She let her eye close. She didn't know why she always did; it just felt right.

Then, just like always, that smear. Like someone fingerpainting onto a black canvas with a paint that was also black, but so much more. That moment of [i]splitting—[/i]

And there she was. She looked down. Dahlia was a tiny matchstick beneath her, barely coming up to her ankles. Life really was easier with only one eye, wasn't it?

She shook her mammoth head. No. No time for that. She tried to remember what her sister had told her on the way down. They knew what to do with them, and so should she? She tried to remember how she'd seen it happen in recordings or in—[i]no[/i]. In recordings [i]only[/i]. They'd reached out their hand, just like this—

Nothing happened.

What hadn't she done right?

She tried again, this time concentrating on it. Focusing on pulling out whatever weapon she'd get. And still, nothing. She groaned, and the Savior's voice—like gravel and boulders—echoed over the empty space. There was something she wasn't doing that she needed to. The press of time crushed down on her, and she tried again. The attempt was equally as fruitless. She resisted the urge to reach up and rub her finger over her eye. Last time she'd done that she'd punched a hole in it with the claw, and as much as she appreciated the eyepatch, being blind was not as fun.

Don't think too hard.

She took a deep breath and tried to stop [i]thinking[/i] so much. Let her thoughts go quiet, and just for a moment, let the Savior's thoughts breathe too.

Then slowly—a certainty in her movements that hadn't been there before—she reached out and closed her hand again. And this time it [i]caught.[/i]

It felt like...like pulling a sheet. A huge sheet. Dragging it backwards, bending it towards her. And as she pulled, it [i]stretched.[/i] She knew instinctively that it was about to break.

Then the space bunched up between her fist [i]tore[/i], and she ripped out a massive object. Blunt, rectangular. As long as she was tall, or maybe even longer. She hefted it in front of her, marveling at its lightness—

In her ear, she heard a horrified choking gasp from Dahlia.

And then she looked at it.

It didn't make any sense. The weapon was supposed to be [i]her[/i]. It wasn't—it was supposed to come from [i]her[/i] and not the Savior, right? So then why was what rested in her hands a [i]very familiar cannon?[/i]

Her eye slammed shut, a black membrane falling for a moment in front of the red orb in her face. She felt her breaths seething through her body, faster and faster. The [i]fire[/i] all around her the SUN looming in front of her she was RUNNING she needed to RUN—

[i]NO. STOP.[/i]

She could [i]not[/i] panic. Panicking was a luxury, and she didn't have any time for luxuries.

So instead, she gritted her teeth and opened her eye again. There it was, a great block of modium running with burning white lines. And where was—there, there was the trigger. She hefted it onto her shoulder, and a part of her screamed. She hated this. So why did it feel so [i]natural[/i] as she pointed it downrange?

[i]Click.[/i]

A moment later the cannon kicked against her, and a searing, blazing ball of smokeless white flame raced away from her. And where it struck on the lakebed, there was a [i]thoom[/i] that echoed for miles. When the dust cleared, a crater fifty feet across—at [i]least[/i]—was carved into the hard-packed, sun-baked dirt.

Another [i]click,[/i] and another shot seared its way through the sky. She closed her eye again, but her voice over the comms displayed only a grim acceptance. 

"[color=FFE63D]It'll do.[/color]"