(..Well, that was extremely tiresome, and I hardly gained a thing from it. I suppose it would have created two more deep scars, too. Wonderful. Although what difference do two more scratches make to the plethora I already wear?)
(Perhaps I could create a more valiant tale to match them. A believable one. Some form of wild beast attack, maybe?)
Augh, you caught me! I'm just doing this for more of your cooking. [Tries to keep a deadpan expression but fails, grinning instead.] You're not dull, quite the opposite in fact! Things always appear to be interesting with you. [Nods and lightly touches the nearest wing, poking it very carefully.]
I knew it! Hoh ho! They always come back, you know! [A good old toothy grin is given, and Damon is able to sustain this outer confidence enough even when a foreign feeling shivers through him. Yup, that wing certainly was part of his body now. Even the softest touch is felt- and to be honest, the entire situation is so utterly surreal that Gant doesn’t have some form of panic attack, but in fact, well.. relaxes and enjoys it, even.]
Well, interesting is one word for it, I suppose! [With a smirk, he looks back to them, concentrates, and makes them move. Of course, not just any move. The mature, elder Ex-Chief decides to make his two new wings do a Mexican Wave, laughing gleefully when they comply.]
These infernal, ah, “wings”- Goodness, this is quite the unbelievable situation, even I can hardly believe it and I’m the.. victim of these damn things- Anyway, they’re quite the bother. Knocking all my precious items off shelves, expanding without instruction.
I say, I’d be lovely to attempt to do something useful with them, but I hardly have the time to learn the practice of bloody flying now, do I? Hoh ho!
[Smiling, she plops herself down next to him, taking a better look at the new protrusions now extending from him. Sort of doesn't want to leave because how often is it that wings sprout from your back? Not very; the guy looks in bad shape because of it. There's a showing-your-inner-devil joke to be made here, but fuck if I can think of it.]
[A few, quietly peaceful moments pass as the old man holds the ice pack firmer onto his forehead, controlling his breathing by forcing it slower and calmer. His temperature decreases and he seems to regain some form of posture, eventually blinking open his eyes, and arching his back in an automatic stretch. The wings follow suit, widening out to their longest before retracting back in- though, now it merely feels like one slick movement as the new bones quickly feel.. just like another part of his body. Almost unconsciously, one wing curls around the back of the girl, as an arm would in a hug.]
You’re very kind, my dear, to spend such time caring after such a dull, ancient man! Hoh ho. [Damon’s smile increases.] Though, I suppose your assistance wasn’t truly altogether motivated by your good heart, mm? [He winks, turning his head as far as he can (Not very) to get a look at the new part of his body. They’re huge, and he has to crane his neck to see the very top of the reptilian wings, thinly coated in scarlet.]
[Helping him into a sitting position, she strokes his hair and nods, mouthing back "you're welcome" before darting off to retrieve the necessary items. Once gathered, she returns and places the bucket in front of him as the ice packs are placed on the wings' base and his forehead. A box of tissues are positioned next to him too, just in case.] Better?
[Gant happily complies, though he’s not exactly in a state to refuse either.]
Nnngh- [He hisses and groans as the intense cold worms its way onto his wounds. However, the help is very welcome, as his body relaxes soon after, the old man’s eyes peacefully closing as he lets himself be tended to.]
..Yes. [Damon eventually chokes out, his voice rough.] Thank you, Miss Katherine.
[He attempts a laugh. It’s but a shadow of what his usual are, but it as some form of happy personality to it.]
[A familiar voice stirs the man, his head dragging up, revealing his eyes- bloodshot, and full of hot tears.
Damon attempts to get to his feet, but it seems his limbs are still in a state of shock, and the wings prove heaver than anticipated. He nods, smiling, going to say “Thank you”, but only managing to mouth it.]
[He hardly notices it. The pressure that folds outwards from his body. He hardly feels new bones grow at alarming speeds until they press into his skin from his insides. Suddenly, it’s as if his clothes are x10 too small, yet his jacket and shirt hang loosely away from his chest. Quivering hands go to pull away the fabric hiding the view of his torso and Damon almost gags at the sight of his bones being extremely visible. Panicking, he attempts to get up, move somewhere, anywhere, some new position that would get rid of this god awful feeling that his skin is too tight to fit his big muscles and bones. The intense pressure nearly causes him to outright vomit - if it had lasted any longer.
