The Midway Push (Spoiler-Free)

The six of them huddled in the vestibule just past the kill zone, faces lit blue-white by the emergency strips lining the floor. For a moment, no one spoke. They sucked in air—paint-streaked, sweat-soaked, knees gone watery. The fighting had carved the group to the core: Norah and Sam, latex suits in tatters; Claire, the tip of one cat ear splattered with fluorescent pink; Liesa, visibly trembling; Emily, bare except for the gold-pink shield of her hair, arms and shins freckled with powder burns; and Dawn, clutching a single, empty patch wrapper like it was a rabbit’s foot.

Claire made the first move. She slipped past Norah and Sam, tail low, shoulders bunched. She peered around the next wall, eyes flickering in the gloom. She held up one fist, then two fingers, then sketched a right-angle with her thumb and index. Norah nodded, once, and gestured Sam to her flank.

Sam took position on the left, chin up, teeth showing in a wild, white snarl. Norah followed, flexing her gun hand. “Ready when you are, Chief,” Sam whispered, and Norah grunted approval.

Liesa lagged behind, trying to breathe like a normal person. Her suit had bunched up under the last barrage, pinching at her hips, and the chill against her skin was every bit as distracting as the warmth now creeping up her sleeve. She fixed her eyes on Claire’s tail, willing her own heart to keep pace.

Emily followed Liesa, sneakers whispering on the marble. She clung to her weapon, fingers clumsy and red with the remnants of a last-ditch volley. Her hair did its job, covering her front, but she knew from the tingling in her nipples and thighs that the Mildreds’ ammunition had found its way through.

Dawn trailed, eyes scanning the ceiling for snipers. She’d lost her last patch saving Claire, but hope was a stubborn weed.

The corridor opened into a shorter gallery thirty feet long and nearly as much across. Here, the marble floor glared, and the only cover was a mad collection of upside-down pedestals, overturned folding chairs, and a few scattered velvet ropes. The whole room felt like a cheap carnival shooting gallery, and Claire’s tail lashed once in disgust before she flattened her ears and made the signal: two taps on the wrist—Go.

Norah and Sam led the charge, each zigzagging to a fallen pedestal. Sam dove, rolled, and popped up behind a shield of heavy stone. Norah darted low, then hugged the base of a statue so lewdly pornographic it almost looked bored. Claire sent Liesa and Emily left, then she herself dove right, tail flicking for balance. Dawn skittered behind them, eyes wide.

The Mildreds were waiting. They rose in a synchronized arc from behind the far barricade, guns raised. The barrels were glass, the liquid inside glowing electric blue. When the first volley came, it was like a storm had torn a bag of Skittles open: rounds hit the floor, the walls, the pedestals, and every direct impact left a burst of color and the raw, chemical scent of aphrodisiac.

Norah squeezed off two shots, neither finding its mark, but it forced a Mildred to duck, breaking the rhythm of their barrage. Sam laughed, aimed high, and let loose with a five-shot spray, yelling “Covering fire!” even though everyone could see it was just for the hell of it.

Claire gestured furiously, tail a flag in the chaos. She pointed left, then straight up, then to the ground: Emily, Liesa, go high and overhead duct; Sam and Norah, suppress; Dawn, follow me.

Emily didn’t hesitate. She vaulted a folding chair, then slipped behind Liesa, her hair flicking in a gold-and-pink streamer as she ran. Liesa hesitated, only a second, but it was enough for a Mildred to snap off a shot and hit her square in the upper arm.

The impact was sharp, cold at first, then molten. The latex sleeve didn't just tear—it dissolved, the paint and chemical eating through the layers in a sizzle of blue and silver. Liesa gasped, the sensation like a tiny hand squeezing her bicep, then letting go with a rush of heat. She clapped her free hand over the bare patch, but that only made it worse: the chemical spread, tracing the nerves up to her shoulder and down to her wrist. She blinked, eyes wide, then gritted her teeth.

"Don't stop, Liesa!" Emily hissed, voice higher than she meant. "You're okay. Keep moving."

Liesa nodded, jaw clenched. Her foot struck something solid—a fallen gun, its barrel still glowing faintly blue. She snatched it up, the weight unfamiliar but welcome. Two Mildreds appeared at the edge of the barricade, their blank faceplates swiveling toward Emily's exposed back. Liesa didn't think. She squeezed the trigger twice—pop-pop—and caught both guards square in the chest. They staggered backward, paint blooming across their uniforms like strange flowers.

