Imogen, who continues to run on adrenaline and spite despite increasing fatigue of physical and existential varieties, accepts the cricket bat into her fist without much comment. She's double wielding now, her wand and this new blunt-force weapon.

"Trust," She murmurs in assurance, prodding at the red paint can with the toe of her boot. "But maybe it won't."

It probably will.

After all: the weird rush, the spiking heat. That didn't feel particularly good.