( This way. That way. Stomp-stomp-thud. Trust Kanda, wading through waters like God's first homicidal duck, to dig deep and fish out... dregs. Debris. Trinkets that break apart in his heads, rot overwhelming.

It's still singing, shrill. He doesn't want to do this. Really, truly, overwhelmingly — rolls his eyes. )

...we'll have to dive for it.

( They. Collectively. Because that thing's buried somewhere, and the waters are thick and cold and gross, but needs must. )