#oc duster

"I cah… Can't…" Bucket stammers, practically hanging from Mop's finger by her nose. Suddenly the staff room door cracks open and a hand wordlessly beckons both maids inside. Bucket is too far gone to notice, so Mop has no choice but to raise her finger even higher and drag her along. Once safely out of the public eye, Kerchief steals an almost worried glance over her shoulder. She turns back to her subordinates and gathers herself.

"Miss Bucket, would you happen to have brought any allergy medication with you today?"

Mop lowers her finger so that her compatriot can respond. Bucket immediately gasps for breath and unloads an enormous "AAH-CHOOOO!!!" directly at Kerchief's face.

"Doe, why?" she mumbles, scrunching her nose to one side with a snort. The mist from Bucket's sneeze and the reflected light from the ceiling combine to make Kerchief's glasses appear opaque. After a heavy sigh, Kerchief removes her spectacles and meticulously wipes them down. Meanwhile, Mop lays a hand across Bucket's forehead.

"Mop, I have hay fever, not a, uh… Fever fever."

"It's not that. I think your head's hollow."

"Well it definitely doesn't feel hollow."

Bucket snorts and snuffles, repeatedly giving her nose an upward rub with her palm. Kerchief replaces her glasses, briefly looks back at the staff entrance again, then she straightens up and clears her throat.

"Alright, I have an assignment for you. I need you to go and bring back some allergy medication, whatever you can get your hands on. Can you do that?"

Bucket begins to nod, but the motion is soon overtaken by a building "ah… ahh… ahhh…" Mop takes her by the shoulders and swiftly brings her to the other side of the room.

"Good luck out there," Mop says flatly. Kerchief opens the door, Mop pushes Bucket across the threshold, and then Kerchief pulls the door shut once more, as if they'd just tossed a grenade through the opening. Both wince in response to the muffled "aahh-CHOOOO!!!" from outside. They share a passively guilty shrug and get back to work.

Bucket finds herself in the corner store across the street. She sniffs and rubs back and forth under her stuffy nose nonstop, it's all she can do to keep from sneezing the roof off the place. Despite each aisle being clearly labeled, it takes her a moment to find the medicine. She's a bit surprised to find the allergy and sinus shelf almost completely empty, but at least that makes her choice easier.

There's a short line for the store's only self checkout counter. By the time Bucket reaches the end of it, she's managed to forget that she hasn't actually paid yet and walks right out the door. As she shuffles across the street, she finally takes a good look down at the box: printed entirely in black and white, with a large "EX" taking up a solid third of the front face. 'Adults: take three tablets by mouth every-'

"ah-ahh-CHOOO!!"

Whatever. Three. Sounds like a lot, but she's not a pharmacist. Bucket extracts the specified number of tabs from the plastic bubbles inside and pounds them back dry. She doesn't feel any different. Pollen continues to drift on the breeze and swirl up her nose, tickling away as she approaches the cafe. Bucket clumsily slows to a stop, one hand extended toward the door handle.

"ah… ah-ahh… aahh…"

The maid's head inclines, her teardrop-shaped nostrils flaring with every shaky inhale. But, just as she's about to let loose… Nothing? Bucket breathes a sigh of relief, though she pauses and gives a long, hard rub back and forth under her still tickly nose. Really tickly, in fact, but nevertheless no sneeze.

"heh… heh! HREHSCHUHH!!"

Or, no sneeze of her own at least. Bucket blinks, momentarily startled out of her stupor by the thunderous sound. She places a hand on the door, and the instant the handle twitches, it flings wide open and she finds herself yanked inside by the wrist.

Bucket is flanked by Kerchief and Mop once more, the former releasing her arm and instead grabbing the box from her other hand. Mop is busy tending to the newly arrived Duster, holding a finger firmly underneath her long, upturned nose. In spite of it all, Duster still doubles over with an enormous "raaAAAHHSHHHOOO!!!" that threatens to launch Bucket back through the door.

"How many?" Kerchief asks with a flat urgency. Bucket doesn't respond for a second, unaware that she's being addressed.

"Huh? Oh, uh. Three," she answers, absently sliding a finger across the underside of her own nose. Kerchief pops out the tablets, tosses the box onto the table, and promptly forces the medicine down Duster's gullet. The tall maid briefly struggles reflexively, but eventually she relaxes and swallows.

Silence takes the cafe once more. Kerchief and Mop watch Duster intently, searching for any sort of reaction. Bucket's pretty over it.

Duster sniffs. Her lips part unevenly, one flared nostril hiking up above the other.

"hhh… hehh…"

Duster's face freezes in a tickly snarl. Kerchief and Mop tense as though preparing to flee. Bucket yawns. Finally Duster sighs and slumps forward, though she too feels compelled to scrub a finger back and forth under her nose.

"Talk about fast-acting," mutters Mop. She fully steps away, then Kerchief approaches with a tissue box and an awkward smile.

"Mission accomplished, Miss Bucket."

Bucket and Duster each take a tissue, and Kerchief absconds. The remaining maids loudly blow their noses, and then they shuffle out to the cafe floor as if all this made sense.

"So, you get hay fever too?" asks Duster.

"Yeah," Bucket replies. "All the leaves blowing around make me feel like I have feathers up my nose."

Duster scrunches her face and saws a finger back and forth under her nostrils.

"Bucket, don't talk to me about feh… hhh… heh…! …Whew…"

"Alright, fine, jeez."

Bucket yawns. A few seconds pass, Duster yawns back at her. A second more, both yawn in unison. After another handful of almost-sneezes, the maids bid farewell to the cafe's customers. The front door remains open, probably for longer than it should have. As it finally begins to swing shut, an unusual silhouette appears. A tall figure in a long dark coat and a wide brimmed hat stands in the entryway. Bucket and Duster saunter over, neither maintaining awareness of the other.

"Hey there, master," greets Duster, leaning against the wall. "Glad you could join us this afternoon."

Bucket bows with a sleepy grace that she usually reserves for, well, never.

"Right this way, please. I'll show you to your table."

The maids bring their new best friend to the middle of the cafe floor, sliding into the chairs on either side of him. Bucket and Duster lean toward him over the table, both emitting a soft giggle. The man regards them each in turn, silent as ever.

"Shall I show you the menu, master?" offers Bucket. Duster quickly snatches it out of her hands.

"Bucket, I'm the senpai. I'll show him the menu."

"Ugh, fine," Bucket pouts, folding her arms. "The pie is pretty good, though."

"Alright, let's have a looky-loo. First, we have a… ah… haahh…"

Duster trails off, her face assuming that tickly snarl once more. Her chest heaves with a deep breath, but before she can rear up too far, her guest lifts a hand and firmly places a finger under her nose. Duster freezes in place, and after a moment she exhales and relaxes.

"Whoo, that was a close one. Thanks, master."

"Aww, Ben…" coos Bucket, batting her eyelashes. "Could you do that for me, too? My allergies are so bad today…"

He's Ben now.

She slowly rubs her nose in a manner that surely someone somewhere might describe as 'seductive.' Once she stops, Ben obliges. Bucket's jaw goes slack and her eyes roll back in ecstasy as her nose creases up on top of his finger. She feels as though she might never need to sneeze again.

Kerchief watches in consternation through the kitchen window. Bucket and Duster simultaneously sip from the same moe moe milkshake, a third straw dribbling onto the table. Mop emerges from the staff room and slides in beside her manager.

"Damn, they're still at it?"

"They are indeed."

Mop gazes blankly at her comrades for a moment before holding up the box of allergy tablets and reading from the back.

"Terms of service prohibit the consumption of more than two tablets in a period of twenty four hours. Whatever, whatever… Side effects may include: dry mouth, drowsiness, hallucinations. If hallucination does not contain a paid promotion, contact customer support at… What the fuck?"

