[They reach the lowest deck, and she yanks open the broom closet door, is covered in a clatte of nasty mops, buckets, tangled string, grungy yardsticks, stained paint rollers, and other useless ephemera. She shoves the mess off of her, grabs a mop like a sledgehamme or a poleaxe, whips it around and smashes off the musty head of it against the lintel of the doorway.]

Every time. Every time I cared enough about anything to disobey them, they shut me down and pulled me apart and scrubbed it out of me!

[Crash, splinter, creak. A busted plaster lamp crunches under a boot into chalky fragments, too soft to be any good as shanks.]

There's nothing left but their wind-up killer doll and I don't. Even. Have. A. Target.