No, no. He was lucky. Before there was any chance to be affected by the wonderus experience of one’s skin being just a couple of sizes below your preferred fit, the feeling was quickly swapped with that of intense, unimaginable pain. Sharp bones tear through the rough, tanned skin on Gant’s back, and through the bile rising in his throat, the choking gasps, and his shaking legs buckling underneath him, the Ex-Chief finds it in him to throw off all clothing on his upper body- allowing two, dark, leathery, reptilian wings to rip out of his skin, blossoming from a coating of blood. His entire body shakes as he curls closer and closer in on himself, fist slamming the ground for no reason but to keep some hold on reality while his mouth battles between screaming out in utter pain and attempting to keep the stubborn risings of crimson and vomit down.
Minutes pass where he lies, frightened as a young schoolgirl. The wings acquire a mind of their own, as if they were an animal of their own right, resting back down after their birthing stretch to cover the pale body of their owner. The demonic gentleman.]
For the next three hours, you will have big, leathery, demonic bat wings. They should take about 10 minutes to fully grow in, and will probably be excruciatingly painful when they finally burst through the skin of your back. Well... Have fun?? *Poof magic and all that shit*
… Oh my.
..I’m not sure I believe you have the power to do such a thing to my body. Nor am I sure why you’d want such a horrid thing to happen in the first place.
The gloves are off, knuckles are cracked, and it’s time to panic. Damon Gant clearly means business, and Lana knows that now, it’s all over. Any hope of escape (was there ever any?) is shredded, gone, tossed out in the trash. Lana stays stock-still as Gant prowls, becoming an immense lion about to go in for the kill.
(This can’t be happening…!)
This is impossible. The most frightening thing in the world to her—other than losing Ema, of course—is looming overhead, more monster than man, singing. No, no, no!!! Only killers in horror movies or nightmares sing to their victims!
She urges herself, knowing that she’s already awake and alive and won’t be for very much longer. Her body tenses, as if to move, to run, to get the hell out of here and collapse in Jake’s arms.
…And what would you have me say?
If she’s going to die, she might as well be clever about it.
[Anger burns inside Gant’s entire body like crackling electricity, and the atmosphere between them becomes physically present, as he lowers himself down so the Legendary Duo’s chests are merely centimeters apart, the feeling of pressure pushes back the both of them. They’re opposite sides of the coin, fitting together in a harmony that’s sung out of tune. Already, he’s aware that silencing her for good isn’t possible. That detestable emotion of regret rests over his shoulder, haunting him from a murder that did happen, that he did feel. A large part of him slipped away that day. Damon’s attempted to remake the galliant building of a man he used to be but all that’s left of him simply is enough.
He runs a hand through Lana’s hair, his voice still as kind and caring as if he were talking to a loved child.]
Ah ha ha! Always so smart, always so clever! [The Ex-Cheif’s speech pattern is completely rhymic and organised, his voice curling around the ends of his words.]
Say.. Say the truth that you hunt for so much in others, my dear. You ‘utterly despise’ me, that I know well, but, then, why the intrest in my mind? Why, such a strong power could have been used on anyone! So, if you are so.. seperated from the past, why cheat?
Why lie- [In a snap, Gant grabs a fistful of her hair, right on the impact head in her head is burrowed. The tanned skin on his hand is outright plunged into the blood that is matting in her hair, and it’s disgustingly exilerating for the controller. He gives a sharp tug.] To find out what I thought was best to hide from you? For your safety?
..Because now, Lana, now you’ve unlocked the safe and found out my secrets- [Gant tilts his head, shaking it slightly as he gives a mock sadness facial expression of pouting and raising his eyebrows.] -I’m going to have to punish you!
[Even on the brink of death, Jake scowls at the demonic bastard before him. It’s the only fight he has left in him, it seems: An angry look. What a way to go.
Then suddenly he’s lifted slightly, and an unspeakable pain crushes his throat. He gags, gasping for air, and reaches up to pull the bandanna away. He can’t seem to untie the knot. He struggles, every nerve in his body alight with misery, but he has to get away. He has to. He can’t die like this, not here. Not at Gant’s hand. He already killed one Marshall, he wasn’t allowed to have the other!
