First Fire (Spoilers)

The doors of the Rotunda banged open, and the world exploded.

The group tumbled into a cathedral of marble, steel, and glass: the rotunda chamber. Despite its name, it was rectangular in shape. It was two stories high, with a domed glass ceiling so clear it looked like the night was watching from above. There were banners in black and neon-pink draped between iron pillars, and the air hummed with anticipation and ozone. In the center of the rotunda stood a massive wooden chariot, though unlike traditional ones, it had an equally massive dildo as its prow. The upper balcony circled the chamber, dotted with busts and velvet ropes, and at ground level—twenty meters across, easy—were a half-dozen black-lacquered display counters and, behind them, a barricade made of overturned display plinths and folding chairs.

That was where the first salvo came from.

Paintball rounds hissed overhead, striking columns, glass, the floor. The air was suddenly thick with the sweet, sickly perfume of hyper-concentrated aphrodisiac, and the walls and floor sizzled with streaks of molten color. Instantly, the group split, instincts overriding reason. Norah and Erin dove left, using a marble statue of two women bound in chains for cover. Marissa grabbed Claire’s arm and yanked her behind a glass cabinet containing a science fiction-looking chromed gun labeled TF Gun (Spent) - Leah, S01. "Figures," Marissa muttered, "that'd never end well."

Chloe and Dawn sprinted right, low and tight, using their precious patch satchels like shields. Emi didn’t even hesitate—she went straight up, launching herself onto a support pillar with all six hands and spidering upward, using two arms for leverage and the rest to hold her gun.

The black-suited Mildreds behind the barricade didn’t hesitate, either. They fired in pairs, perfectly timed, their paintball rifles barking out three-round bursts of iridescent pink. Every impact exploded in a mushroom of sweet-smelling steam and oily, glittering droplets that hung in the air before raining down, a literal mist of arousal.

It was chaos, but it wasn’t war—it was something stranger, messier, more thrilling.

“Cover right!” Norah shouted, her voice already raw, and fired a return burst that spattered the barricade. One Mildred ducked; the other kept firing, splattering rounds so close to Norah that her right sleeve was instantly soaked and, within seconds, torn at the elbow by the melting effect of the pellets.

Erin laughed and shot from the hip, her first two shots going wide, the third catching a Mildred square on the visor. The Mildred’s head snapped back, but she didn’t drop her weapon. “They don’t even feel pain!” Erin called, half impressed, half outraged.

Sam was already there, skidding to a stop at their side, popping up for a quick volley before ducking again behind a case containing an impossible white porcelain mask which somehow seemed to always face outward on either side, one side looking tragic, the other one looking comedic. The label said Masquerade - Harem Hotel: Masquerade, Lucien De Medici, S01. “Yeah? Well, maybe they’ll feel this—” She squeezed off a series of quick shots, the trigger action so fast her hand blurred.

Across the chamber, Marissa pressed her back against the edge of a display case containing a simple black wooden cane and a top hat. The plaque read Sylvia’s Tools (Replicas) - Harem Hotel: Island Vacation, Sylvia, S01. Claire crouched beside Marissa, tail low, ears flat, eyes wide as she watched the mess unfold. Marissa leaned out, risked a look, then snapped back as a paintball detonated inches from her cheek. “Two on the left, three in the center,” she whispered, more analytical than scared. Her eyes fell on... something... that made her head suddenly spin, sitting placidly in a display case nearby. Collapsed Singularity Core - Harem Hotel: They Asked For It, Wrynn, S01. She turned to Claire, who was already gesturing furiously with her hands: left index finger crooked, then pointed at Marissa, then at the dome; right hand tapping her own chest, then splaying out in an unmistakable “spread out” signal.

Marissa nodded, then turned to shout over the noise: "Flank left! Chief, Erin, move now!"

Norah glanced at Erin, both recognizing the command, and together they bounded from cover. Behind them, Marissa rose to one knee and squeezed off three rapid shots that made the nearest Mildred duck. Claire, crouched beside her, fired a volley that splattered pink across the barricade. The covering fire bought Norah and Erin just enough time to reach a low stone bench. Instantly, the Mildreds refocused, rounds thudding so close they had to belly-crawl the last few feet. "They are seriously out for blood!" Norah hollered, but her grin was huge, and she was already prepping the next shot.

