Amethyst groans, tentacles wriggling in discomfort against the cannon.

"Yeah, I'm fine, I got this–" She squirms in place, trying to get the room and angle she needs to push the timbers up from the cannon.

The cannon, however, having been moved one vital inch from the place it's been sitting for the last few hundred years or something, is not a stable base to push from. It might have been encrusted to the floor before, but now it's free, when Amethyst pushes, to skid out from under her, in Peridot's direction.