The struggling gets weaker though as his lungs scream for air. Jake’s fight for life comes into question. His body starts to give to its own mortality, trembling with the weight of just trying to survive. There must be another way. There must be an out he hasn’t thought of yet. He can’t reach his knife. He’s too weak to fight back. Just breathing becomes an impossible struggle.
He finds himself feeling faint…]
[Up, up, up.. The scarf presses, forces itself into Jake’s skin. Digging deeper with such force one would believe the thing may simply cut through any minute.
He could do it. Gant could rid himself of Marshall right now. The pest, the thorn in his side, the one major distraction Lana has from being all his. Or, that’s at least what he’s telling himself. Convincing himself this boy is the reason he’s not getting what he wants. That’s the excuse. That’s why he’s not living the life he craves so intensely. The Ex-Chief’s features contort into a sick form of happiness at the thought of his dear weeping over her lost love. Oh, yes. He knew. Only a fool would assume otherwise. There was little he was oblivious to when it came to that Skye. She’d shown signs throughout their office days, and Damon hardly reacted. Little did that poor, sad, justice searcher realise that owning that woman would be all his life boiled down to.
Dying’s too good for Jake Marshall. Too easy. Too safe.
The clutches of death wring their way around the cowboy’s neck, just touching his skin, turning him a wonderful shade of grey. Fingertips of the next life go to hold him close, take him to the light on the other side- when Gant slams him back to reality.
The scarf, and subsequently, Jake’s head, is pulled down, and then released. Marching ever so happily, as if nothing were abnormal, this was just a natural procedure, sir, no need for alarm, the old man makes his way to the exit, smirking like a smug snake.]
I do hope you’ve learned something today. If not.. Oh. Hoh ho.
[He growls from the corner of his mouth, not even gifting Marshall with a last glance.
No, death would be too simple. He needs to be punished. And what better consequence than living a full, happy, and joyful life- with the bitter, consuming threat of Damon Gant around every corner, lurking in the shadows cast from the purest of lights, always that stranger in a crowd, that unfamiliar voice. Death would mean it ends.
This would mean torture.]
..You’re always welcome for another lesson. Friend.
[Jake cries out with each punishing blow to his stomach, accidentally biting his tongue during the relentless assault. When it’s over, he lay curled in a ball, body shaking, and blood leaking out of the corner of his mouth. He spits a wad of it onto the floor, and pants softly.
He glances up at Gant, the fear obvious in his dark eyes. He tries to scowl, to shoot Gant a glare that says ‘You have no power here’ but the expression does not come to him. He can’t deny it. He’s afraid.]
[Swooping down, Gant repeats the patronising kneel to finish his victim, and be close enough to see the light drain out of his eyes. ..The look in those poor, pitiful eyes is absolutely beautiful. Even more so is the fact he can still cause such absolute fear in the most determined and persistent foes. A rough hand goes to smooth over Jake’s hair and then down, fingers curling slightly around his neck.]
Oh, you’re much more tolerable like this, old friend. Hah. Don’t look so disheartened. [He reaches the scarf, pebble-dashed with blood, that hangs around the others neck.] I’ll take care of you as much as I did her.
[The mask on Gant’s calm tone cracks slightly, and it’s not long at all before his cover shatters completely. His hand latches onto the knot of the red fabric that hangs like a noose around the cowboy’s neck, and that’s entirely the idea in the Ex-Cheif’s mind. He yanks it back and up, slamming the fabric right into the skin on Marshall’s neck, digging in as he raises the other end higher and higher, laughing as he does so.]
[Jake listens quietly, keeping his boot firmly planted on Gant’s face. The words seem to echo in his head over and over again while he tries to process them. Lana…what had he done to Lana?! Hadn’t he already done enough?!
He scowls, pressing his foot harder against Gant. Jake is not still being manipulated. He knows that much; he’s sure of it, one hundred percent. It’s a lie if he ever heard one…therefore everything must be a lie, ri—]
[He lets out an anguished cry and falls to the floor, curling up into a ball to protect his injured goods. He coughs, sealing his eyes tight. He groans. Not good. Not good at all.]
[A whispered laugh, the mere ghost of his usual, falls from Damon’s mouth as he attempts to pick himself up. This old body of his isn’t working with him here, and he’s already beginning to feel lightheaded. Not that a mere health issue will deter him from his poncho wearing target. He’s suffered through much worse bringing in other pieces of scum, so it’d hardly be different for this one.