"ah-ahh-CHOOO!!!"

"hh… heh! HRESHHUH!!!"

Kerchief and Mop stare as Bucket and Duster violently sneeze milkshake in each other's faces and promptly collapse out of their chairs.

"It's a goddamn miracle we don't have hay fever," grumbles Mop. Kerchief closes her eyes and begins to nod, but…

"hh… hih… HADT!-choo…"

Mop takes a step back.

Kerchief sighs, delicately placing a finger underneath her nose.

"Tough crowd," Duster continues, leaning around the pillar to point her submachine gun at the door. Bucket likewise takes aim from behind a booth bench seat.

"I think you need better material."

Duster squeezes off a few rounds as the first of many Fourth Light soldiers bursts into the restaurant.

"Everyone's a critic."

The maids brace themselves for a fight, but instead of swinging open, the double doors explode. They barely have time to recover before a veritable torrent of grenades begin to fly through the opening, piling up in the middle of the floor. Mop and Duster dive to one side, Kerchief and Bucket to the other.

"Oh god, oh man, oh fuck," Bucket pants under her breath, struggling to get up off the now very much ruined carpet. Kerchief pulls her to her feet and leads her away as the grenades detonate, blasting most of the dining room apart. By the time Bucket's head stops spinning, she and Kerchief are in the restaurant kitchen, ducked down behind a counter.

"Where's Duster and Mop?" Bucket cries, fumbling with her weapon. Kerchief gives her subordinate an aside glance, then pops up over the counter and fires her SCAR-SC assault rifle in the direction of the dining room. She rejoins Bucket a moment later, flicking the empty magazine out of her weapon.

"I don't know," she says, reloading and thumbing the bolt release, "but they can handle themselves."

A grenade bounces on the counter top and lands between the two maids. Bucket picks it up, and…

She doesn't really do anything.

With no time to stare in disbelief, Kerchief snatches the grenade and throws it back. Mere moments after it explodes, another one tumbles into the kitchen.

"Oh come on…"

Then another, and another. Finally regaining some motor function, Bucket pushes up to her feet along with Kerchief and they run farther into the room. There's no other way out. The only doors are either back the way they came, or the large walk-in freezer ahead. Kerchief steps forward.

"Are we…?"

"Putting the wood in the hole, Miss Bucket."

As the flurry of grenades continues to fill the room, Kerchief and Bucket have no choice but to batten down the hatches. They sprint into the freezer and force the heavy metal door shut behind them, just as the kitchen is reduced to constituent elements.

-----

Duster and Mop stride calmly into a hotel suite. Around the corner from the entryway, six Fourth Light soldiers are tied to a row of chairs. Stripped of their vests and ski masks, they're left with only jeans and Hawaiian shirts. Some struggle against their restraints, but others remain defiant. Duster twirls a revolver around her trigger finger and pulls up a chair of her own in front of the prisoners.

"Afternoon, gentlefucks. Now normally I'd be content to let my friend here pull your eyeballs out through your assholes, but I'm feeling a touch impatient today. And since one of your pals left me this," she flips the revolver in her hand once more, "I thought we could play a little game. So, which one of you goosestepping gentiles wants to go first?"

One of the soldiers scoffs.

"Oh, and I suppose anyone you don't like is a nazi, right?"

Duster smoothly turns to him, grinning with wicked excitement.

"Thanks for volunteering." She gives the revolver's cylinder a spin, then she cocks the hammer and touches the end of the barrel to the soldier's forehead. "Now, for one hundred points, where's my squad?"

The captive gives his best approximation of a shrug.

"We're just exercising our religious freedom, but you go straight to violence. Typical. You won't even debate us-"

She pulls the trigger and the gun immediately fires. After staring down at the weapon for a second, Duster swings the cylinder open and places her hand on her cheek in surprise.

"Whoopsie-doodle, supposed to take the bullets out first."

-----

Bucket and Kerchief hold the door shut with all their might as explosions on the other side threaten to fling them away. Eventually Bucket clutches the sides of her head and shrieks, not out of terror, but plain old annoyance.

"Fucking stop!" she screams, drawing out the last syllable. As if the universe heard her cry, the influx of grenades begins to taper off. Kerchief counts ten seconds from the last detonation, then she leaps up and whirls around. Bucket swiftly follows, both maids leveling their rifles with the heavily impacted but still intact door.

"Think they blew themselves up?" asks Bucket once a moment passes uneventfully.

"I wouldn't put it past them," Kerchief replies. She takes one hand off her weapon briefly to push her glasses up the bridge of her nose, and then she quietly slides toward the freezer entrance. After listening for a second, she gives the door a tap with the barrel of her rifle, and then a firmer shove with her palm.

Shit that's cold!

Drawing her hand back in shock, Kerchief glances over her shoulder at Bucket to find her subordinate fully shivering and attempting to cover herself.

"I-It's stuck, isn't it?" Bucket asks through chattering teeth. Kerchief folds her arms and begins to rub her shoulders up and down, then gives a displeased nod. The maids finally take a moment to survey their surroundings, the smooth floor making them eternally grateful for sandals. A single wooden palette sits in the corner, and there's some kind of vent in the ceiling, but there are no windows or doors to speak of. With a gradually escalating shout of incoherent rage, Bucket charges up to the entrance. She throws her full weight against the metal slab, then begins to pound her fist against the dented surface.

"Hey! Hey! Let us out of here, you nazi fucks! I swear I'm gonna… G-gonna… ah… ahh… ah-CHOOO!!"

Bucket doubles over with a sudden sneeze, nearly headbutting the freezer door. Losing whatever momentum she had, she returns to shivering pathetically and takes a step back. She sniffs harshly, then begins to cough when the rush of frigid air causes her nose hairs to freeze for a half second. The maid frantically scrubs at her tickly nose until the sound of splintering wood grabs her attention. Kerchief has broken the palette apart, and is currently in the process of shaving the edge of one board down with a knife she'd pulled from… Somewhere.

"W-what are you d-doing?" stammers Bucket, sluggishly shuffling over. Kerchief stacks a few pieces of wood over a pile of kindling, then she kneels beside it.

"Cooler heads shall prevail, Miss Bucket."

Kerchief racks her rifle's charging handle, ejecting a round into her other hand. She manages to pry the bullet out of the casing with a bit of effort, then she sprinkles the powder onto the wood shavings. Bucket joins her beside the makeshift fire, watching Kerchief retrieve her knife.

Uh oh.

Bucket scrunches her nose up and down, then around in a desperate circle. She sniffs reflexively, but again the cold air only aggravates her further. Kerchief doesn't notice until a shaky "haah…" escapes Bucket's lips. She's well practiced at pressing a finger underneath a helpless maid's nostrils, but the cold has dulled her nerves as well, it seems. Her hand does manage to find purchase, Bucket's nose crinkling up on top of her finger, but it's too late to make a difference.

"Miss Bucket, you mustn't-!"

"ahh-CHHOOOO!!!"

A ferocious sneeze sends the wood shavings and gunpowder scattering across the floor, much of it disappearing from view. Kerchief quickly determines that staring after any of it is futile. She turns back to Bucket, the lenses of her glasses beginning to frost over.

"Bless you."

"S-sorry…"

The try for the ceiling vent next. Being the taller of the two, Kerchief stands underneath it while Bucket attempts to climb onto her shoulders. After some clumsy struggling, pulling Kerchief's hair and knocking her glasses askew, Bucket manages to get into position.

"Th-there's a fan b-behind the grate," she says, prodding at the first of many screws.

"Can you see any way to remove it?" asks Kerchief. Bucket gives a noncommittal mumble. The manager bides her time, doing her best to hold still. Her breathing grows labored, not out of exhaustion, but rather…

"hh… M-Miss Bucket, I… hihh… I-I think I…"

Bucket gives an oblivious "huh?" She only reacts properly when she feels Kerchief remove one hand from around her ankle to instead press her fingers underneath her flaring nostrils.

