It's not the fall that kills you, it's the sudden stop.

When the Frenzy comes up against Lance, it's... describing it is so hard when you're under it. But that's only because you're under it. Imagine walking alone at night, when strong hands grab you and pin you up against a wall and roll back your sleeves. There's a moment of panicked but futile resistance as you realize what's happening and then the skin on your arm breaks as the needle punctures it and then it's like you're shooting up an angel that's just learned what falling means and doesn't care because it just wants more.

The hands melt away as the angel surges through you and the burns don't feel like burns anymore, but the hot breath of a lover on your hands, your arms and chest. It surges through your lips like your first kiss, all trembly and urgent with need and it feels like heroin and honey are sliding down your throat. You're choking on it and it's so god damn erotic as it gets into your lungs and crawls through your nose and up into your brain and then there's the feathery sensation of something trailing kisses down your naked body before everything is lost in a morphine haze, leaving you floating within your mind, witness to whatever it is that the lost angel needs, poised on the edge of release for as long as the thing can keep itself in control, keep you swaddled in silk and lethe as it flees from what brought it up out of your depths.

But then it ends and it's like being shoved through twelve days of detox all in one second of excruciating and almost unbearable agony that drives your dead breath out of you. All the pain comes back and you've been denied the release you wanted so very badly just a moment ago and you're lost in an alley in a part of the City that you haven't been in before, your leather jacket burned into so much slag and your hair, your precious hair scorched away.

And damn it you think you'll do almost anything to feel like that again, just for another moment.