[ yeah, it works. it's these little things that further drive home the reminder that john is not a fighter. he's not down on the front lines because he's the guy in the chair. if gen was telegraphing this, how was he supposed to know? stupid.

as far as his ego is concerned — this stings like hell.

for a few moments, it probably seems like it worked as dirt fills in the grave. time enough to breathe, at least, before a sharp length of bone breaks the surface. several others push their way up next to it — spindly arachnid legs churning up the soil as he frees himself. ]

The grave was a nice touch, I'll give you that. [ his eyes look especially horrible when he's covered in dirt and part-bone spider. ] Are you done? This shirt was already ruined, but now I've had to put holes in it.

[ ... because the legs seem to be emerging from his back, possibly because he made them using his ribs. even so, it doesn't seem to cause him any discomfort to support himself on the eight spider's legs. six are plenty to walk on while the two topmost legs curve forward menacingly.

sure, he could use his same tricks as before to pin gen down, but at this point, it would be too easy. instead, he rushes forward, out for blood this time. the ends of the legs are tipped in long bone spikes, which he now aims at gen as he stabs at him, waiting for him to make the wrong move. john's aim is unpredictable, mostly because he's treating this like a game. ]

You're making me have to get creative. [ a sigh. ] You've blown right past brave and circled back to suicidal.

[ not that he intends to kill gen; death is sort of pointless when it's not permanent, and it just makes the Tree sad, but it's better when everyone assumes it's still on the table. ]