"Nice," Emily whispered, eyes wide.

Liesa scuttled sideways, flanking the barricade, the gun still hot in her trembling hand. Dawn called out, “Emily!” and hurled a patch at her; the naked girl grabbed it quickly, peeled off the cover, and slapped it on Liesa’s bare patch of skin. The Belgian girl felt herself cool down - but not as much as she wanted to: the patch could do nothing for the effects of her Paint Me Like One Of Your French Girls transformation.

On the right, Norah and Sam had carved out a tiny advance. Each took turns popping up, drawing fire, then ducking. Norah was sweating, her hair clinging to her face, but she didn't show fear—if anything, she seemed to feed off the madness.

A Mildred, better than the rest, managed to lead a shot perfectly: the round caught Norah just under the chin, splattering up her neck and into her mouth. The taste was chemical and sweet, and for a split second, Norah’s whole body locked up.

Sam saw it. “Hey! Chief! You with me?”

Norah spat, a blue streak across the marble, then fired three shots in a row. “With you!” she barked, and the two laughed like maniacs.

Claire, now pressed flat behind a velvet-roped stanchion, watched it all. She saw everything—the angles, the lines, the way the Mildreds’ shots always tracked to where you’d be two seconds later, not where you were. She also saw the opening: two Mildreds on the left had jammed their guns, their movements precise and robotic.

She whistled, a cat’s trill, then pointed at the opening. Liesa and Emily got it immediately. They broke cover, crawling low, and reached the base of the duct with only minor hits—a round grazed Emily’s thigh, another nicked Liesa’s hip, but neither woman stopped.

Dawn, behind Claire, risked a glance over the barricade. A Mildred spotted her, and a volley tore the top half-inch off the velvet stanchion, showering them both in fake gold dust. “We’re pinned!” Dawn whispered, ducking. “What now?”

Claire made a fist, then a chopping gesture.

She waited—one breath, two. Then she exploded from cover, sprinting straight down the middle, shooting her gun from the hip, a blur of ears and tail and legs. Every Mildred on the line saw her and shifted aim, just as she’d predicted.

Norah and Sam used the distraction to break right, firing wild. “Go!” Norah screamed, voice raw. Sam whooped and followed, letting loose with every last shot in her gun.

On the left, Liesa and Emily scrambled up the duct, gaining precious meters. Liesa’s gun flared, another Mildred was hit and collapsed soundlessly. Emily picked up another gun, though her aim wasn’t as good while running.

The barrage was relentless. Claire zigged, zagged, then rolled, but she couldn’t avoid every shot. A round hit her right hip, tearing the suit and splattering her pale skin with a wash of blue. Another grazed the base of her tail; the sensation was so intense she almost yowled, but she pressed on, adrenaline drowning out everything but the goal.

She made it to the end, skidding on the marble, then slammed into the nearest Mildred with all her weight. The woman fell, her gun clattering away. Claire rolled off, landed hard, but before she could move, a second Mildred swung her rifle and shot Claire across the back.

Pleasure. Flashing white. The impact nearly knocked her out, but she clung to consciousness, clawing the air, and managed to wrap her tail around the Mildred’s ankle. She pulled, hard. The Mildred toppled, then crashed onto the floor, the gun firing a wild volley into the ceiling. Claire leaped for the Mildred’s gun, grabbed it, then impassively shot the Mildred between the eyes.

Above, Liesa and Emily were in a desperate scramble. The duct was slick with condensation, and their hands barely held purchase. But Liesa was determined: she ignored the tingling up her arm, the warmth that now throbbed along her bicep, and just focused on the next grip. Emily, for her part, was lighter, faster. The finish line was in sight.

The gallery floor was a war zone. Sam and Norah, now behind the last intact pedestal, reloaded with scavenged rounds from a fallen Mildred. They peeked out, fired, ducked, repeated. Sam’s gun jammed; she cursed, fixed it with a smack, then let loose again.

Dawn, still by the stanchion, saw a Mildred zeroing in on her. “Oh, no you don’t,” she muttered, and flung the empty patch wrapper like a dart. It hit the Mildred dead in the eyeslit. The Mildred blinked, hesitated. Dawn used the moment to run, diving behind the next display.

And then the room went silent, except for the soft hiss of chemical vapors.

Claire, battered and half-splattered with every color, looked up. She saw Norah and Sam, both breathing hard, weapons ready. She saw Emily and Liesa, halfway into the duct, Emily waving her down frantically.

