[Well, they are both somewhat into the bottle, and while McGillis might be at something of a disadvantage -- everyone in this dungeon is either off-kilter or just off the beaten path by now; the script is slowly rolling to a close, though the best-laid plans of mice and ham-men and caporegimes have still yet to see an expected conclusion of any kind.

Maybe one of them will get their wish; maybe one of them will make it all the way through this without stumbling; maybe just for now they can both just stop on the path a moment and indulge without bothering with any of that.

Jack laughs again into his glass, takes a long swig and then rests it on the seat. Even with the weighty topic he doesn't hold quite still, legs kicking slowly in the air on the other side.]

I don't even know if I can claim to have come back, or if I can claim I know what it means to die. Perhaps I have done it a dozen times, or none. Perhaps I have managed something beyond dying? Whatever it is, it hurts a great deal, I think, and is something like the feeling of all of the ice and all of the darkness in the world -- large! -- taking your soul in great big claws and crushing.

[That doesn't sound quite right, even for the strangest types of deaths they've seen (Lucifer's comes to mind), but whether he's truly inebriated or on the way there (or not), Jack's descriptions are always a little odd at these times. There's something oddly casual about it, to the point where it's hard to tell how serious he is.]

... Hmmm. Whatever happens here, it will be new. But I think it won't be too terrible.

[They know, more or less, how the execution is to go, after all.]