The Phonoi were single-minded in their task - single-minded, and cocky. And perhaps that was why they had not foreseen what was to come next.
It was a small living room, and several strides was all it took to bring Atropos to the old-fashioned loom working steadily, despite being unattended, by the window. To anybody else the contents of the Loom would appear to be nothing but a chaotic mass of fibres, but Atropos barely even needed to look at it before seizing three threads from amongst the rest.
They were plain, white and undyed; entirely unremarkable except in their length, which exceeded most of the other threads woven into the Loom. And the Crone's shears hovered over them menacingly.
"I think now's the time where you let my sister the fuck go," she said frostily. Her voice had lost all trace of humour, or even derision.
"You see, boys, here's the way I'm seeing it. You could kill Clotho if you wanted to. Slit her throat, send her down into Hades, at least for a few days till she's able to reform. You said it yourselves, we've got no way of stopping you.
"But if you do, well, I'd imagine I'd be so overcome with grief that my shears might just -- slip -- and right over your life-threads, too. Sure, you might get together enough strength to come crawling back from the Underworld, but I'll be waiting for you there, too, to cut you down all over again. And don't think I can't play that game forever. I've got eternity, bitch, and you cocksuckers can--"
She didn't get any further. Because right at that moment, Clotho let out a wordless sound that was somewhere between a yell and a sob and, her fist tightening around the object she had rescued from the counter -- the irregularly-shaped, metallic, extremely sharp object -- plunged the thing with all her strength into Xeno's thigh.
They weren't the Crone's shears, but Lachesis' craft scissors were still sharp enough to do some damage.