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"...Very deep, then?" She flicks on the flashlight and shines it down.

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It's not so deep, at least in the visible part, but it curves away to a more horizontal inclination.

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"I might be able to climb down that far enough to be able to walk down the slope," she says, unsure. "If I braced against opposite sides and was patient about it."

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"I could do it. Getting out again would be the more interesting proposition."

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Bella reaches into the hole and pats the sides. "Could gouge handholds in the side on the way down?"

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"Potentially. If only I'd thought to bring a rope."

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"I should've thought of it when I was telling you what to bring." She goes to pour the gasoline into her tank, thinking. "I didn't see any fallen orange branches, or anything, and those might not come in large enough sizes to help anyway."

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"No, I don't believe they do."

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Glug-glug-glug tank is full. Bella puts the spent can in the back of the truck. "Try the handhold-gouging idea and hope for a better exit to the place?"

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"All right."

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Bella stashes the flashlight in her bag, swings the bag around to rest on her back, and reaches into the hole. She digs her hands into the wall of it until a decently deep gouge has been made, and proceeds down rather gymnastically, using her bracing idea to make slow progress and often freeing up one hand to make new holds for the way back up. She makes it down to the sloping part, where she can stand, without incident, and flashlights into the tunnel.

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Sherlock follows.

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It's a straight tunnel, not branching or, after it reaches a level trajectory, sloping.

It leads into a tremendous cavern.

This tremendous cavern is full of not six, not a dozen, not even one hundred Defenders.

But several thousand.

Doing a complicated dance of some kind, in rings and rings and rings around the center of the cavern.

The Defenders don't notice them, flashlight or no.

The man lounging on the thronelike chair in the cavern - does.
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"Fuck," mutters Sherlock.

[Plan of attack, love?]
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[...Let's try running, first?]

And she conferences in Giles. [GILES THERE ARE THOUSANDS OF THEM AND THE DUDE WHO'S MAKING THEM DANCE AROUND HIM SAW US WE DON'T HAVE THAT MANY SQUARES]
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[Good plan.]

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[...Definitely an apocalyptic ritual?] he says helplessly. [Er. Run?]

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[Way ahead of you there's a tunnel they'll have to follow singlefile we can clog it with dead ones -] She looks over her shoulder and kills the first, and the second, timed for when it's standing on top of the first. She doesn't slow down.

She scrambles up the handholds she made, which prove fairly adequate.
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Sherlock kills the next two at the appropriate moment and scrambles up after her.

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There's her truck. Full of gas and ready to go.

The ground is trembling.

The Defenders probably dug that tunnel.

And apparently that's not the sort of thing that takes them a long time.

All around them, orange trees topple and oranges scatter - and the ground is honeycombed with holes -

And Defenders climb out.

Bella kills the first two dozen she sees. She has one square left, and the live ones just push aside the dead and keep coming.

She has one square left.

She wishes.

The back of the truck makes a clattering sound as all of Shell Bell's donated squares pour into it from the chest at the brick house. Bella vaults into the back of the truck and buries her hands in coins and wishes as fast as she can. "Sherlock," she breathes.
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He also brought squares, and he can wish on them as fast as Bella can.

All the ones in his clothes are already gone. He digs into the pile in the back of the truck, disdaining to sight on targets when he may as well just wish death on the closest Defender. Over and over again. Until he has to scramble for coins wedged into corners.
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"I don't know if we have enough - what if we don't -" Wishwishwishwishwishwishwish the squares are disappearing like their very touch is anathema.

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"We do," he says briefly. "Unless he makes more."

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"What if he can," and she leaves off talking to go for her fire-wand, but as expected, it's useless; the Defender she's trying to burn ignores the fire, whether applied inside or out, however hot she makes it, until it gets close and she has to square it dead. The live ones are pulling the corpses aside to clear their path and they just keep coming. Wishwishwishwishwish -

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"Kill him," Sherlock suggests.

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