[ freed from the pressure of that boot, mercy sniffs and draws herself up to a seated position, legs curled primly beneath her in an attempt at dignity. the laughter punctures some of that anger and tension stewing between them, like a popped balloon now shrieking as it deflates. it gives her space to consider the matter of clothing — she could construct something out of viscera, she's an excellent flesh magician — but that would be far too hideous and messy. (meat dresses! ugh!) best just to leave it as is, for now.

so she just sits there, naked and huffy and waiting out hades' laughter, like someone who isn't in on the joke. her mouth still tastes bitter with defeat, with the knowledge that even centuries of planning and preparation had not been enough to do in john gaius. she wonders, vaguely, if augustine is going to come tumbling down that inverted waterfall next. if so, she hopes he hits some rocks on the way down. ]

Yes, all of that is correct, [ she says tightly, during a brief break in the other woman's hysterical wheezing laughter. her mouth is pursed and pressed thin, all her pointed expression as stern and severe as a teacher frowning at a student gone too-loud and disruptive. (she doesn't realise yet, of course, that this is a goddess and the goddess is so many more myriads older than her.) she repeats her question once the gasping dies down, stubborn as only the saint of joy can be: ]

Honestly. Who are you? I don't recognise you, and you don't feel human, but you don't feel like a Lyctor either.