Once he’s on his feet, his proud, pompous walk fairly cemented again, the older man paces happily around Jake, with even a little skip daring to make an appearance. The light, bubbly, cheerful demeanor unnervingly continues as he stands facing the poor cowboy right where his hands curl in, and now, so does a large, leather boot. Gant kicks excruciatingly hard into Marshall’s stomach, giving himself a little of the backlash too as he emphasises his words with another boot to the writhing man’s body.]
Learn- Your- Place- Boy-! [He spits. After a second pause he leans teasingly over, his hands clasping behind his back in the regular jolly gesture, his smile curling up to his ears.]
Hah ha. [Sharp eyes flicker over Jake’s body. There’s something very appealing seeing such a pest in his side looks so utterly.. helpless.] Mm. Yes. This one will do just fine. Keep this up and I’m sure we can get along just fine.
Momentarily stunned, Lana opens her eyes just in time to watch Gant stomp away from her. She’s in no condition to move, and when she puts a hand to her head, it comes away bloody. Her teeth grit in anger, and Lana does her best to scoot backward (in a very undignified and unladylike fashion) on her rear to put some more distance between them. The prosecutor is just about to regain her footing when he whips around and unleashes his wrath upon her.
Unrestrained, Gant looks like a mad dog, snarling and uncontrollable, a beast with glowing eyes. She has only ever seen him like this—in this state of totally inhuman rage—once before, and anyone could tell that she’s afraid. Lana Skye, afraid and useless, just as he says she is.
The will to answer him back is strong, but she says nothing. She’s lost the fight, and it will be easier to come quietly.
[Hot, hard, rugged breaths pound out from the beast, his eyes ablaze, his nostrils flared, his head dripped just below the line of his shoulder, really extenuating the fact they’re moving up and down extremely, caused by the heavy breathing. There’s a growl in his throat as he attempts to calm down, a protest from his body. No, you need to do this. There’s no going back. Punish her. Make her pay.
Gant prowls towards the throwaway ragdoll. The silence makes the room feel so dense, so thick that it’s pushing them apart, and he has to tear his way through the atmosphere to reach her. As he stomps, there is the familiar noise of gloves snapping. He adjusts them first, before yanking them off all together, shoving them into his pockets. Damon cracks his knuckles, his eyes constantly staring right at his target, unwavering, unfaltering, almost impossibly considering the state of control (or lack of) he appeared in only a few moments ago.
Oh, if only he was finished. If only. She might have been spared.]
…Laaaanaaa. [The crazed Ex-Chief sings, his voice deep and dark, occasionally cracking as fury twists its way through its hastily slammed down lid.] Oh, Laanaaa.
Let me hear you speak, my sweet, sweet angel. My perfect little doll. My one.. and only..
(( Maybe he could remember the day and be somewhat joyous about it, at the same time being a reminder of why he hated the ones part of SL-9 since it was his downfall? And the last tag thank you for the image AFHSKSKLDS ))
((Oh, he’s completely joyous. Hey, everyone he hates are sad why wouldn’t he be.
But, don’t worry, Gant will not be missed out by the angst wave. I will not let him.
[Jake hesitates for a moment. It’s probably more than enough to give himself away, and he knows it. The doubt that crosses his face lasts for half a second at most, but it feels like hours before he can regain his composure. Nothing Gant had said had mattered to him at first; Jake new, deep down, that he was a filthy liar and he always would be. Neil died unconscious. Neil never had a chance. Jake knew that. He knew Neil. Neil wouldn’t have gone down without a fight. He wouldn’t have gone down at all.
Then Gant brought Lana into the equation. That changed everything.
It’s no real secret that Jake still carries a torch for his ex. Despite the coldness, and how much she probably hates him after everything that’s happened between them, he still cares deeply about her…probably too deeply. Nothing else seemed to matter as long as she was happy. He always felt that way, ever since they got together all those years ago. Then SL-9 happened. She pushed him away, and Jake didn’t know what to do. His life seemed to crumble around him; he was demoted, Angel was fired…but most importantly, he lost Lana. Jake got bitter. He started drinking a lot, more than ever. He couldn’t bear to be alone at times, bringing home anybody who was willing to follow him, fucking the brains out of anyone who extended the offer, drinking himself into unconsciousness every time it rained. He hated the rain. There were nights, even now, when he couldn’t handle a thunderstorm on his own. But he’d been on his own for years now. That was just how it was meant to be, he supposed.
