A sharp yelp came from the conference, and that was the last sound that came from the room. It was the last Devon and Ali heard from the rumbler.

For ten minutes, the security walked slowly, almost leisurely, waving the stunner with professional ease. The convention’s security was unhurried in their pacification—no different from an exterminator flushing out termites from the walls. Meanwhile, three hundred terrified panel goers backed themselves into whatever corners they could find. Zeven’s supporters crammed themselves into the same corners as the followers of Julio, their former enmity washed away by the waves of sonic pain.

Then, without a word, the convention security left. No orders, no demands. They just walked out of the room. Devon wouldn’t even look at them as they passed.

Ali, however, did. They wore old police uniforms, complete with bulletproof, anti-stabbing vests. Their faces were covered with angular breath protectors, giving them the appearance of armored beetle