The moment the door slammed shut, Clotho gave a choked sort of sob and her knees buckled. Lachesis swept forward to catch her, the shotgun abandoned in an instant as she wrapped her sister in a tight embrace, uncaring of the bloodstains that soaked into her own clothing.
For the first time that evening, Clotho cried. All the tears she hadn't dared shed in front of the Phonoi -- all the fear and the revulsion and the helplessness and the pain -- all of it seemed to burst out in flood, and with it all the adrenaline of the attack began to wash away.
When the gunfire started down below them, neither sister was prepared. Instinct saw them clutch at one another, and if Clotho didn't cry out it was only because the embrace barely left her space to breath. Only Atropos sat perfectly still, though her knuckles were white where she gripped the shears, and a vindictive impulse drove her to apply just that little bit more pressure to the sensitive strings poised between them -- not enough to fray the threads, but certainly enough for each of the fuckers to feel an icy chill close on their chests.
It was over in less than a minute and as the loud voices of their nephews -- still to be heard cursing those three goddamned bitches as they skulked off -- began to fade, the Crone tossed aside the threads in disgust. "Cocksuckers," she muttered blackly.
But her eyes softened as they fell on her sisters. Clotho's sobs were muffled now, her face buried in Lachesis' sweater. The Mother was clinging to her as though all the world depended on it.
Atropos' voice was uncharacteristically gentle when she spoke. "It is done, Clo. They're gone."
The words were enough to prompt Clotho to raise her tear-and-blood streaked face from Lachesis' shoulder, but when her eyes found the Crone's the tears began anew. "'M sorry," was all she seemed able to manage, close to incoherence. "Sorry." At this, Atropos' face darkened.
"They're gonna be fucking sorry if I ever see their pathetic faces again," she declared, her tone almost a growl. "I'm gonna make those motherfuckers wish they'd never laid a finger on you. Fuck it, they're going to wish they'd never been born."
"Atropos," the Mother stopped her wearily, although there was no real will behind it. Probably her sentiments were running along a similar vein. But her immediate concern lay elsewhere. "She's bleeding," she said, pointedly.
Atropos met her eyes, then nodded. "Look after her. I'll get the first aid kit."
But before she did so, she drew close to her youngest sister, and pressed a rare kiss to the Maiden's cheek. "I don't forget," she whispered close to her ear. "They'll pay, sister. They'll pay."
And then the eldest of the Moirae swept out of the room, to begin picking up the pieces.