"Kerchief, wait! Don't sneeze!"

"hhHhhHHH-! HEEDT!-choo…"

Kerchief bends fully at the waist, sending both herself and Bucket crashing to the floor. The maids land in a shivering heap, and a moment later the loosened vent cover falls onto Bucket's head.

"Ow…"

Thoroughly demoralized, Kerchief and Bucket crawl over each other in an attempt to at least sit up, then they throw their arms around each other and huddle together to conserve what little warmth they have left. Once again, swimsuits are proving to be a bad choice.

"A-any other ideas?" Bucket chatters.

"I'll let you know as soon as I… A-as I… hih… HAHT!-choo…"

Bucket snuggles closer and offers a soft "gesundheit."

"Thank you, excuse me," Kerchief replies, polite as ever. She delicately slides an outstretched finger across the underside of her tickly nose and gives the tip and upward flick before resuming her embrace.

"I like your tattoo," she says, stroking Bucket's ponytail. "It's quite cute."

Her face reddening, Bucket glances down at herself. A stylized black cat face stares up at her from the right side of her belly. In all the chaos, she'd completely forgotten to be embarrassed about it. She briefly covers it with one hand, then pulls back to give it another look.

"O-oh, th-thanks. Th-that's Hockey Puck, he was my c-cat when I was little. He'd lay next to me and put his head r-right there. Th-then, uh… I went on a d-date with someone at my old job, and he started telling all our coworkers about my 'nice pussy.'"

Kerchief's eye twitches.

"Goodness, that's terrible."

"Yeah. One day I got sick of it, and I kicked him in the balls. Then I had a popsicle. Then I got fired. And then you know the rest."

A tiny giggle escapes Kerchief's lips, prompting Bucket to chuckle in turn. Kerchief continues laughing, slowly escalating until she gives an uncharacteristic snort. The maids cackle back and forth until…

"ah-CHOOO!"

"HADT!-choo…"

They sneeze simultaneously, reducing the laughter to silent vibrations. Eventually they settle back to simply holding each other.

"Kerchief?" Bucket mumbles sleepily.

"Yes, Miss Bucket?"

"I, um… If we're gonna die, would you be my mommy?"

Kerchief is sufficiently stunned that she stops shivering entirely. Her face turning bright red, Bucket stiffens and pulls back slightly.

"I-I'm sorry, I don't know where that came from. F-forget I said anything."

A sudden noise comes from the direction of the door. As if she needed any excuse to focus on something else, Kerchief whips her head toward it and reaches for her rifle. Her fingers close around the grip, but she finds herself unable to lift it. After a series of taps and scrapes, the door begins to creak open.

Inward. As in pull, not push.

The light seeping in snaps Bucket out of her stupor, and she looks up to find an unfamiliar maid standing in the entryway with several more at the ready behind her. The savior lowers her weapon when she lays eyes upon her two frozen comrades.

"Maid Task Force Kappa-77: 'Brogue Squadron,' ma'am. We received your distress signal, looks like we got to you just in time. Um. …Ma'am?"

Bucket turns to her superior when she doesn't respond. Kerchief is covering her face with both hands, and after a shaky gasp for air she releases a humiliated scream.

The rescued maids are promptly extracted from the freezer and each outfitted with a blanket, a heated stuffed animal, and a box of tissues. Confident that the hotel grounds have been secured, Brogue-2 brings Kerchief and Bucket upstairs to reunite them with their squad mates. As they approach the honeymoon suite, the sounds of an apparent struggle grow ever louder. Glass shatters just as they reach the door, and they step inside to discover an absolute mess.

Mop sits on the couch, watching a cooking show without a care in the world. She gives a silent wave to her comrades without turning away from the television. Meanwhile, Duster is holding her final captive by the shirt, dangling him halfway out of the broken window at the far end of the common room. She looks back over her shoulder, and her frustrated scowl immediately melts away in favor of a relieved smile.

"Oh, hey boss!" Duster chirps. Her prisoner struggles against her grip.

"See!? I told you we-!"

She casually lets go, leaving him to plummet to the open construction site far below. "Was wondering where you went! You guys okay?"

Kerchief and Bucket respond by loudly blowing their noses. Mop reaches for the remote, but they stop before she turns up the volume.

"I think we've all earned a proper tropical vacation. hih… hh-heh… HAHDT!-choo…"

-----

Brogue-5 and Brogue-6 patrol the perimeter around the resort. No further signs of Fourth Light presence since they first made contact, but it never hurt to be cautious. The sound of something sprinkling in the dirt grabs their attention, and they whirl around to look just in time to see a body fall from the sky and crumple the roof of a parked utility van.

“Our client is an engineer with the ExTech corporation who has been leaking information regarding dangerous products to various journalists over the past several months. He was recently outed as a whistleblower, and has already been taken into protective custody. However, he was forced to leave several important items behind at his apartment, and it’s our job to collect them.”

“Sounds easy enough,” says Duster, grinning as she manages to somehow rub a finger under her nose but in an arrogant sort of way.

“Due to the sensitive nature of the situation, we will only be told what to look for once we arrive in the client’s apartment, but we have also been assured that there won’t be anything we can’t carry on our persons.”

Bucket realizes she’s zoning out and tries to resume paying attention. It wasn’t even a conscious choice on her part, it was like her mind had a mind of its own and would simply switch off if she wasn’t thinking about video games or food. Whatever. Hopefully nobody noticed.

“Miss Duster, Miss Bucket, and I will enter the building as cleaners and make our way to the client’s apartment on the eleventh floor. We’ll go in light and quick, with concealed equipment only. Miss Mop will provide surveillance from this nearby billboard, where you’ll have a view of our client’s apartment’s windows. Let’s…”

Kerchief trails off, closing her eyes with a deep breath. She pushes her glasses up her nose once more before continuing.

“Let’s try to keep collateral damage to a minimum, please.”

Neither Duster nor Mop give any sort of response, standing stock still. Bucket blinks. Just what kind of collateral damage are they expecting?

“Any questions?” Kerchief concludes, looking around the table at her maids.

“Um, yeah. Hi,” interjects Bucket, shakily raising a hand. “Was I supposed to, um… Bring my own guns? Cuz, I, er… Kinda don’t have one.”

Kerchief gives a hand sign for the others to move out, and then she leads Bucket over to the weapon wall. Part of her hopes she’ll be allowed to pick her own, but she buries any urge to complain when the manager selects a diminutive, blocky pistol.

“Here, this should suit you nicely. Glock 19, compact nine millimeter.”

“Thanks,” Bucket mumbles as she accepts the gun, hoping she doesn’t sound ungrateful. She kinda is, but she hopes she doesn’t sound like she is. After checking the chamber and holstering the weapon under her ruffles, she skips after Kerchief to avoid being left behind.

For better or worse, the apartment building is a relatively short van ride away. Duster holds a one-sided conversation with Mop as Kerchief drives, and Bucket silently spaces out all over again. The rookie maid is jolted from her trance when the van stops early and Mop climbs out alone, SRS precision rifle in tow. Bucket briefly wonders how Mop can use a scope with her hair covering both eyes before deciding to spare her remaining functional brain cells.

“Oh yeah, almost forgot,” says Duster as the van slows to a stop in the parking lot. She holds out an earpiece to Bucket, who accepts it and slips it into place after a nod of thanks. After a brief pop of static, she hears what she assumes to be Mop’s voice over the radio.

“I’m in position. Approach looks clear, no sign of movement in the client’s apartment.”

“Thank you, Miss Mop,” Kerchief replies, coming in differently through each of Bucket’s ears. “Keep us apprised of anything unusual.”

