Just after X's inbound message to be ready, I'll send back over the same link: 3, All. Confirmed. Head's up. Something's crawling overhead. No visual, audio only, sounds like many legs."
With that I'll take a deep breath to steady myself, consider the standing targets, the prone figure on the gurney, & the barely visible shadowy thing at the back.
What little I know about magicy stuff tells me that those rituals don't like to have their members interrupted during the important parts.
Something like having your train of thought derailed & causing a hell of a lot of SNAFU.
So if we can pick off enough of the standing targets, we may be able to toss a monkey wrench in the works.
However, looking at this from an ex-wage-slave POV, this seems a classic scenario where the peons are doing all the hard work while some scumball manager stands back & sticks his thumb up his butt.
For some odd reason this makes my choice easy, & I focus my gun sights on the shadowy bastage.
A murderous mutter of "Fraggin' managers" under my breath, I'm gonna try to get even for all those times one of Us has been given the shaft by one of Them.
Another low growl, almost sadistic in it's desire, as I intone "F4 your TPS cover letter Bob..."
Finger starting to tighten on the trigger, hoping that I can punch a truck-sized hole through the sucker's forehead, I'm aching for X to give the go-ahead so I can start blasting...
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