And she saw the Mildreds regrouping at the far end—six of them, guns up.

Claire drew in a breath. She gestured: All out.

Norah saw the move, grinned, and yelled, “All in, baby! Let’s go!” She and Sam broke cover, firing as they ran, drawing all attention.

Emily and Liesa dropped out of the duct, landing awkwardly but alive, then sprinted to the nearest exit.

Claire ran straight at the wall of Mildreds, zigzagging, rolling, never stopping. The first two rounds missed. The third hit her thigh; the fourth caught her shoulder, the fabric burning away instantly.

She reached the nearest Mildred, jumped, and hit her with a flying tackle. They both went down in a heap. Claire kicked the gun away, scrambled, and used her tail to trip another Mildred. The catgirl was a blur, feral and beautiful.

But the other guards closed in, and in seconds, they had her pinned.

Norah and Sam, seeing this, doubled down. They hurled their empty guns at the enemy, then charged. “For the pride!” Sam shouted, and Norah laughed like a wolf.

Dawn, trailing behind, scooped up a fallen gun, then ran for Liesa and Emily.

The wall of Mildreds turned on the attackers, and for a moment it was chaos: bodies tumbling, paintballs flying, limbs and latex everywhere. But one by one, the women started to fall.

Liesa, chest heaving, reached the gallery exit. But a shot from the rear hit her lower back, the latex burning away instantly. She howled, stumbled, and almost fell, but Emily caught her. “Don’t stop!” Emily shouted, pushing her forward.

Liesa tried. She really tried. But her legs went weak, and a second round caught her, then a third, splattering her bare arms and the small of her back. The heat built, compounding, spreading.

Her fingers slipped from Emily’s, and she dropped to her knees.

“I can’t—” she gasped, voice barely there.

The arousal was everywhere, raw and building. Her arms shook, her legs buckled, her body betraying her at every nerve.

Emily turned, desperate, but three Mildreds were closing fast. She grabbed Liesa by the waist, tried to haul her up, but the sensation of skin on skin made Liesa shudder, then go limp.

Her back arched, her mouth open in a wordless cry, and the world narrowed to a single, white-hot point.

She climaxed, once, then again, her body shaking uncontrollably. She fell forward, the sensation ripping through her, then went still.

Her body shimmered, started to pixelate at the edges, and then—gone.

Liesa was out.

Emily heard Norah and Sam ahead, their voices—hoarse but alive—echoing in the high-walled gallery. The air was electric with the stink of arousal, paint, and defeat.

For a moment, Emily just watched. She saw the way Claire staggered across the room, alone and catlike, her ears slicked back and eyes blinking slow, trying to focus. The paint rounds had scored her body—hip, thigh, the tip of her tail—but the worst was a bright orange splotch right over her heart. She’d lost her weapon somewhere in the scrum, and now she moved with the brittle, haunted elegance of someone already halfway to elimination.

Emily wanted to help. She really did. But fear and the awful memory of Liesa’s fall glued her to the spot.

Until she saw Claire step out—straight into a crossfire.

There was no warning. The two remaining Mildreds, perched behind a glass case, timed their shots perfectly. The first paintball caught Claire high on the chest, the next on her neck. She twisted, stumbled, then pitched forward, landing hard on the marble.

She lay there, twitching.

“Shit!” Emily’s voice surprised herself, raw and urgent. She dropped her gun—it was useless now anyway—and ran.

Her sneakers skidded and slipped on the paint-slick floor, but Emily kept moving, hair flowing behind her like a cape. She hurdled a fallen chair, ducked under a stream of blue, and slid the last three feet to reach Claire. The catgirl’s eyes fluttered open, wide and unfocused.

“Claire. Claire! Can you get up?”

Claire tried, but her muscles jerked and twitched; the aphrodisiac was already flooding her system, and the signature shivering had started. Emily glanced back—Norah and Sam were pinned down by fire, Dawn was hugging the wall, helpless—and knew it was up to her.

She wrapped her arms around Claire, tried to drag her to cover. The paint was slick and burning on her skin, and with every movement, the warmth bled from Claire into Emily’s hands. “Dawn!” she called out.

They made it two feet before a fresh volley came.

Three paintballs, point blank. One caught Emily on the shoulder, the second burst right over her left breast, the last hit her square in the ribs.

