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The first gunshot broke the quiet of the night like a hammer shattering glass.
The situation was this: there was your normal, standard abandoned warehouse, surrounded by other abandoned warehouses. It was being used by the Empire to move drugs and cash. Both were scattered across a set of tables and stacked against a wall. Two of those tables had been overturned, scattering cash and drugs across the floor, to provide cover for the Empire thugs working there – an odd choice considering their enemies didn’t have any ranged weaponry. A dozen Empire minions, four of them guards and eight of them drug-handlers, trembled behind their meager cover. Around half of them appeared armed, pointing guns past the tables. One of them was wielding a small cross on a necklace, and chanting some sort of futile prayer.
From the open loading doors, their enemy crept. Two hundred spiders, ranging from the size of a large dog to that of your average human. All were shades of dark grey, though some were furred and others were armored in chitin.
The moment the gunshot split the quiet, all pretense of stalking slowly vanished. The horde lunched forward, dashing faster than most humans could run.
Gunfire sounded. Some of the spiders dropped back, injured. A few fell dead.
But everyone knew that the Empire’s defense was futile. They had fewer bullets than there were spiders and not enough time to shoot what they did have.
Several fascists, clearly realizing their hopeless situation, ran.
The Empire thugs at the tables were overrun. The gunfire stopped. The quiet would have returned if not for the screaming of one of the runners.
They were heading for the back door.
Skitters-In-Power moved. She skittered across the ceiling of the warehouse, where she had been waiting and watching and directing her horde. She threw herself onto the back wall and descended until she hung over the back door.
One of the thugs was mere feet away from her, and his path to freedom. He skidded to a stop, as did the other runners. Soon, they would be over run. Soon, Skitters-In-Power would take the cash to be used in the construction of her gang.
“Please,” the one in front said, falling to his knees. “Don’t take me to hell. I’m a good Christian!”
Skitters-In-Power leaned forward. Did the thug think she was a demon? She could have laughed then and there.
“Good?” Skitters-In-Power purred. “You are neither a good Christian nor a good man.”
“Please,” the thug repeated softly. Tears were shimmering in his eyes. He seemed all out of arguments.
“You may yet become a good Nazi,” Skitters-In-Power offered with a smile. “As they say, the only good Nazi is a dead one.”
The thug let out a quiet sob and the tears overflowed his eyes, running down his cheeks.
“Hush. Please stop crying,” Skitters-In-Power murmured. She reached out one human hand and wiped his tears away. “I promise it won’t hurt.”
The thug shuddered.
“You are not keeping him,” Mother’s voice echoed through Skitters-In-Power’s mind.
One of her siblings bit the thug, paralyzing him. Skitters-In-Power used her fingers to close his eyes.
“I know,” Skitters-In-Power muttered, skittering towards the cash. “I was just having fun.”
She felt acceptance from Mother, and then the great mind turned away. Skitter-In-Power grinned to herself.