Winter's still climbing to her feet, computing what Armani's said only once she's looked the remaining tendril dead on.

"Ah, fuckin' jeez," she grumbles, pulling her shoulderbag clutch off her arm and handing it to Armani. "Hold this. Thanks, lovely."

She's not sure if vines have emotion, but she figures every little bit helps. So, when she takes two great leaping steps forward, clearing the pile of boys on the ground and brushing neatly past Aristotle, it's with a loud warrior yell.

Winter runs full tilt into that last dangling vine. Grabs it, wraps it around her wrist and runs.

Just runs.

Keeps running, until the vine is taut. Until one or both of them are stopped.