Kerchief’s voice is flat in a stilted, socially awkward sort of way, while Mop’s is flat in more of a ‘can I go home now?’ fashion. Bucket assumes they each simply have their gimmicks. Duster’s customers at the cafe probably want her to lift them off the ground with a big hug, and Mop’s want her to step on them.

The three maids hop out of the van, showing nothing to set them apart from any other group of housekeepers. Kerchief casually flashes a key fob to open the building’s front door, and Bucket takes a detailed mental image of the patterns on the carpet as she follows to the elevator. The ride up to the eleventh floor is silent aside from Duster cracking her knuckles. No pre-battle elevator music or anything. Maybe this really would be an easy in and out. Surely there’d have to be thematically inappropriate and royalty-free jazz if they were about to walk into a gunfight.

Nothing out of the ordinary in the hall either. The door to each apartment was neatly shut, with no trash or bodies strewn about, no ninjas waiting in the rafters, and no rafters in which ninjas could be waiting to begin with. Kerchief unlocks unit 11-38 and the squad slips inside without incident.

“Don’t shoot, Mop. It’s just us,” teases Duster, giving a casual salute in the direction of the nearest window.

“Tempting,” Mop drones, though the glass remains unpunctured.

Kerchief brings a hand up to her earpiece as Bucket takes a look around the room. It’s a small, simple suite apartment. Decently sized living room, and a door on one side that presumably leads to the bedroom.

“We’ve arrived, Master,” Kerchief says into her radio. “What would you like us to retrieve?”

“O-oh, right, of course, thank you,” comes a nervous voice that Bucket hasn’t heard before. Time to walk out of here with an armful of classified documents that will surely get her disappeared in the coming weeks.

“It’s, um… My limited edition commemorative Boom the Porcupine plushie.”

Bucket’s head jerks up to stare across the room at Kerchief. The bespectacled maid’s glasses spontaneously slip down her nose just a smidge.

“...I’m sorry?”

“I-it’s the most important thing I own! Only ten were ever made! P-please, find it…”

Neither Bucket nor Kerchief give any sort of reaction. The manager’s eyes darken as she stares vacantly into the middle distance, but still she says nothing.

“Um… M-miss Maids? A-are you there?”

”heh… HRESHoooh!”

A sudden thundering sneeze startles both maids out of their stupor. Bucket looks in the rough direction of the noise to find the door to the bedroom wide open and Duster nowhere to be seen in the living room.

“hh-hhh-! RAAHshooh! Uh. I think I found it.”

Duster’s scratchy, nasal voice sounds even scratchier and nasally-er than usual. Bucket and Kerchief follow into the bedroom, and while the living room seemed completely untouched, the domicile appeared to have been completely torn apart. Papers and broken drawers are strewn across the floor, and the pillows and mattress are ripped open and covered in loose feathers. Duster stands beside the bed, a green plush toy held limply in one hand as her head tips back toward the ceiling.

“HAESHHoo!”

A few feathers stir at the disturbance, and the stuffed animal falls to the floor. It rolls toward Bucket, at which point she picks it up and turns it over in her hands.

“Looks okay to me,” she says, unable to find any obvious damage. Her eyes briefly flick up to Duster, who is busy frantically rubbing two fingers back and forth under her nose. “Gesundheit, by the way.”

“Please forgive Miss Duster,” Kerchief interjects, leaning over to inspect the plushie herself. “I’m afraid she’s allergic to feathers.”

“No I’m dot!” protests the boyish maid. “It’s just sobethig id the eh… heh… HERSHHoooh!”

“Care, care. Another van is pulling into the parking lot,” comes Mop’s voice. “Will keep- Get down, get down!”

Before Bucket can react, she finds herself being yanked into the bedroom closet. The sound of breaking glass just barely reaches her ears as the door slams shut, plunging her and the others into darkness.

“Talk to me, Miss Mop,” Kerchief half whispers.

“At least six unidentified contacts, and they’re… They’re climbing the side of the building.”

“They’re what!?” snaps Duster, prompting Kerchief to clap a hand over her mouth.

“Hold fire and keep me updated,” commands the manager. “The apartment has already been searched. We’ll let them see that for themselves and they should pass us by.”

“Understood.”

Silence falls once more. Bucket ponders pointing out that whoever these people are, they’re definitely going to check the closet. But surely Kerchief already knows that, right? Plus, with eleven floors worth of wall to climb, she and the others would probably have time to simply go back the way they came.

“First unknown entering the window now,” Mop says. Okay, that was a lot faster than Bucket expected. Sure enough, the crunch of someone stepping on glass shards soon follows. In spite of the apparent danger, however, the maid begins to tumble down another mental rabbit hole. In the sliver of light coming around the closet door, Bucket spots a little scrap of feather fluff stuck to the plush porcupine. She casually plucks it off and flicks it away, leaving it to flutter about in improbable aimlessness until it comes to rest right on the upturned tip of Duster’s nose.

“hh… heh…”

The muscular maid’s reaction is immediate, and Kerchief’s is only slightly behind. The manager presses an outstretched finger firmly against Duster’s nostrils, silently urging her to hold it in. 

“hegh… ghh…”

Duster shudders, unable to suppress the occasional hitchy wheeze. The footsteps in the bedroom continue, sometimes moving closer, sometimes away. But, if someone else had already turned the apartment upside down, why were they-

“ah-ahh-CHOOOO!!”

Bucket doubles over with a sudden screamed sneeze, leaving Duster too stunned to finish her own. The closet door flies open and the maids find themselves facing a white, featureless… Face? A pair of glowing blue eyes stare out from behind what Bucket can only assume is a robot’s plastic outer shell. She sheepishly rubs her nose as the machine regards her and each of the maids, but none of them offer any reaction. Finally the robot settles on the stuffed animal in Bucket’s arms, and its eyes blink in seeming recognition.

“Attention, female. Surrender the porcu-”

Kerchief quickdraws her Sig P229 sidearm and delivers two rapid shots from the hip to the robot’s torso, then she takes a split second to aim before putting a third bullet through its head. She strides out of the closet without missing a beat, checking for danger in both directions before turning in the direction of the window and firing again. The maid takes her finger off the trigger, raises her weapon slightly, and looks back to her subordinates.

“Time to get tactical, ladies. Miss Mop, weapons free.”

Bucket blinks a few times before fumbling to draw her own pistol.

“Uh. Yeah. Yeah, sure,” she stammers, awkwardly stepping into the bedroom. A grappling hook had pierced through the window and secured itself to the wall below, giving the robotic attackers their means of ingress.

“ehh… hHRESHHoo!”

Bucket jumps as Duster heaves out another explosive sneeze. By the time Bucket can turn to look, her snuffly companion has already produced and readied a Scorpion Evo 3 submachine gun. Where she’d been hiding it all this time remains a mystery. With a harsh sniff and a firm rub under her nose, Duster walks up to the fallen robot and gives it a kick.

“ExTech,” she grumbles, pausing to mash her nostrils upward with the palm of her hand. “And they’re really here for this heh… ehgh… HESHH-hooh!”

“Porcupine,” Bucket amends, assuming Duster was trying to sneeze her way through ‘hedgehog.’

A distant POP interrupts the banter, and a moment later the sounds of crashing and clattering issue through the window.

“Remaining climbers dispatched,” says Mop. “Doesn’t look like they survived the fall. Are they… Robots?”

“ExTech drones, here for the same thing we are,” Bucket mumbles. “I didn’t think stuff like this existed, but I’m a maid with a gun, so I guess anything’s possible.”

“Oh, more good news. ExTech helicopter inbound,” Mop alerts. Kerchief’s hand flies up to her earpiece.

“Hold fire, there’s no way to control where it’ll crash.”

“I hope you can make a quick exit, then. They’re headed for the roof.”

