No one saw them arrive. Not properly. Just static on the CCTV. A blur of sequins, smoke, and long legs. The Cadillac had been parked outside Bales Babes for three years — flat tyres, busted tailpipe, fox living in the glove box.

That night, it growled back to life, lights roaring.

Aglaia lit her cigarette off a flickering pink neon that said BABES BABES BABES, letters bleeding like mascara in the rain. Thalia was already in the backseat, knees up, sketching sigils into the upholstery with her nail. And Euphrosyne — she didn’t say much, just stared dead ahead, lipstick smeared like war paint, clutching a bottle of gasoline like it was holy water.

They weren’t goddesses anymore. They were burnouts of the algorithm, exiled from Olympus for bad behaviour and worse code. You could still see the shimmer round them if you looked sideways. Like heatstroke. Or witchcraft.

The car peeled off, tyres coughing up old prayers, and left nothing behind but three silhouettes finger-painted onto the passenger door like a fucked-up Sistine Chapel.

People say they were last seen driving into the undernet, headlights glitching, trailing ash and ambient techno.

They were the first of the Babes.

And after that night, the world got weirder.