Chloe and Dawn had ducked behind a glossy black grand piano, the lid propped open and already splattered with goo. Each time a key was hit, the piano moaned. Chloe was white-knuckled around her patch satchel, eyes wide, mouth open in a soundless “oh shit.” Dawn was breathing fast, but her expression was pure kindergarten-teacher calm, her bunny ears straight and vibrating with excitement. She reached out to pat Chloe’s hand.

“You got this, Velvet,” Dawn whispered, her voice barely audible over the crack and sizzle of the fight. “Just remember: band-aids, then hugs, then fruit snacks.”

Chloe managed a giggle.

Meanwhile, near a set of miniature stained-glass windows depicting the same attractive redhead engaged in various sexual acts with other women (‘Windows of the Church of Aife (Replicas) - Harem Hotel: B&B Edition, Sera, S01’), Emi was already halfway up the column, her six arms sticking like a gecko’s, every limb perfectly balanced. She paused at the capital, looked down, clinging with four arms while aiming her gun at the Mildreds behind the barricade. Three shots—one, two, three—each hitting the same Mildred. The first hit her wrist, the second caught her visor, and the third burst right on the Mildred’s chest. The guard spun, staggered, and toppled forward, her skin rippling.

“Shit, they’re terminators!” Sam yelled, ducking another round, grabbing a fallen plinth and hurling it against the barricade. The throw was short, but it served its purpose, startling the Mildreds for a moment.

Exploiting the distraction, Erin fired, hit a Mildred square in the gut. The woman doubled over, and a gout of pink liquid spilled out, soaking the floor. “They don’t stop,” Erin said, a little in awe.

Riley shot a rapid-fire volley, splattering the barricade and one Mildred's visor. "Then we make them stop! Stop dawdling and hit something!"

Norah, grinning like a maniac, popped up and squeezed off another volley. The first shot missed, hitting instead an ugly-looking skull of some sort of humanoid hybrid (Norah noticed the plaque reading Nogitsune’s Skull, but didn’t have time to read further), but the second hit the Mildred’s gun barrel dead-on, and the weapon split in two, drenching the Mildred’s face and neck in a wash of glittering pink. The Mildred dropped to her knees, shuddered, and froze in place, her body spasming as the aphrodisiac soaked her.

Marissa saw it and called out, “They overload if you hit them enough!” Her voice was velvet and cream, and the way she said it made even Chloe flush.

Erin stared at Norah. “Fuck, Tabs, that was awesome!” She exclaimed. Norah grinned.

“I was aiming for her boobs, but thank you!”

Claire, beside her, mimed a running motion, then a hands-up “surge” gesture, then pointed at the barricade. Marissa interpreted immediately: “Push now! All together!”

Norah and Erin charged the barricade, Sam covering them with rapid-fire bursts that drove the defenders back. Chloe and Dawn scuttled behind, staying low and ready with the patches. Marissa and Claire swung wide, flanking left, Marissa’s gun steady and precise. Emi dropped from her perch, landing behind two Mildreds that were trotting in from a side door. She shot a volley of pellets into one Mildred’s lower back, wrapped four arms around the nearest, pinning her, and yanked her backwards so violently that her visor went flying. With two free hands, Emi jammed her own gun up under the Mildred’s chin and fired. The round detonated, and the guard’s mouth and throat immediately filled with shivering, wet color.

“Holy shit, Emi!” Norah shouted, impressed.

The chaos doubled. Rounds ricocheted everywhere, hitting statues, banners, the glass dome overhead. Erin barreled into the barricade, knocking over a plinth and sending two Mildreds flying. Norah clambered up the overturned chairs and fired into the mass of defenders, taking out another Mildred with a three-round burst to the chest. The woman convulsed, dropped her gun, and fell over, twitching on the ground.

Chloe, now emboldened by Dawn’s rapid-patch expertise, crawled out into the open, grabbing a gun and firing it in what could only be called a panic spray. She hit one Mildred in the shin, another in the side, then the wall, then the ceiling. A round came back, hit her right in the chest—splattering over the latex and instantly dissolving on it. The sensation was immediate, and Chloe’s eyes glazed over, her breathing turning ragged as she slumped behind the nearest bench.

