[ The boot presses against her chest, just enough pressure to pin her like a butterfly to a board. She's still naked, because her Canaanite robe is somewhere back on the Mithraeum (and unbeknownst to her, John is wrapping himself in it right about now), but Mercy doesn't seem fazed. She should feel horrifically vulnerable now, probably, but she doesn't seem to care. The body is simply a tool, an implement, and hers already snapped like a pickaxe breaking against unyielding rock. ]
Technically, I cannot be drowned.
[ It's not growing gills, but she can oxygenate her own bloodcells and bypass the whole tedious matter of lungs and throat and breathing. The main issue is controlling the panic when you're being drowned. But this woman — whoever she is — is not a Revenant Beast, and so Mercy remains in tight cool control of her sanity and faculties. She stares unflinching up at her from the ground, her own hand seized on the black boot, hanging onto it even if she has no hope of flinging the other woman off from here. She considers touching bare flesh and trying her luck a second time, but the jeans cover too much skin. Perhaps she can reach for an ankle—
Then, the question slips its way past Mercy's default stubborn recalcitrant unhelpfulness, and pings something. 'Your whole shitty religion' would have made Cristabel have a conniption, and Mercy cherishes that sense of faded echoed affront. Cristabel only lives on in Mercymorn's memories of her.
But the Saint of Joy herself is something of a heretic these days. So: ]
Wait, nearly put an end to religion? [ Gears turning. If this is BOE (but she knows it isn't), she could be honest. If this were a civilian (but that doesn't fit either), she probably shouldn't mention what she did. She can't sense thanergy or thalergy pulsing off this being, like the denim-and-leather-clad punk is a complete untappable dead zone — is this some kind of long-lost Super Lyctor or Alecto's cousin or something, fuck's sake, she wouldn't be surprised, John has already lied about so much, so maybe he shunted this stranger through the stoma long ago—
But. Fuck it. ]
Well. I mean. That was me. I tried to kill God. It didn't stick.
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Technically, I cannot be drowned.
[ It's not growing gills, but she can oxygenate her own bloodcells and bypass the whole tedious matter of lungs and throat and breathing. The main issue is controlling the panic when you're being drowned. But this woman — whoever she is — is not a Revenant Beast, and so Mercy remains in tight cool control of her sanity and faculties. She stares unflinching up at her from the ground, her own hand seized on the black boot, hanging onto it even if she has no hope of flinging the other woman off from here. She considers touching bare flesh and trying her luck a second time, but the jeans cover too much skin. Perhaps she can reach for an ankle—
Then, the question slips its way past Mercy's default stubborn recalcitrant unhelpfulness, and pings something. 'Your whole shitty religion' would have made Cristabel have a conniption, and Mercy cherishes that sense of faded echoed affront. Cristabel only lives on in Mercymorn's memories of her.
But the Saint of Joy herself is something of a heretic these days. So: ]
Wait, nearly put an end to religion? [ Gears turning. If this is BOE (but she knows it isn't), she could be honest. If this were a civilian (but that doesn't fit either), she probably shouldn't mention what she did. She can't sense thanergy or thalergy pulsing off this being, like the denim-and-leather-clad punk is a complete untappable dead zone — is this some kind of long-lost Super Lyctor or Alecto's cousin or something, fuck's sake, she wouldn't be surprised, John has already lied about so much, so maybe he shunted this stranger through the stoma long ago—
But. Fuck it. ]
Well. I mean. That was me. I tried to kill God. It didn't stick.