She does writhe, a mindless, aching series of spasms, her heels churning in the sticky mess she's collapsed into. The sizzling char of her torso seals over shut, the clean expanse of her bare skin soon spattered in cast off splotches of blood. Her lungs heave, new alveoli popping open in a tumbling suck of air, and her eyes slam wide with them.

Mercy stares up at the pitiless black of God's gaze, and the moment stretches out like saltwater taffy. She blinks with clotted lashes, her brow furrowing in the lightest tracery of bewilderment. She looks at him like she should know him, and does not.

Cristabel dives to the crook of John's neck, little hooked tarsi clinging to his collar, and she hides herself there in a wilt of folded wings and quivering antennae.

Mercy, she whispers.

"No," Mercy says, dreamily, "No...I don't think so, John."