The effect was immediate: the sensation crashed through her, stealing her breath, turning her bones to liquid. For a second, she was paralyzed—then she gasped, arching into the feeling, every nerve a fuse burning toward detonation.

Her hair, always loyal, swung forward to cover her breasts, but the paint soaked right through, sticking the gold and pink to her skin in a second skin of chemical fire.

Emily couldn’t speak. Couldn’t even cry out. Her whole body trembled, knees locking, toes curling. She let go of Claire and braced herself on the floor, head down, willing herself to resist. To hang on just a little longer.

But it was pointless. The next shot—she didn’t even see where it came from—hit her on the thigh, splattering up between her legs.

The world narrowed to a single point of white, then exploded.

The orgasm took her all at once, hard and fast and brutal. Her spine curved, her arms went out, fingers clutching marble. She cried out—one sharp, perfect note—then crumpled, cheek pressed to the cold floor. The pleasure didn’t fade; it just kept coming, wave after wave, until her vision blurred and her limbs went numb.

She saw Claire’s face, inches from hers, eyes glazed and wet with tears.

“Sorry,” Emily managed, her voice a ghost.

She smiled, then let go. The world pixelated, and she was gone.

---

Dawn saw all of it. She saw Emily run, saw her go down, saw the way Claire tried to rise and couldn’t.

There were only two patches left in the satchel.

Dawn didn’t hesitate. She closed her eyes, breathed in once, then broke cover and sprinted. Paint rounds traced her every step—one grazed her calf, another ricocheted past her ear—but she ignored them, focused only on the patch in her hand and the way Claire’s body was seizing on the floor.

She slid the last few feet, knees slamming hard. The patch wrapper tore between her teeth, and she pressed the pad to Claire’s arm, right where the paint was worst.

“Hold on, Claire, please—”

But then Dawn’s legs exploded with heat.

Two rounds hit her, dead center on the thighs, the paint eating through latex and biting straight to the skin. The effect was instant: her muscles locked, her hips jerked, and her whole lower half went molten.

She finished pressing the patch to Claire—there was a hiss, a bloom, and Claire’s shudders slowed—then collapsed backward, her hands clutching at her own burning thighs.

“Shit,” she whispered. Then, louder, “Norah—Sam—GO!”

She didn’t get to say anything else. The heat built and built, her whole body trembling as the chemicals short-circuited every defense she had. Her nipples went bullet-hard, the feeling tearing up her spine and into her skull. She tried to hold it back, but there was no chance.

Her climax was messy, loud, raw. She arched up, hips thrusting, hands gripping marble so hard her nails cracked. She sobbed, then screamed, then sobbed again, each pulse of pleasure stripping away another piece of composure. When it was finally over, she lay there, breathing in short, animal pants.

The last thing she saw was Claire, blinking, arm wrapped around her patch, eyes clearing.

Then the world flickered, and Dawn vanished.

---

Claire lay still, the patch burning cold on her arm, the rest of her body still seared by the aftershocks. For a second, she thought she was hallucinating—maybe the patch hadn’t worked, and this was her elimination. But then she heard Norah and Sam yelling, the sound cutting through the fog.

She pushed herself up, elbows shaking. The pain was nothing, the pleasure manageable. She looked around—Emily gone, Dawn gone, Liesa gone.

Just her, Norah, and Sam now.

Sam crouched behind a toppled pedestal, eyes wide. Norah’s chin was covered in aphrodisiac, but she grinned when she saw Claire upright.

“Nice save, Catgirl,” Norah shouted. “Now MOVE!”

Claire ran, tail streaming behind, feet barely touching the marble. Sam reached out, pulled her in, and the two of them grinned at each other, wild and giddy.

“You good?” Sam asked, breathless.

Claire nodded. She pointed ahead: the door, the next chamber.

Norah clapped both of them on the backs, then punched the button to open the exit. “Let’s end this,” she said.

Together, they walked into whatever hell waited next.

---

The lights in the next room were darker, the air thicker, humming with a static charge. The trio hit the ground running, or what passed for it: Norah’s left knee gave a threatening pop every time she bent it, and Sam’s right arm was starting to numb out, but neither let it slow them. Claire was still shaky from the patch, every muscle trembling, but she stayed at the front, one hand pressed to the spot on her chest where the orange paint had sunk deepest.

The architecture here was different—less museum, more fortress. There were only tall, featureless columns, spaced tight enough that you couldn’t see ten feet ahead. A massive sword was embedded in the floor of the next floor, its pommel artfully crafted to resemble a dildo.