“Hit! Velvet’s hit!” Dawn screamed, and dashed forward, yanking open her satchel. She tore Chloe’s catsuit open at the chest, slapped a patch onto the sticky, glowing skin, and pressed down, hard. Chloe gasped, trembled, then managed a thumbs-up, the haze in her eyes clearing a little.

“Jesus, this stuff is strong,” Chloe moaned, but she was already prepping another round. She looked down at her exposed chest and yelped. "Did you really have to do that?"

Dawn grinned. "I wanted to be dramatic!" She chirped, then grabbed Chloe's discarded gun and sprayed a volley of covering fire.

Marissa, her gun held steady, aimed at the balcony where the last two Mildreds had appeared. She took her time—exhaled, pulled the trigger, and hit the first dead-center in the visor. The round exploded, and the Mildred jerked back, tumbling over the balcony and landing right on top of Erin.

The impact staggered Erin, but the woman’s body was so covered with aphrodisiac that the second she landed, Erin felt an electric jolt through her own skin. Her nipples went instantly hard, her breath catching as the sensation tore through her. The lack of transformation immunity was a shock, and for a split second, she nearly blacked out.

“Erin—status?” Norah yelled, seeing her waver.

“Fine—just spicy!” Erin barked back, and flipped the Mildred off her body, then shot her again for good measure.

On the far side, Sam and Liesa were clearing the rest of the barricade. Liesa, face set with determination, stood and fired at the nearest guard, her hand steady even as paint rounds whizzed past her head. She hit the Mildred twice in the chest and once in the thigh. The guard staggered, then went limp, collapsing with a sound like a sack of wet laundry.

Sam grinned at her. “Nice shot, Waffle.”

Liesa, shaking, laughed. “I was aiming for the gun.”

“Still counts,” Sam said, and patted her on the back.

At the center of the rotunda, Claire leapt onto a low bench, waving her arms in a clear “converge” motion. Marissa immediately translated: “Everyone, center! Form up!” Her voice was so arousing that three of the women visibly quivered, but the group snapped to, rallying in the heart of the chamber.

Of the Mildreds, only two were still standing. Both had retreated to the foot of the main staircase, firing steadily but backing away. Their visors were fogged, their movements erratic.

“Emi, can you flank right?” Marissa called. Emi nodded, then scuttled across the marble, her hands moving so fast she was a blur. She drew fire from one of the defenders, took a round to the arm (it burst, coating her in glowing pink) but didn’t slow. She leapt onto the banister, ran along the rail, and dropped down behind the Mildred. She grabbed the guard in a bear hug—four arms pinning her arms, two more wrapping her legs—and yanked her into the air, then flung her down the stairs. The guard bounced, paint and goo splattering everywhere.

“Holy shit, Emi, where did you learn that?!” Sam exclaimed, impressed.

Emi, catching her breath, grinned. “Turns out Hexasutra can be applied for evil, too!”

The last Mildred tried to retreat up the stairs, but Erin and Norah both drew beads on her, and together shot her in the back. She jerked, lost her balance, and crashed to the floor, where Sam finished the job with a shot to the lower back.

Silence crashed down, thick and sudden. The entire rotunda was a wreck—bodies sprawled, glass shattered, every surface spattered and dripping with aphrodisiac. The air was a sauna of perfume and sweat, and every woman was streaked with paint, their latex clinging or torn, skin exposed and glistening.

For a moment, no one moved. Then, slowly, they gathered at the center.

Chloe was the first to speak, voice trembling but alive: “I can’t feel my legs.”

“Means the patch is working,” Dawn said, soothing. She stroked Chloe’s hair, then checked her pulse with steady hands.

Norah, chest heaving, looked around. “Is anyone else aroused?” She cackled, then looked down at her own breasts, the nipples like thumbtacks under the latex. She flexed, then shrugged.

Sam was grinning from ear to ear, paint streaking her cheek, one arm around Liesa, the other pumping a fist in the air. “That was fucking awesome.”

Liesa, still shaking, buried her face in Sam’s neck, giggling hysterically.

Marissa was all business, scanning for injuries, checking everyone’s eyes and responses. She squeezed Claire’s shoulder, then Emi’s, then Erin’s. “Good job. Nobody lost. Nobody knocked out. We might actually make it.”

Emi, four of her arms wrapped around her own chest, flushed bright pink but beaming. “I want to do that again,” she said, breathless.