Bucket looks around at her companions, bristling slightly as the sound of beating rotors draws nearer.

“So, uh… Elevator? Do we have to take the stairs cuz it’s an emergency?”

Kerchief and Duster each remove a climbing descender from under their ruffles. Bucket twitches.

“H-hang on, what are those? I don’t have one.”

“Just hold on to me,” says Duster with a grin, clipping her device onto the rope the robots had courteously provided. Not wanting to be left behind, Bucket immediately hops onto her back and clings for dear life. She squeezes even tighter as Duster braces against the windowsill, forgetting all about the porcupine plush as it gets squished in between them.

“Wait, can this thing hold two people?” Bucket screeches. Duster glances back at her with a wink.

“Only one way to find out!”

Duster kicks off from the window, and the pair begin to glide down the rope toward the parking lot below. Bucket lasts a whole two seconds before starting to scream at the top of her lungs, but she runs out of breath before they reach the ground and manages to silence herself.

“So, how’s this for your first day of work?” Duster shouts over the rushing wind. Bucket does her best to shrug without letting go.

“Beats retail, I guess!”

“Damn straight! I think you’re… Y-youre… heh… eh-hehh…”

Their descent becomes a touch choppy as Duster’s breath starts to waver. Filled with a renewed sense of panic, Bucket tries to maneuver one hand to put a finger under her lifeline’s nose, but…

“heh… hEH! HRESHHHoooh!”

Completely consumed by her sneeze, Duster loses her grip on her descender. She and Bucket plummet to the ground, a treacherous two feet of remaining distance. Both maids lay on top of each other on the pavement in silence for a few stunned seconds before starting to moan and groan.

“Gesundheit…” breathes Bucket, reaching between herself and her companion as she remembers the flattened plushie. Duster snorts inelegantly and rubs her fingers in a rough circle under her itchy nose.

“Yeah… Sorry. You break anything?”

A low, calm, and mature voice, but it still startles the maid enough to make her jump. It sounds like the same person she’d spoken to after her assessment, but there’s really no way to be sure. And… ‘Miss Bucket’? She really should have done more to assert that that would not be her nickname.

A tall, proper woman emerges from around the corner, blonde hair in a claw clip updo and clad in a black and white maid outfit. Sharp but tired eyes pierce through the large, circular lenses of her glasses, and Bucket finds herself frozen to the spot.

“Uh. Hi,” she stammers, unable to give even a little wave. Why is she so anxious? She already got the job. Just clock in, collect a paycheck, and…

“Again I’d like to welcome you to The Cleanup Crew. You may call me ‘Kerchief,’ or simply ‘Manager.’ I hope you enjoy your first day with us.”

Bucket fidgets in place.

“Um, yeah. You too. I mean… Yeah.”

“Please don’t be nervous,” commands Kerchief, her flat tone of voice doing little to reassure her new subordinate. “I’m sure you want to meet the rest of the team, but first, I have an assignment for you.”

Bucket gulps. Is this going to be some kind of initiation thing? Something to get blood on her hands and keep her from running off and snitching? Kerchief begins to move away from the weapon wall, and Bucket enjoys a moment of relief before her manager pushes open the door to the kitchen.

“Your first task is to prepare something to eat. It could be a meal, a snack, anything that strikes your fancy. Then, you are to come out to the floor and serve us as if we were your customers. I think that would be a lovely way for you to introduce yourself.”

After Kerchief disappears into the next room, Bucket takes a second to shake out her nervousness, wiggling from her feet all the way to her head. She skips through the door, and… It’s just a kitchen. No command center, no vast collection of weapons. Hardly any euphemisms for murder to be found. For better or worse, the maid has little time to catch up before Kerchief is already on the way out another door.

“We’ll be right through here, Miss Bucket. See you soon.”

“Wait, I…”

And the door swings shut.

Bucket limply lifts her hands and lets them fall back to her sides. Great. Time to navigate this whole-ass restaurant-ass kitchen, because she definitely knows how to do that. Gotta start somewhere, just open a cabinet, any old cabinet.

Seasoning. Condiments. Is salt a condiment?

The pepper grinder lays on its side, along with a sprinkling of that black and gray dust. Bucket frowns and shuts the door, grumpily pressing her fingers across the underside of her nose as she turns away.

Just make something simple. More involved than handing out ketchup packets, but this didn’t exactly seem like a Michelin star operation.

Bucket squats down, checking the cabinets below the counter this time. Her eyes clench shut and she gives her pudgy nose an upward wipe with her palm, still feeling a peppery itch somewhere inside. Then, once she finally has a chance to look… Flour!

Perfect! Flour goes in all kinds of stuff, like bread, and other things made out of bread. Bucket grabs the bag, struggling with its surprising weight for a moment, and slams it down on the counter. She spies a stack of mixing bowls at the other end of the counter, and she slides over the biggest one she can get her hands on. Ready to finally get started, she tears the bag of flour open and begins to pour.

Suddenly, Bucket’s mind and expression both go blank. Flour continues to flow as the maid’s teardrop-shaped nostrils flare and constrict. Like it or not, it seems the pepper is ready to leave.

“ah… ah-ahh…”

The last of the flour falls into the bowl as Bucket’s breathing begins to heave and hitch. The bag wasn’t big enough to completely overfill the bowl, but a veritable mountain of white powder stands before her nonetheless. At least, until…

“aaAAH-CHOOOO!!!”

The hapless maid sneezes up a blizzard that envelops half the kitchen. Her face and clothes above the waist are completely covered in flour, a few clumps falling away as she weakly opens her eyes. She barely has time to realize what happened before her face scrunches up again and she delivers another “haa-CHHHOOO!” into the bowl.

After the second explosion of flour settles, Bucket cringes and cracks one eye open. The blow is softened ever so slightly by the kitchen’s already largely white decor, but the powdery mess is undeniable.

“Oops…” she mumbles, sheepishly rubbing an outstretched index finger back and forth under her nostrils. After a look over her shoulder at the door to the cafe floor, Bucket makes a token effort at brushing herself off as she runs back to the break room. Partway there it occurs to her that she really should be doing this outside, and so she flings herself through the exit door. Maybe she can change into a fresh uniform and pretend none of this ever happened. Just sweep the flour out and then the wind will… Th-the wind will…

“ah-ahh-ahhh-CHOOO!!”

A layer of white bursts away from the maid as she sneezes again. She snuffles and rubs a finger hard under her nose, bending it from side to side. And when she straightens up, Bucket finds salvation gazing upon her from across the street.

Paying no attention to any potential traffic and still blotchy with flour, Bucket flees to the catty-corner convenience store. She clumsily ducks down to hopefully avoid being seen through the cafe’s front window, and a moment later she sneaks her way back with equal care, hugging a tub of premade frosting and a box of club crackers to her chest.

“Um… H-hi, master. Sorry for the wait,” Bucket stammers, finally emerging from the kitchen. One hand holds a plate of frosted cra- Frosted cookies, while the other timidly rubs her nose. Her voice cracks when she sees not one, not two, but three fellow maids seated around a table. One of them is Kerchief, her manager from earlier, but the others are new to her.

On the left is a pale, gloomy maid with a bob of green hair and long, straight bangs that completely cover her face above the cheekbones. Including both eyes. If she even has eyes. And on the right sits a boyish, muscular maid wearing a lopsided smile. Dark skin, short and spiky black hair, and a bandage across the bridge of her long, upturned nose. Both turn to face their new companion, and each gives a little wave. Bucket swallows nervously and resumes her approach.

As she arrives at the table, muscle maid leaps from her chair and rushes over.

“Hey there, Bucket! Pleased to meet’cha!” she exclaims, offering a hard slap on the shoulder. Her other hand flies to the plate and pops a frosted cracker into her mouth.