Jake steels himself, pressing his boot harder against Gant’s face, to turn him away. He doesn’t want to lock eyes with him. He doesn’t want to hear anything he has to say about Lana. It’s a lie, all of it’s a lie. Lana would never trust Gant; she had once. She was too smart to make the same mistake twice.
But still…in spite of this…he couldn’t stop himself.]
…What’re you on about? Lana don’t trust you. She don’t hardly trust nobody no more.
[Damon gives a grunt of pain as he is pushed back further, and he can hear his ancient bones click in his neck and feel the skin pull absolutely taught- hardly putting him in a position to speak with great ease. However, the upper hand is still his for the taking as, even if he now has a wonderful view of the ceiling, he can hear the doubt in Jake’s voice. The second guessing which acts as an entry point for Gant’s words to snake their way in.]
Tut tut. You really believe my grasp on her would loosen so quickly? ..Don’t underestimate me, boy. Look at you. Look at yourself right now. You’re dancing, just for me, I still know everything that makes you tick.
You- Nngh-! [A shot of pain makes his head swim, but he forces himself to relax, and compose. He can’t afford to drop out now.] You really believe I’d forget about her?
Hah. Why? Defensive are we? [A smile curls at the corner of his lips.] Don’t worry, she’s.. entirely safe in my hands.
[A pause. A tongue flicks across dry lips once more.] You.. however?
[Pulling together all strength he has, Gant tilts his head, causing another jolt of pain through his neck and chin as the boot digs deeper into his skin, so he can just see his target.] ..Are not so lucky.
[The moment seems to fall into slow-motion, Damon yelling out, his arms- first strewn out on the ground- now coiling up, his fist, ramming once again into the crouched cowboy’s body. Except now.. he aims a little lower. The area closest in his range. Right in the crown jewels.]
All I can see, all over the ah- ‘Dashboard’, that’s the correct term, yes? All over the ‘Dashboard’ are my dear Ex-Colleagues slumping around as if each has a little black thundercloud hanging over their head! Quite the upsetting sight..
Lana glares daggers at him, willing him with every fiber of her existence to get away; she looks almost vicious, spitting the words out with deliberately precise diction.
Not to you or to anyone else—!
Gant expertly dips her, making her ten times more vulnerable than before. His face is kiss-close with those deadly eyes boring into her and that wide, toothy grin closing in. His hands on her back aren’t supportive at all—they’re possessive and unforgiving and she wants him to let go. Her head tilts to the side as she tries to figure out an escape route; no dice. Ignoring what he says seems to be her best option, though that plan backfires when he suddenly drops her.
There’s no time to react. Lana falls to the ground, striking her head on the stone.
Ha! [Gant throws his head back, his smile twisting across his features in an instant. With loud, echoing stomps he steps away from the broken doll on the ground, like a child who simply doesn’t want to play this game anymore.] And still, after all of this.. you cling, nails dug, into hope? Into independence and justice?
[By now, he’s walked quite a distance away from his mangled prey, empty chuckles dropping from his lips in between words as his head drops down, shaking side to side, his amusement evident.] Into the faint belief that this fairy tale will end with you, safe, strong, leaning on no-one, thoughts coming from your own mind?
[With a dramatic swoop he turns to face her, and that’s it. The strap on his anger unbuckles and his fury is free. How dare she? He was her controller, always had been, always will be. No matter how many layers of the jolly old man there were, she’d break through them eventually. She always did. The real Damon Gant surfaces, with blazing eyes and a foaming mouth. He shouts at Lana, yells at her so loud it ricochets off the walls and bounces around the room, his words targeted right at her heart.
It’s an exaggerated therapy for making oneself believe something.]
You are nothing. Do you hear me, Lana Skye? NOTHING!
Without me, you are a failure! You can’t do a thing without my guidance! Why do you believe we always end up like this? It’s not fate, Detective! It’s because you need me. You are returning to your OWNER!
Listen to Benedetto Marcello’s Psalm XIX on the renovated pipe organ at Gesu Church. Gesu’s historic pipe organ shakes the pews with 6,804 pipes, towering as high as 32 feet. This performance was recorded on Nov. 21, 2011 as part of Gesu’s “Practical Daydreams: The Pipe Organ at Play” (2 minute and 45 seconds).