Norah caught Claire’s shoulder as they saw the sword, in the room ahead, voice low but urgent. “You lead, we’ll cover.”

Claire blinked at her, then, despite everything, managed a choked, silent laugh. She raised her tail, flicked it in a figure-eight, and moved ahead.

The first volley came from above. A Mildred, perched on a steel girder, fired a round that caught Sam on the side of the neck. The impact was nothing compared to what she’d survived, but it stung—and it pushed her further. Sam didn’t flinch, didn’t even duck. She just looked up and gave the Mildred the finger.

“Get bent!” Sam yelled. “I’m not falling to a cheap shot!”

Norah ducked, yanked Claire behind a column. The move nearly knocked Claire over, but she steadied, then gestured: two quick fingers, then a punch. Norah nodded. “Understood.”

They broke left, using the columns as shields. Every step, a new barrage: paintballs, sometimes aimed, sometimes just dumped from above. Some rounds missed; some grazed them. The worst was a blue shot that hit the back of Claire’s leg, almost dropping her. She hissed, ears flattening, but Norah and Sam both caught her before she fell.

“Keep moving!” Norah barked.

Sam, sweating hard, managed a laugh. “Who knew my D&D skills would come in handy?”

Norah snorted. “Don’t get cocky, Blue Steel. We’re still in the shit.”

“Is that so?” Sam roared, and swung her arm as hard as she could, connecting with the pillar. It cracked with a sickening sound, and the Mildred above wobbled in alarm. “Hah!” Sam cackled, kicking the pillar with all her strength. It snapped, and Sam threw herself out of its path just in time. The Mildred perched above fell ruinously, but without a sound; when she landed with a thud, Sam quickly pelleted her with aphrodisiac.

Ahead, in the penultimate room, the Mildreds were losing discipline. Maybe they knew they’d lost already, or maybe the endless clones just stopped caring, but by the halfway point, most of them had quit aiming and just hammered off wild shots from the balconies. The air shimmered with the smell of chemicals and raw, anxious energy.

Claire caught the pattern. She paused, ducked to one knee, and traced a quick diagram in spilled paint on the floor. Sam and Norah watched, then nodded.

“Got it,” Sam whispered. “We go left, then straight?”

Claire nodded, ears perking.

Norah gave Sam a nudge. “Ready?”

“Born ready, Blue Steel.”

They launched the final charge together. Norah went first, using her battered body as a shield for the others. A paintball hit her on the temple, nearly dropping her, but she shook it off, then dove for the staircase at the end of the hall. Sam followed, dragging Claire by the wrist, both of them ducking and weaving through the last gauntlet.

A Mildred at the entrance waited, gun leveled. Norah tackled her—literally tackled, shoulder to the chest—knocking the guard off balance. The woman went down, gun lost, and Norah didn’t even look back.

Sam laughed, grabbed the Mildred’s gun, shot her, then heaved Claire up the steps after her.

In the next room, the three of them regrouped, panting, pressed together by the narrowness of the landing. They were out of patches, out of options.

But they were together.

Sam glanced at the massive sword, wondering idly if she was strong enough to wield it. The thought made her cackle. Artful displays were scattered about: a case containing a silk collar and leash; a set of RPG dice (a blue d4, red d6, green d8, yellow d10, white d12, brown d20, and orange d100); a large scarab pendant, labeled Sin-Iddinam’s Coercion Scarab - Harem Hotel: Dilmun, Arabella, S145; another leather collar, older and more battered, labeled Abi-Eshu’s Collar - Harem Hotel: Dilmun, Arabella, S01. Claire looked at the second collar. They must be getting close. The only way forward was together.

Norah wiped sweat from her brow, leaving a streak of paint and blood. “We’re almost there. Don’t quit now.”

Sam, still grinning, put her arm around Claire’s shoulders. “Couldn’t quit if I wanted. I’d miss you guys too much.”

Claire smiled, shy and tired, then reached for the handle of a door labeled ‘Hall of Fertility'.’

It was locked.

For a moment, no one moved.

Then Claire, grimly, yanked a bobby pin from her ruined hair and bent to the lock. She worked by feel, tail waving for balance. The others crouched beside her, watching the columns for any sign of more Mildreds.

A sound—a click.

The door creaked open, just a crack. Claire looked at Norah, then at Sam.

Norah shrugged, then put her hand on the door, pushing it open.

On the other side, only silence. They walked through, into the unknown.