Goa climbs along and settles down, prone along a glittering branch in the intertwined trees -- so thin, but refreshing they could take his weight -- taking in the bird's-eye view. Try as he might to shake it, it was familiar to him, just enough that it didn't trigger the bad. Trees were elevated. Trees were havens. And he could be on patrol without moving, couldn't he? Just then they called it guarding. Goa's optic lids flop half-closed, followed by the limp clack of his accompanying antennae. "I'm always down."