Claire, winded and wild-eyed, pointed to a door on the eastern wall, then gave a thumbs-up. She just held up a single finger, as if to say: Wait. There’s more.

She was right.

To the west, another open door led deeper into the museum. There, under a flickering fluorescent light, stood Riley. She was motionless, eyes wide, staring down the hallway.

“What is it?” Marissa called.

Riley didn’t answer. She just stood there, silent, her face a complicated blend of fear, anger, and something else.

At the far end of the corridor, eight more black-clad Mildreds had appeared, their paintball rifles at the ready. They advanced slowly, boots thudding on the marble. Behind them, even more shapes moved in the shadows.

Riley had always believed in the honesty of ****. Not the **** of pain—she hated pain—but the **** of change, of moments that blew the world apart and reassembled it out of nothing but nerve and muscle and need. Now, in the rotunda, the **** was everywhere, and it had never been less honest.

The chaos was so loud it became silent: the shriek of paintball rounds, the crash of bodies, the wet splatter of chemicals against flesh and stone. There were people yelling, there was the stench of sex and sweat and fear, but through it all, Riley just watched.

She stood at the entrance of the corridor, watching the other women scramble and improvise and do their best not to let each other down. Riley could have moved. She could have run, or shot, or screamed. But her feet had grown roots, and her hands were useless, her gun hanging limply in her grip. All she could do was stare.

Beyond the rotunda, in the tunnel of light and shadow, more Mildreds advanced. Three at first, then five, then a whole fucking phalanx of at least ten of them, each carrying their own slick black gun, each with the same plastic smile painted over her fucking face. Behind them, the corridor vanished into nothingness; there was no other side, no place to run, only more ****, waiting.

Riley felt her heart jump, then slow, then freeze. The sensation was oddly familiar.

She remembered another rotunda, not here, but in a government building in D.C. She was twelve. Her father had driven her and Laura to the city to see the cherry blossoms. She remembered the heat, the press of bodies in the marble hall, how her father’s voice was a slow drawl over the buzz of strangers. She remembered standing with Laura, shoulder to shoulder, watching a crowd gather below, while her father held his hand on her shoulder.

She had lost them both.

Andy had shown her the moment of Laura’s **** (what had that cost him?) and now she remembered what she had seen with perfect clarity: the way the world tilted, young Andy’s scream, the flash of blue as Laura went into the water. She had not been strong enough to tell her friend, ‘stop, think. Would Andy do that to you'?’. She had protected nothing, and lost everything.

She remembered the two Army officers at her door, their faces carved from stone, the folded triangle of red, white, and blue extended toward her like an offering to a vengeful god. "Mrs. Bennett, we regret to inform you..." The words had dissolved into white noise as her hands instinctively moved to her belly. John wouldn't feel his son kick. Wouldn't argue with her about names anymore. Wouldn't come home from Syria with sand in his boots and that crooked smile that had made her say yes eight years ago in a bar in Tallahassee. Would never get to teach his son baseball, or show him the Fourth of July's fireworks. Would never get to hold her again, leaving behind a cold and empty bed.

Five months later, she'd watched the monitors. The unsteady rhythm of her baby's heart had stuttered, then slowed, then stopped completely as doctors shouted and nurses moved with practiced urgency. She’d watched helplessly, too stunned to even cry, as life fled his little body—so small, so still, nothing like the squirming, screaming life she'd imagined. They had wheeled the contraption away while a social worker gently asked about funeral arrangements, and all she could think of was that she had not been able to hold him, not even once. He had died without ever knowing his mother’s love, his mother’s touch. He had never even opened his eyes.

Now, it was happening again.

Behind her, the group was fighting for their lives. The battle was winding down, but more Mildreds were coming, and all Riley could do was watch.

But then she looked at Chloe, curled on the floor and shaking. She looked at Emi, fighting like a six-armed wildcat. She looked at Erin, standing tall and fighting with no regard for what little modesty she could even reclaim. She looked at Sam, drawing fire so her friends could survive. She looked at Claire and Marissa, trying their best to keep everyone running. She thought of Andy, watching the carnage on whatever magical screen Arabella would conjure.

Something broke. Something healed.

Riley bared her teeth in a smile that was nothing like happiness.

She moved.

