"I love you to death!" Fran Adler grabbed Beatrice Bliss, rolling and dodging as they rushed toward the hole. Jill Young fired shards of glass for cover, quickly stashed the metal sphere back into her spatial pocket, and dashed to the edge of the opening in a few swift steps.
Staring into the pitch-black hole, uncertain what lay beneath, Jill glanced at the others and made a snap decision: "I'll go first. Fran, you cover the rear. Beatrice, keep an eye on our MVP. Move!"
Moments later, there was a loud bang—the outsiders finally broke in. Dozens of heavily armed men stormed in, scanning the stage—empty. Then they spotted the dark hole in the floor. Their leader pulled out a walkie-talkie: "Report: The goods have escaped into the duct. Looks like we've got our work cut out for us."
Meanwhile, deeper underground, Jill Young and her crew were crawling through a scene straight out of a Hollywood movie—ventilation ducts. Jill led the way, carrying Celeste on her back, followed by Beatrice, and Fran bringing up the rear. Luckily, both Jill and Celeste were skinny, and the duct was wide enough; otherwise, with Celeste unable to see or move her legs, it would've been a real headache.
"Wait," Celeste whispered in Jill's ear, "someone just entered the duct at the left fork ahead. They're searching for us."
"Huh?" Jill perked up, listening closely, but heard nothing. She pressed her ear to the duct wall and finally caught faint sounds—it really did seem like someone was coming, but still at a distance. "You're amazing! Such sharp hearing!" Jill gave Celeste a playful smack on the butt for encouragement, then signaled the others and led them down the right fork.
Jill's stamina was back to Dragon-Elephant Style, level two and above. Even crawling with someone on her back, she moved with ease. Fran was ex-military, and Beatrice had spent years as a field medic in plague zones—both had solid endurance, so they kept up the pace. With Celeste's occasional guidance, the group twisted and turned, up and down, left and right, managing to dodge danger by a hair's breadth.
"Hold up," this time it was Jill who spoke, pointing ahead: "I see light."
Everyone scrambled over and found a vent. Peeking through the blinds, they realized it was the same place they'd just seen on the stage screen—the room where the first woman had been skinned. The woman in the clown mask was admiring her handiwork. The skinned woman hung lifeless on the rack, clearly dead.
Jill carefully removed the vent slats, quickly poked her head out for a look, then whispered to the others, "There's a surveillance camera in this room. Anyone got any ideas?"
Fran poked her head out for a look too, then nodded to Jill: "This camera has a loop cycle, about one minute. Leave it to me." Fran started taking off her shoes. "I got this."
In the quiet room, the clown-masked woman was in a post-orgasmic daze. She panted, eyes glazed, mind drifting. Peeling off her victim's skin—fresh and exhilarating—had sent her into a frenzy. SD Syndicate was her kind of place; she'd definitely come back for more.
Suddenly, there was a thud in the silent room. Startled, she whipped around—still no one. Wait, was something new in the corner? A boot? She walked over and looked down. Yep, it was an army boot, good quality, but missing its laces. Where'd the boot come from? And the laces?
Lost in thought, she didn't notice a figure dangling upside-down from the vent above, holding a long shoelace—slipped it over her neck in a flash.
"Mmmph—!" Like a deer caught in a trap, Customer No. 7 was yanked up and vanished into the dark vent, struggling all the way.
The camera panned away, then back. By the time it reset, a brand-new "Customer No. 7" was in sight. She tugged at her butcher's outfit, adjusted her clown mask, and tucked her platinum hair into her collar.
She glanced around and spotted two buttons on the heavy iron door—one red, labeled "HELP*ME," and one green, "JOB*DONE." She tapped the green button. Soon, the door clanged open and in walked a burly white guy.
"All done. Let's go." The "customer" strode out first. The big guy glanced around, muttered something into his walkie-talkie in a language no one understood, then nodded at the camera. In the control room, the operator switched the feed to a corner and mumbled, "Where are those four little mice now?"
But he didn't see it—the "customer" at the door suddenly stepped back and kicked the big guy to the floor. Then, out came a skinning knife; with a flick of her wrist, she sent it flying—wedging it right into the camera's pivot, locking it at an awkward angle.
With a swoosh, Fran leapt down from the vent, catching Celeste in a princess carry, and Beatrice followed right after.
"Do I look like a psycho killer or what?" The "customer" whipped off her mask—sure enough, it was Jill. Beatrice gave her a punch: "You look so much like one, I had to hit you!"
"So what now?" Beatrice asked. "Even if we keep knocking out other 'customers' and impersonating them, four people together is way too obvious. We'll never sneak out like this."
"Then let's stop sneaking!" Fran frisked the unconscious brute and found a pistol, chambered a round with a click, eyes blazing: "I'm just gonna take those bastards out!"
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"Hey, not bad, girl." Jill clapped Fran on the shoulder. "No wonder you're a demon—I knew you'd be up for it!"
"Don't get reckless, ladies," Beatrice quickly cautioned. "We don't know how many of them there are, but it's gotta be hundreds, and they've got serious firepower. There's no way we can win head-on. Let's figure out how to escape!"
"Actually, Beatrice, escaping is already off the table. This place is crawling with surveillance and enemies, underground and surface cut off from each other. We're basically caged animals, sitting ducks." Fran's face was set—determined and fierce. "But even if I die, I'll go out fighting with honor, not rotting on some pervert's bed."
Beatrice was silent for a moment, then nodded. "You're right. All we can do now is defend our dignity."
"Why overthink it? When it's time to fight, just go for it!" Jill twisted her waist and swung her arms to loosen up. "We've got two 'Saints' and two 'Demons' here—how can we not beat those losers? Side by side, let's do this!"
Jill's fighting spirit fired up the other two. Beatrice and Fran exchanged glances and nodded hard: "Yeah, let's take them on!"
Just then, Celeste spoke up: "Ladies, I can't understand everything you're saying, but I think there are three things we can do to get out of this mess."
Jill couldn't help asking, "What three things?"
"First, we need to find the power room and cut the electricity—plunge the place into darkness and knock out the cameras. Once that happens," Celeste smiled, "just trust my ears."
Jill translated, and Fran and Beatrice's eyes lit up. Fran was excited: "Create chaos, slip away in the confusion—then we've got a shot at escaping!"
"No, we can't run just yet." (Translation note omitted) Celeste shook her head. "Second, we need to find the main records room and erase our data. Otherwise, even if we get out now, they'll track us down sooner or later. We need to cover our tracks for good."
Fran got fired up: "Right! And the last thing is to find the parking lot, right?"
"Exactly." Celeste nodded. "We don't know where we are, but this base is probably deep in the wilderness. And I can't move around easily, so we need to find a ride."
This girl was sharp and clear—like she'd just pointed out a bright path in the darkness!
"But how do we find the power room?" Beatrice asked. "We're strangers here—no way we'll find it by luck alone."
"Hey, look," Jill pointed at the unconscious brute. "Isn't he the perfect interrogation subject? Only problem is, I don't understand a word he says—no clue if he knows English."
"No worries, he's speaking Russian—Russian's my second mother tongue. Leave the questioning to me." Fran rolled up her sleeves, grabbed a pair of scissors from the workbench, and stabbed them into the guy's leg. "Wake up, you useless oversized meathead!"