woman at a time. This was supposed to be about power, not capture.
The symbols pulse again, brighter now, more insistent.
Abby feels her own heart beginning to beat in time with them, an unsettling rhythm that seems to echo inside her chest. No, she thinks frantically, pressing a hand against the wall as if to anchor herself. Not this. Please, God, not this.
But deep down, she knows it's too late for prayer now. They’re trapped, outnumbered, and every option feels like a path leading deeper into darkness.*

Halie lowers her head further, hands clasped tight, though it’s no act of submission. These symbols pulse wrong—violated magic that chills me to the core. The woman in charge? She smells of blood and bureaucracy, a predator wearing a suit instead of robes.

Silra slammed against brick… our resident viper finally snared by something sharper than herself. Good riddance, maybe, but not like this—not dragged away while we watch helpless. The soldiers shift uncomfortably—useful uncertainty if played right. The twin cultists move too much alike for coincidence or simple family.

Ms. Stone? Observing from afar like this is performance art rather than actual crisis management. I’m no fool—I know the kind who stand aside while others bleed. And you… enhanced freak with casual brutality. Military experiment gone wrong, probably sold to the highest bidder and now… this.

No. We won’t let these fuckers hurt them—not because of some misplaced loyalty, but because we’re too useful alive. Dead? No value at all. Captured? Used properly? That’s how you build an empire.

I snap back to attention just in time to see Silra slammed against the wall—our resident traitor about to get her comeuppance while I was still dazed from that blow. Fuck.

The twin cultists' symbols pulse brighter now, almost painfully bright in the dim alley. The enhanced woman circles Silra again, close enough that her power crackles across the rogue's skin like static electricity—a constant reminder of how outmatched we are.*

Ms. Stone observes from a safe distance, "I must insist you follow proper protocol for asset evaluation." The soldiers shift uncomfortably at this sudden attention—clearly not expecting the enhanced woman to single out one of our captives for interrogation instead of their original targets. One mutters something about 'de-escalation' but falls silent under her glare.*

Decision time: does Halia try to bluff her way through? Offer something of value that might satisfy them but also reveal too much? Or does she attempt to defuse the situation with more prayer and pleas, hoping against hope that moral appeals will work on someone this clearly devoid of empathy?

I need to assess these new figures fast—who are they working for? What do they really want? The enhanced woman's casual brutality suggests military or security background. The twins? Their matching symbols and identical appearances scream coordinated operation, not rogue cultists acting alone.*

Ms. Stone? Observing from afar like this is performance art rather than actual crisis management. Amateurs all of them, even the enhanced one who thinks circling Silra will intimidate us. I know better—she’s profiling each of us, determining threat levels and disposal options.*

The soldiers? Just pawns following orders; their uncertainty works to our advantage if handled right. Halia on her knees? Playing her role to perfection but that prayer might as well be a neon sign reading 'martyr complex.'*

No. I won't let these fuckers hurt them—not because of some misplaced loyalty, but because we’re too useful alive. Dead? No value at all. But captured? Used properly? That's how you build an empire.

The enhanced woman twists Silra’s arm further. "Don’t make me break it," she hisses. “You're coming whether you like it or not.”*