[size=9pt]The way he'd felt lately wasn't anything he could be poetic about. Sure, he could describe the drag of his paws or the weight on his shoulders that wasnt even fucking there - he'd checked, okay - but there was no way he could go into the nitty-gritty of how he felt like he was drowning in the relentless waves of life, or some bullshit like that. All he knew is he felt-- not good. Not great. Could be better.

Why had Gabe even called him out here, anyway? Did he really think they were gonna' find some leads for whatever the fuck was going on? It'd been two days; even the goddamn blood was washed away from the grass. What did he think he was gonna' find? What did he think he was gonna' get out from this, other than the sickly feeling that came with standing over the spot where someone - someone they knew, someone they cared about, someone who shouldn't of fucking died - shuddered their way out of this world and into whatever hell came afterwards?

He'd let him have this, though. Maybe he needed this - to know he'd done something, that he'd tried to get justice for the kid who'd bled out on this exact spot - and God knows Moon didn't have the right to deny him that. So he came, and he sat, under the grey of the sky that shifted restlessly, threw monochrome light on the grass before him that'd been doused in crimson, not so long ago- and waited.

[size=9pt]One minute he's standing on the ground, staring into the muddy mess of it, undoubtedly thinking some horrible shit, and the next he's colliding with that same ground, getting the air knocked out of his lungs in one quick blow. His head snaps back and smashes against the dirt. It feels solid, now. Not nearly as malleable as when they'd dug Lazarus' grave.

It's a pretty fucking monstrous thing he's staring up at. Massive, gaping jaws - multiple of them - and too many eyes for Moon to count. It's hulking and it's grotesque-- and it doesn't scare him. A second passes where he stares at the crimson that stains its teeth, and then another, and the fear doesn't come. He doesn't know why, but he doesn't really have it in that moment to psychoanalyze himself. Instead, he fights to settle the thunder of his heart that's kicked up despite himself, and rasps, "That's the best you can come up with?" The deformed lion's claws dig into his shoulders, and even though he can feel the sheer power and knows there's nothing he can do to get out of this, he squirms anyway. "Gabe." He calls, once his brain remembers that, oh, yes-- he's waiting for someone. Someone who's got a whole lot more fighting ability than him. Someone with wings enough to literally swoop in and save his ass. His fittingly named guardian angel. "Gabe!" He calls, again, slightly more desperate, and tries not to breath in the scent of flesh on this thing's breath, tries not to feed the doubt that's starting to replace his hopes of rescue. He'll be here soon. "Any time now, Feathers!"