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[i]'Adam? Who in the hell was - '[/i]

The werewolf reeled back painfully, amber eyes wide as the golem came chugging through like an inexorable freight train, a familiar face or two hanging on and gathered in his arms as he headed for the vault entrance that Isis was doing her erstwhile best to funnel them toward, desperately, like she was forming up a supernatural goddamn herd of cats.

She honestly didn't envy the goddess the job.

Veti wasn't even in the mood to appreciate the sublime [i]appropriateness[/i] that the golem's name was "Adam." Of [i]course[/i] his name was Adam.

And of [i]course[/i] even banged up and beaten to hell, dropped on top of a werewolf flesh mattress from about a hundred feet up or so - and God only knew what the hell had happened [i]before[/i] he decided to scale the anubus for whatever the hell passes for "reason" in the mind of the demonspawn - Nestor was still the most delightfully crazy bastard she'd ever known. Big grin firmly planted on that worn face, and the detonator in hand, Veti couldn't help but file this moment away in her head to share with Max when they saw him again.

Max. [i]Thadd.[/i] The werewolf's impossible grin widened when yet another explosion ripped through the air, all the demonspawn's making, as she held out a now-dusty, red-furred and muscular arm for him to grab onto. The way that right arm was hanging from his shoulder didn't look quite... [i]right.[/i]

[i]"What?"[/i] Snappy response and bubblegum pink attitude and all, cutting through the cacophony of destruction raining down on their heads - and Veti STILL wanted to snatch Daisy off poor Artie's suspiciously too-bloody back, and hug her tightly, and make sure the Reaper was [i]really[/i] all right. [i]"Why is everyone shouting? It is [/i]too [i]hot for that shit!"[/i]

Ugh. Fucking teenagers. They even conflicted the shit out of the adults who love them. Veti bit back the sudden, inexplicable urge to tell Daisy to watch her damn language, shrugging her enormous, broad shoulders in a gesture parental/grown adult figures throughout the ages would have long-recognized, understood and commiserated with. Instead, she just lifted one thick, muscular arm and pointed toward the vault entrance before lumbering with Nestor into its confines after Semyon. Something about these man-sized scarab Guardians screamed "keep at range," and she trusted her instincts - and the Wight's judgment - enough to draw the Desert Eagle again as they retreated, ready to shatter a carapace or two. Or a dozen. At least. No sense in limiting oneself after all.