“Ooh, nice cookies,” she says as she chews. “Sweet and salty’s a good mix. Anyway, call me Duster!” She pauses to swallow. “And this is Mop!” She gestures to the green-haired maid, who ‘looks’ up at Bucket and wordlessly waves again. “Welcome to the team!”

Kerchief, Duster, Mop, and Bucket. What a world. Settling into panic mode autopilot, Bucket deposits her plate on the table and sits in the one vacant chair. Mop and Kerchief each take a cracker of their own, and Bucket feels a massive weight lift from her shoulders when neither offers a complaint.

Kerchief closes her eyes and sighs.

“At least wait until we’re inside. Then you can find your way to the restroom and take care of it privately.”

Bucket makes one last attempt to pluck out the offending hair, after which she finally relents. She lets out a little moan of defeat, then gives her big, squishy nose a big, squishy rub. Still tickles. Not wanting to look like she hasn’t helped at all, she grabs a single ammo can out of the van and places it with the others.

What in the world does some random nightclub need this many bullets for? As far as Bucket is aware, they’re just there to provide security for some kind of event. Although, after a week or so on the job, she’s seen firsthand plenty of times that nothing ever goes according to plan. Kerchief and Duster head inside with an armful of supplies each, at which point Bucket resumes trying to get at that pesky nose hair. She then freezes in place when she notices Mop staring at her, or at least so she assumes. Still not entirely sure if Mop even has eyes.

“Relax, Bucket. I’m not gonna tell on you.”

Too embarrassed to continue, Bucket returns to rubbing her nose again instead. She takes a deep sniff and scrunches up her face, satisfaction still out of reach. Her eyes briefly flit to the club’s staff entrance.

“What’s taking them so long?” Bucket wonders aloud, fingers still pressed up against the underside of her nose. Mop also glances at the door, and she shrugs with a little “eh.”

“I dunno. I usually leave the business stuff to Kerchief,” she says, folding her arms and cocking her hips. Bucket is a bit taken aback. Most of the time she’s the one least willing to take the initiative. Kerchief and Duster haven’t even been gone for all that long, but something just feels… Off. With another sniff and a shake of her head, Bucket gives a hard rub back and forth under her nose before heading toward the building.

“Well, uh, I’m gonna go find the little maid’s room. I’ll let you know if I run into the others.”

Mop stiffly raises a hand and flaps her fingers up and down in what could perhaps charitably be described as a wave. Not sure how to respond, Bucket presses on and nudges her way through the door. The hallway is dimly illuminated by a single flickering light. Chipped black paint covers the walls, and the carpet is made up of inscrutable patterns in a displeasing mix of purple and brown. Every surface looks like the floor of an arcade. Bucket continues after a quick shake of her head, soon arriving at another set of doors.

A piece of paper is taped to one of the doors, though Bucket mostly ignores it. It’s covered in too much text to simply say “do not enter,” and besides, there’s nowhere else to go. Bucket grips the handle and gives it a downward turn, and suddenly the floor beneath her is gone. The door handle slips through her fingers, and she gives a piercing “EEE-YAAAAHHH!!!” as she tumbles down a previously unseen staircase into the darkness below.

Bucket lands hard on her back, beating a cloud of dust from the stale carpet. She sits up, briefly stares at the new, even darker corridor she finds herself in, and - “ah-ahh-CHOOO!” - she sneezes. The maid takes a moment to rub back and forth under her nose before rising to her feet.

This godforsaken tunnel doesn’t even have the courtesy to give her a flickering light on the ceiling. The only illumination comes from a series of dim purple tube lights on the floor, themselves providing barely enough light to indicate that this hallway does in fact have walls. Beyond that, nothing. Just dust and echoes.

“ah-CHOO!!”

Bucket sneezes again as she tries to get her bearings. She turns around, and the staircase she fell down seems to have disappeared. The floor lights simply end at a solid wall blocking the way. It’s too dark for Bucket to even tell if there is a ceiling, but she can’t see any trace of the crappy lightbulb from the hallway above.

“Uh. Hello?”

The maid’s mumbled greeting goes unanswered.

“Kerchief? Duster?”

Silence.

“Anybody!?”

Her hair stands on end when she finally hears a response. A distant… Growl? And footsteps, muffled somewhat by the matted carpet, but slowly drawing closer. Bucket rolls her eyes once she’s had a moment to process.

“Okay, ha ha, funny joke. I’m so scared. Come on, guys.”

The footsteps quicken. Whoever is there still doesn’t speak, and the hallway is too dark for Bucket to see more than a few feet ahead. The invisible figure continues to accelerate, and it emits another growl. But this time, it’s more of an inhuman gurgle, and much closer than the sound of its footfalls would suggest. Bucket’s eyes go wide and her throat makes a terrified squeak. She draws her pistol with all the haste she can muster and fires three shots into the darkness.

Once the echo of the gunshots fades, the hall is silent once again. No more footsteps, no groans of pain, no thud of a body hitting the ground, nothing. Bucket lowers her weapon, then she shivers reflexively and gives a nonsequitur “ah-CHOOO!” She’s hardly had the chance to recover from her sneeze before she whirls around, runs to the end of the hallway, and pounds her fist on the wall.

“Mop! Mop get me out of here!” she pleads, voice cracking. “Duster!? Kerchief!? Open the wall! Put the stairs back! Something!”

A soreness in her hand eventually urges her to stop and she slumps forward against the concrete. Another much farther off growl jolts her upright and she spins about, her back to the wall.

“D-don’t mess with me! I’m… I… ah… ah-ahh-CHOO!!”

Bucket doubles over with yet another dusty sneeze. Without continuing her nebulous threat, she reaches behind her back and retrieves her rifle from under her skirt. Extend the stock, slap in a magazine, pull back the charging handle. The maid brings her weapon up to her shoulder, flicks the selector to full auto, and points it down the corridor.

“Okay, now would be a really good time to bust through the wall! Or something!”

No one comes to save her, nor does anything come to attack. Bucket loses track of time as she stands at the ready, and she has no idea how long has passed when she finally relaxes. She lets her weapon fall to her hip, and after a second she sighs and glances down at it.

“Looks like it’s you and me, Honey Badger.”

Bucket continues to stare at the rifle for a second too long, as if actually expecting some sort of reply. She lifts her gaze and peers out at the nothingness.

“I’m going fuckin’ crazy!”

Shaking her head to clear her thoughts, the maid presses forward. With her adrenaline dying down, she starts feeling that prickly nose hair again. Bucket takes one hand off her weapon and begins frantically rubbing her nose, squinting and scrunching up her face.

“Oh my god…” she grumbles to herself, mashing her nose upward with her palm. Her nostrils flare out and then suck in as she sniffs as hard as she can. Then, her foot again fails to meet the floor. Too startled to even scream properly, Bucket emits a high-pitched squeak as she rolls down yet another staircase that she would swear wasn’t there before.

Just like the first time, Bucket lands in a cloud of dust, sits up, and - “a-CHOOOO!!” - sneezes. She checks her weapon and herself, but aside from being increasingly annoyed, she seems fine.

This hallway is aesthetically the same as the last, as far as she can tell. Still the same grubby carpet, and the same purple floor lights. But, this time there is again a lightbulb hanging from the ceiling, revealing a single section of the passage. Bucket jogs up to the light, and she notices the wall on one side is adorned with a floor to ceiling mirror. With her priorities in perfect order, she breathes a sigh of relief and leans toward the reflective surface.

“Jeez, finally,” Bucket mumbles, letting her rifle hang by its sling and bringing a finger to her face to lift the soft tip of her nose. Even among the plethora of hairs that line her big, stretched-out nostrils, she’s able to rapidly identify the one that’s been bothering her.