She ducked the first barrage, feeling the wind of it on her cheek. A paintball splattered her shoulder, drenching her shoulder, the warmth immediate and dizzying. She sprinted down the center line, ignoring the way the world bent and shimmered around her. More rounds hit: her thigh, her chest, her stomach. Each one was a burst of heat, a punch of pleasure that almost staggered her, but she ran anyway.

She reached the first line of Mildreds. They hadn’t expected her to charge. The first one flinched; Riley slammed the butt of her own rifle into the woman’s face, sending her reeling, then used the recoil to drive her knee into the second Mildred’s crotch. The woman doubled over, paint splattering everywhere.

Two more Mildreds closed in. Riley spun, ducked, fired point-blank into the first one’s open mouth. The second Mildred shot her right in the stomach; the round broke on her catsuit, and for a second the world went white with sensation. Riley gasped, nearly blacked out, then screamed and shot the woman in the knee. The Mildred toppled, legs jelly. She sprayed a burst of rapid-fire pellets, not caring how many Mildreds were caught in the line of fire, just trying to create chaos, to distract them, to stop their inexorable advance. She screamed, a primal cry, half-rage, half-grief, a catharsis that had been too long in the making. Maybe these Mildreds had not taken Laura from her, had not taken John or the baby, but by God, it felt good to finally let that rage out, that anger at the universe for all it had taken from her!

All the while, more and more paintballs hit her. Each shot was hotter, deeper, more impossible to ignore. Riley’s skin glowed, every inch of her electrified. Her nipples stiffened, her thighs trembled, and the world swam in a haze of pink and blue.

She staggered backwards. She could feel her insides melting, the aphrodisiac working its way through her blood, her bones, her soul. She was barely upright, but she kept going.

In her head, she saw her husband, saying goodbye as he deployed.

She saw Laura, smiling in the rain.

She saw her son, just for a moment.

Riley reached the rotunda door, groaned, and slammed it shut behind her, bracing herself against the wood. The sound of the latch echoed through the chamber, and for an instant, time stopped.

She turned to face her friends. Her sisters. She wanted to say something—anything—but her tongue wouldn’t move. Her whole body was a firestorm. She could feel her own pulse in her cunt, in her throat, in her toes. Her hips jerked, her spine arched, and she dropped to her knees.

“Shit—Riley!” Erin shouted. "Dawn, Chloe! Quick!"

Riley looked up. The aphrodisiac had her now, full body. Her breasts heaved, her thighs slick with need, her fingers digging into the marble for purchase. “Fly, you fools,” She gasped. The pleasure built, not gentle but wild, hurricane ****, and Riley screamed.

Not in fear. Not in pain.

In release.

Her whole body clenched, then shuddered, then let go. The orgasm was raw, primitive, nothing like she’d ever had before. It was grief, and love, and guilt, and hope, all detonating at once. It lasted for seconds, maybe hours, and when it was done she collapsed, limp and smiling.

The others stared. Chloe, mouth open. Erin, jaw set, eyes wet. Marissa, for once, speechless.

Behind Riley, the doors held. The other wave of Mildreds would not break through, not for a while.

Riley looked up at the ceiling, laughed, and then let her head drop to the cold marble.

“Good luck, you crazy bitches,” she whispered, and then she was gone.

The rotunda was silent.

For a long, beautiful second, no one spoke.

Then, slowly, the rest of them gathered around Riley's prone form. Emi slid down the pillar and reached out with four trembling arms, but her fingers passed through Riley's shoulder like smoke. Erin knelt, her hand hovering over emptiness as Riley's body grew translucent, pixelating at the edges.

"She's smiling," Marissa whispered, watching Riley's face flicker and fade. "Look at her—I've never seen her like that."

The afterglow of Riley's climax lingered in the air like perfume as her form dissolved completely, leaving only a faint shimmer on the marble floor where she had been.

Achievement Unlocked! Riley: Smoke Without Fire +5 VP

The group remained clustered in the empty space, a silent tribute. Riley was the first one to go. They knew what it meant. But although their eyes glimmered, they all knew it was no time for tears.

And then they looked to the next door, the corridor beyond, and knew what had to be done.

But they had no time.

Above them, on the balcony that ringed the rotunda, a new group of Mildreds arrived. They had been upgraded: these wore red sashes over the black, and their guns were thicker, double-barreled, with canisters sloshing iridescent liquid. They looked down and, as one, raised their weapons.