[Jake growls as Gant whispers what he knows are bold-faced lies in his ear, letting him go if only to catch his breath for a moment. He still won’t believe it. Gant was a liar and a trickster, and he knew that. Neil was a good man! He fought for justice, and truth! He would never have sold his brother out, or anyone, for his own life. He was too proud, if nothing else.
He can feel a mite of strength return to him, perhaps fueled by rage, and with an angry cry, lets his fist fly into Gant’s jaw. He tears himself away, falling back to the floor, and swiftly kicks the knife out of Gant’s hand. His body shakes with fear and anger as he gets to his feet. His legs are steadier than they were a moment ago, but the dull throb in his stomach has yet to go away.]
Bullshit! All of it’s bullshit and you know it just as good as I do you son of a bitch!
[He kicks Gant onto his back and marches over, pressing the heel of his boot into the larger man’s jaw, forcing his head back. He kneels down, eyes alight with fury.]
And if I ever hear y’all speakin’ shit about my brother again so help me God my boot in yer face’ll be the least a yer fuckin’ problems!
[All Gant does.. is laugh. Laugh until his throat is sore, until he’s wheezing on the ground, hot tears in his eyes, booming with the cheerful sound. Oh, how he’s missed some action. Here he was, years later from “that event” and he still had which buttons to push on each and every one of those pitiful people completely memorised. His body isn’t agreeing with the hearty action, pain shooting like electricity through his worn muscles and ancient bones.
The sudden attack surprises him, yes, the loud cry he gives as Jake punches him, the groan as he attempts to pick himself up, the desperate motions with his hands as the knife is kicked away, clutching at air as part of his arm is torn away, confirm that with no question. But, soon, he’s back on his horse, and the minute the hefty task of flipping him over is performed, all signs of anguish on his features dispersers, like a switch being flicked to turn anything human off. Damon’s face is again one of a man who is convinced he’s won, and will always win. Even if they’re being crushed into the ground.]
Is.. it, Jake? [The Ex-Chief matches the intensity of the other’s stare and, even though his neck is now being strained to its limit, he still finds the strength to fight a little against the pressure for a moment, and locks eyes with the cowboy.] You can do.. all you like to me, little boy.
[He licks his lips.] But you’ll never.. know. Never know if I’m lying.. or not. Ha- Why don’t you trust me?
[The atmosphere darkens, as does Gant’s entire demeanor, his smile dropping, his eyes clouding over with malice, his words dripping in poison.] Lana does.
They’ve reached an impasse, and the two of them know that one of them will be the victor. What’s worse is that they both know who will win, and that no matter how hard the other will fight, there is nothing they can do to change fate.
Ah, she’d come close, but what are little victories against the scale of the entire war? Lana had never stood a chance; whenever she’d held power, or at least the illusion of it, it had all crumbled down before her. She certainly couldn’t take his life; life was precious, no matter how despicable the person who’d led it. And she’d gleaned too much from him beforehand about his past and what made him the way he was—not that any of what he’d said was acceptable or forgivable, of course.
Before she has a chance to react, Gant’s lips glide along the back of her hand.
Don’t touch me! I’m not yours to kiss. Not any more.
[With a hand still keeping her- pushing her close, Gant can just about feel Lana’s heartbeat raise and thrum through her body, as it now does his. His chest feels rather hollow, despite his confident appearance, and the beat of the blood pumping through her veins almost fools him into thinking he’s some what alive. That he’s not a walking, talking, hollowed out shell of the man he used to be. That he’s more than just a mere heap of bones and flesh with only the remnants of the past holding him it all together.]
Is that so? [He growls, anger quietly bubbling up under his words.] And, pray tell, who’s are you? Who do you belong to now?
[In one smooth move, giving little time for his Ex-Partner to answer, Damon dips her, his hands quickly returning to hold her back, his feet taking a perfect supporting stance, as if the two were merely lovers dancing, or a couple newly wed. The proximity of their faces stays fairly close, and the old man flashes quite the grin at his prey before continuing;]
Who could possibly give a damn about pathetic little Lana Skye? [He chuckles.] Well, whoever they are, my dear, I do hope they support you as well as I could. Give you all you need. Catch you when you fall-
[And on that word, Gant completely lets go of her back, letting her drop to the stone floor.]