“Alright, c’mere you little bastard…”

She pinches the hair between her fingernails and gives it a sharp tug. First try. Bucket wrinkles her nose slightly at the twinge, and she scrunches up even tighter as she looks down at the long, scraggly hair. She flicks it away into the darkness, but before she can get back on track…

“ah… aahhh… aaaah-CHOOO!!!!”

It was as if removing that nose hair unleashed a sneeze that had been building all day. Bucket doubles over so far that her forehead smacks against the mirror. She screams and stumbles back, at which point she screams again as she bumps into something, and then she screams a third time when she opens her eyes and sees the reflection of a figure over her shoulder. Her hands fly to her weapon and she unloads a frantic burst of gunfire into the mirror. The glass splinters, but she notices Mop’s curtained visage around the cracks.

“Hey, Bucket.”

“Mop, you scared me!” Bucket sobs as she turns to face her colleague. She slumps forward, letting her sore forehead fall onto Mop’s shoulder.

“Don’t lean on me.”

Bucket immediately straightens.

“So, uh… What the heck is this place?” she asks, giving a long, slow rub back and forth under her nose. Damn that feels good. She almost forgets to listen when Mop answers.

“It would seem Club Liminal has some kind of haunted funhouse basement.”

Bucket gives Mop a half-lidded stare.

“Cool, so you have no idea either.”

“Nope. All I know is it’s disgusting and I’d like to leave.”

“Same. Just, uh. How do we go about doing that?”

“I don’t know, I didn’t build this place. Why do you keep asking me?”

“Okay, okay! I just don’t know what to do. Um. How did you get down here?”

“Stairs.”

“Oh my god, same. Stairs keep just appearing under me, I fell down like three floors to get here.”

“No, I mean… I just walked down.”

Bucket’s jaw clenches. Her eye twitches, and then she turns to face the direction she’d been going before stopping at the mirror.

“Alright. Well then. Let’s just see if we can find aaAAA-!”

The maid takes a single step and immediately begins tumbling all over again. She lands face down in another cloud of dust, and a moment later Mop calmly descends the stairs beside her. Bucket silently lays in a heap for a second before rolling over and staring up at the obscured ceiling, at least until…

“ah-ahh-ahhh…! ahh-CHOOO!!”

“Bless you,” says Mop as Bucket sneezes herself upright.

“I hate stairs.”

Bucket slowly pushes herself back to her feet. The moment she settles, bright lights all around switch on with an explosive popping sound, revealing not another cramped hallway, but some kind of massive stadium-like chamber. A tiered pyramid structure rises above up ahead, and Bucket can just see what appears to be a pedestal at the top.

“ch! hih-ch! ah-ch!”

A trio of tiny, rapid sneezes startle Bucket half to death. She turns her head to find Mop gently nudging a knuckle up under the tip of her nose.

“Gesundheit,” Bucket squeaks. Mop squares her shoulders and gives no response of any kind. Before either of them can suggest approaching the pyramid, confetti bursts from every inch of the ceiling and rains down around them as multicolored lights begin to strobe in time with decades-old and extremely bass-heavy party music. Bucket shields her eyes with one hand, but Mop launches into another fit of minuscule sneezes.

“he-ch! ha-ch! hh’ch! hih-ch! ah-ch!”

“Jeez, Mop. You okay?” Bucket inquires, but Mop shows no sign of stopping. Then, a distinct rumbling draws Bucket’s concern elsewhere. She looks over her shoulder and sees the wall behind them slowly rising, and the same growling she’d heard on the first floor of this hellscape begins to filter in alongside the music.

“Uh, Mop? Mop, we need to go,” stammers Bucket, her voice fully drowned out by the cacophony. She grabs her companion by the arm and begins to pull her forward, but their pace is worryingly slow. Bucket glances back again, and a chill runs up her spine at the sight of what she can only assume are dozens of… Zombies? What else could they be but zombies? Pouring out of the open passageway and charging straight for them.

“Mop! Holy shit!” Bucket screams. She shoves Mop past her, then she turns, raises her rifle, and opens fire. Some of the zombies fall, a few even tripping those behind them, but there are simply too many. Bucket flicks the empty magazine out of her weapon, slides a new one in, and slaps the bolt release before spraying down another layer of runners, then she looks to see if Mop has made any progress.

Hardly.

Mop has managed to stagger maybe five paces toward the pyramid as she continues to sneeze herself silly. With too many foes to defeat and not enough time for any sort of plan, Bucket grabs Mop by the arm again, wraps it around her shoulders, and hefts her up as best she can. With the horde drawing ever nearer, Bucket charges at the structure in the center of the stadium, legs and lungs burning.

“I! Hate! Stairs!” she screams, heaving Mop onto the platform at the top of the pyramid. Bucket drags herself up to the podium, which sports a large, red button at its center. Pondering what it might do is a luxury she can’t enjoy, and she presses it immediately. Nothing happens. Bucket emits a feral shriek and begins to pound the button with her fist over and over and over.

Just when she’s about to give up and start shooting the damn thing, a deafening THUNK shakes the entire chamber. Bucket falls to the floor, and then she keeps falling. Again. The platform at the summit disappeared, dumping her and Mop onto a long, twisting slide. At least it isn’t another bumpy staircase this time. The maids crash through a door at the end of the slope, landing not on another decrepit carpet, but a hard tile floor.

Bucket leaps to her feet, and… And…

Kerchief and Duster stare at her in stunned silence. Bucket staggers forward, breathing heavily and loosely gripping her rifle with one hand.

“Kerchief, Duster, holy shit. I’m glad we found you. The… There’s zombies… And Mop is…”

Bucket points at her partner, who continues to lay face down on the floor as though she were dead. When she looks back to Kerchief and Duster, she finally notices that they’re sitting at a high bar table, each enjoying a strawberry daiquiri.

“Zombies?” Duster inquires, straw in her mouth. Bucket takes another look around the room. It looks like a perfectly normal nightclub, and a fairly posh one at that. Smooth black surfaces and chrome trim everywhere, with no sign of the nasty arcade decor anywhere to be seen. Bucket’s eye twitches again when she spies the street outside through the tinted window behind the bar.

“But we… How did we… Stairs. We fell down like five floors. Down. All down. Only down. How are we…”

Kerchief suddenly holds up a finger.

“Oh, you two must have ended up in The Gauntlet.”

“The what?”

“Did you read the note?”

Bucket blinks, her panting breaths only just starting to slow.

“The note on the door. It said ‘Please use the right side door for club entry. Left side door leads to The Gauntlet, under renovation.’”

Duster sets her daiquiri on the table after another sip. Bucket immediately snatches it up and chugs it in its entirety.

“Oh shit, brain freeze, ow.”

She stumbles back the way she came, stepping over Mop’s body to reach the door they’d just fallen through. Bucket tears it open, not much caring if she unleashes a torrent of the undead, but she finds nothing more than a mundane bathroom. A remarkably clean one at that. She closes the door and opens it again. Still just a bathroom. Letting go of the handle, Bucket steps aside to the corner and slumps face-first against the wall.

“Alright Mop, you wanna tell us what happened?” asks Duster. The comatose maid finally stirs, giving a subtle twitch.

The cafe manager gives the tip of her nose an upward flick with her finger while her other hand reaches for the tissue box on her desk. Her head feels like a balloon, somehow full and empty at the same time. A long, moderately noisy blow into a folded tissue relieves the fuzzy sensation somewhat. As Kerchief gives the tissue a gentle wipe across her nostrils, she notices something odd in the pile of daily mail.

A stark red flier. Kerchief’s headache intensifies as she pulls it by the corner. Just as she suspected: The Church of the Fourth Light. Something something we strongly urge you to reconsider our sponsorship. Something something benefits. Funding. Protection. A dedicated following. Traditional values. German lessons on Mondays and Thursdays.