“Down!” Marissa barked, and the group dove, but Claire was too slow.

The first round caught her in the chest, dead center. She felt the impact before she heard it, a hot, wet slap that knocked the breath from her. The paint—pink, cold and electric—spattered across her catsuit, soaking through, then past it, igniting her skin beneath.

Claire gasped. The world tunnel-visioned. Her nipples instantly hardened, and her clit throbbed so hard she thought she might fall. Her vision went blurry at the edges, every sense reduced to the ache in her chest.

A second shot hit her, just above the left breast. A third on her belly, the **** of it folding her forward. Her body was a live wire; pleasure, sharp and metallic, spiked through her brain. She tried to scream, but she had no voice.

She stumbled, fell to one knee, her whole body juddering in helpless, helpless, pleasure.

The world blurred. She felt arms around her—Erin’s arms. The woman was screaming, but the words were lost in the firestorm. Erin wrenched Claire up and threw her behind the nearest pillar, using her own body as a shield.

Four more shots hit Erin in the back, splattering up her spine and over her ass, then the backs of her thighs. Each impact rippled, turning her olive skin into a glowing road map of agony and lust. Her body jerked and arched, but she didn’t cry out—not yet.

“Go,” Erin hissed, shoving Claire into the alcove. “Run.”

Claire tried. Her legs didn’t work right, but she crawled, clawed her way into the darkness, then pressed her back to the wall. Her heart hammered. She reached for her notebook, but it was gone, probably lost in the firefight. She tried to make her hands move, to gesture to Marissa or Norah, but all she could do was clutch herself and shake.

She watched as Erin staggered out into the open, still taking fire. The Mildreds had her zeroed: every shot hit, and every hit made Erin’s hips rock, her chest arch, her whole body sing. The effect was so overwhelming it was almost beautiful. Almost.

Erin fought it. She gritted her teeth, flexed her fingers, **** herself upright even as another round hit her in the face, splattering blue down her jaw and neck. Her eyes rolled back, and for a second Claire thought she might collapse. But she didn’t.

Instead, she roared.

With a wordless scream, Erin charged the balcony stairs, drawing the fire onto herself, her gun shooting volleys over the Mildreds, forcing them to find cover even as they kept shooting at the naked woman climbing the stairs two by two. The others—Norah, Sam, Chloe, Emily, Emi, Liesa, even Dawn—followed. Marissa was the only one to look back at Claire, her face an agony of concern, before disappearing into the shadows.

Claire tried to rise, but the pleasure was too much. She bit her hand, hard, to stay conscious. She watched through tear-blurred eyes as Erin made it to the first landing, then took another full volley, this time to the chest and stomach.

The woman’s cry was wild, then broken, then ****.

Erin’s body locked, every muscle taut, and then she fell to her knees, then her back, arms flung wide.

Her orgasm was not a surrender, but a detonation. It wracked her body, arching her spine, jerking her hips, drawing out a sobbing, guttural moan that echoed through the chamber. Every shot that hit her now only added to the shuddering pleasure, until her legs wouldn’t hold, until her hands went limp.

Claire watched, helpless, as Erin fought to stay awake, to stay alive, to keep the others safe. She failed, but it didn’t matter.

The others made it through.

Achievement Unlocked! Erin: Fault Lines +5 VP

When the last of the fire faded, and the last paintball clattered to the floor, Claire tried to crawl toward where Erin had fallen. Too late. Already Erin's body was becoming translucent, pixelating at the edges like Riley's had. From the landing, the sounds of struggle—grunts, shots, the wet slap of paint hitting flesh—told Claire the others had reached the Mildreds.

Erin's back arched one final time, her mouth open in silent ecstasy. She turned her head, caught Claire's gaze across the distance between them, and smiled—a real smile, victorious even in defeat. Then she mouthed a word and was gone, leaving only a faint shimmer on the marble.

Marissa appeared at the top of the stairs, paint-splattered but standing. "We got them," she called down, voice hoarse. "Every last one. Erin gave us the chance." Her eyes found the empty space where Erin had been, and she nodded once—a farewell, an acknowledgment, a thank you.

It would have to be enough.

Claire stood, wiped her eyes, and climbed the stairs to join the others. Her body still hummed, her skin alive with aftereffects, but her mind was clear, bright, sharp as glass.

They were nine now. Nine, against whatever waited.