The maid removes her glasses and massages her temples. Why today of all days? Kerchief replaces her spectacles and gives her nose a gentle but squishy rub with her outstretched fingers. She sniffs and retrieves her tissue, but before she can even consider getting up to alert the others…

BAM.

A single gunshot punches through the buzz of muffled shouting on the other side of the door. Kerchief blows her nose once more. She holds the tissue firmly in her left hand, her right gliding down to her sidearm as footsteps approach the staff room door. Her tension immediately passes when Duster shoves her way through, followed closely by Bucket.

“Trouble?” Kerchief inquires. Duster continues toward the weapon wall without so much as a glance in her manager’s direction.

“Nothing we can’t handle, boss.”

“Fuhh… HAHP!-choo… Fourth Light?”

“How’d you guess?” asks Duster, finally looking back over her shoulder. Kerchief holds up the flier.

“Nice of them to give us an early warning,” Duster grumbles. She opens the locker beside the array of firearms and withdraws two black kevlar vests, holding one out to Bucket.

“Probably gonna want one of these.”

Bucket accepts the body armor and puts it on over her maid uniform. She’s clearly nervous, but also resigned to whatever is about to happen. Kerchief grabs a new tissue and turns her chair around to face her subordinates.

“What was the… hh… haah…”

“I told their bag boy we’re still not interested in their damn sponsorship,” says Duster, ignoring Kerchief’s oncoming sneeze. Bucket waits for her to release the pent up “AHT!-choo…” before holding up an outstretched finger.

“I believe you said ‘if you want me to put the poster up so badly, bend over and I’ll shove it up your ass.’”

Duster shrugs as she finishes velcroing up her vest.

“Yeah, something like that. Then he started going on and on about how he wouldn’t leave unless I debated him…”

Kerchief sniffs and flicks the tip of her nose up again.

“And then you shot him?”

“Well, yeah, but I didn’t kill the guy. Just gave him a little nine mil ear piercing. He’s probably still in the fetal position on the sidewalk unless he rolled into traffic or something.”

“I imagine his compatriots will be along shortly,” Kerchief sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. A single “hih-!” escapes her, but she manages to keep from sneezing again, at least for now. She delicately slides a finger across her nostrils with a light sniff before looking back at her subordinates.

“I suppose it was only a matter of time. Please prepare to receive our guests with the hospitality they deserve.”

An uneven grin spreads across Duster’s face.

“With pleasure.”

Kerchief turns to face her desk once more. Still too much paperwork to do. Bills to pay. Tissues to crumple. A rifle flies past in her peripheral vision, headed toward the kitchen. Mop’s hand bursts through the door, catches the weapon, and disappears with a tired “thanks.”

“Here, try this one out,” says Duster, taking another rifle down from the wall and handing it to Bucket. “Honey Badger SBR. Stole it off of one of these Fourth Light dipshits a while back, perfect opportunity to turn it around on ‘em.”

“I was wondering why that wasn’t in the budget,” Kerchief mutters. Her voice has picked up another layer of stuffiness, which she tries to sniff away before going for a new tissue.

“What, want me to give it back?”

“Absolutely nahh… ah… AHTD!-choo…”

After thoroughly blowing her nose, Kerchief scootches up to the office computer. The sounds of the old, yellowed keyboard were always pleasing to her ear, especially when her head was otherwise full of fluff. She takes a moment to bask in the warm fuzzies, but she perks up at the sound of a distinct metal container being popped open.

“Put those back please, Miss Duster.”

Duster is crestfallen.

“But boss…”

“No grenades in the cafe.”

Duster pouts, but she does as she’s told.

“Ugh, if you insist,” she grunts, flipping the explosives box closed. “Alright, Bucket, look alive.”

Bucket makes an apprehensive squeak as she follows her senior out of the staff room.

“Just as a heads up, I’ve never actually shot at, uh, people before.”

“Relax. They’re not people, they’re nazis.”

The door to the cafe swings shut, and the maids prepare for battle. Kerchief in particular isn’t looking forward to her fight with the electric company’s web page. Her eyes glaze over as she watches the spinning spinny thing of death on the screen. Will the site load before the shooting starts? Who could say?

“hh… hih-! HAADT!-choo…”

When Kerchief lifts her head after sneezing, the spinny thing has stopped, but everything on the page has been shoved all the way over to the left without any of its formatting. The maid slaps the F5 key and contemplates weeping. But, instead of shedding a tear, she groggily forces herself out of her chair and shuffles to the restroom. Hopefully they still have cold medicine, or at least some painkillers.

Better than nothing. Kerchief chases a pill with a cup of water, then she leans against the sink and stares at herself in the mirror. She knows she’s a respectable leader who has earned the trust of her team, but she’s also a bit shy and unsure of herself. The faint beginnings of crow’s feet and a couple graying hairs amongst the blonde certainly don’t make her feel any better. For better or worse, a sudden fluttery tickle in her nose keeps her from wallowing. Kerchief frantically rubs back and forth under her nostrils with one hand as she reaches for a tissue with the other, and then…

“ah-ahh… AAHT!-choo…”

The sound of squealing tires catches Kerchief’s attention just after her sneeze. Breaking glass and the rapid popping of automatic fire follow shortly. What a pain. The manager blows her nose, drops the tissue in the trash, and makes her way back to the computer. Once again the power company’s website has failed to load properly. With an aggravated huff, Kerchief opens a new tab and instead sets about filing a work order for cafe repairs.

Duster leans back against an overturned table, closing her eyes with a deep breath. Her submachine gun sits at her feet, barrel still smoking from having expended the last of its ammunition, and in its place the maid clutches a Beretta 92 in each hand. Mop has similarly discarded her empty rifle and drawn her sidearm as she keeps watch through the kitchen window. How many goons could they cram into one damn clown car of an SUV?

Bucket lays on the floor behind a table of her own, unmoving save for the steady rise and fall of her chest. She’d taken a hit early in the fight, though it seemed to have only knocked the wind out of her. Duster glances over at her, taking advantage of the brief respite.

“Still with me, Bucket?”

The stunned maid nods weakly.

“Got any holes in you?”

“I don’t think so? None that weren’t there this morning,” Bucket answers, lightly patting her vest. Duster gives a light chuckle and half a nod before turning her attention back to the rest of the cafe. The front window has been completely blasted out, and a couple chairs lay in splinters. Fortunately the tabletops are all steel-plated for just such an occasion, and the row of smiling stuffed animals along the northern wall of the dining room remain untouched.

Duster’s ears perk up at the sound of shifting debris. She peeks around her table to find what must have been the twelfth dude in a gray trench coat pushing himself up out of the rubble. He produces a hand grenade and pulls the pin, but a sudden PNK! from Mop’s suppressed pistol sends him falling backwards before he can toss it. Duster returns to cover as the explosion flings shrapnel at the cafe’s facade.

“Think that’s all of them?”

Mop lightly shakes her head.

“Doubt it.”

As if on cue, a second blacked-out SUV pulls up alongside the first. Duster rolls her eyes and gives her head a hard shake in frustration.

“Futher mucker…”

The truck’s doors swing open in unison, but before the Fourth Light reinforcements can deploy themselves, Kerchief emerges from the staff room with an M320 grenade launcher in hand. Her eyes are completely glazed over as she strides into the center of the cafe, so tired that she may as well have already been asleep. Without a look or a word to her subordinates, she aims her weapon at the newly arrived vehicle and pulls the trigger. The grenade punches through the SUV’s grille and sends it up in a fireball. The heat actually feels rather nice as it washes over her, though it quickly dissipates.

“The cafe is closed for repairs,” Kerchief announces, letting her grenade launcher fall to her side in one hand. “You are all dismissed.”

The manager’s free hand flies up to her face, holding an outstretched finger limply under her nose.