Whatever the terror in the sky was, it's over. Joy watches as the swirling circles of void black unspin themselves from their patterns and the spires of smoke collapse into grey sand. The air still stings with the stench of fires, orange glows blurring up into the night from the skyline.
But she's alive. She of all people, a random, ordinary photographer, survived the end of the world. She stumbles down the street, people passing her in panic all around. Ruins, fires, bodies. Less bodies than it could have been, though - thanks to her. Thanks to all of them.
She finds them both at once. Cutter is hanging around two police officers, themselves dazed, and explains something to them while gesturing widely. The high-vis jacket she's lent him is singed and there's blood on his face somehow, but when he spots her, he grins and waves like nothing today went strangely at all.
And Elaine is the only person who doesn't look out of place here at all. Among the smoke, stepping over crumbled debris, her katana catching glints of flame on its bare steel. Her hair is wild, her clothes stained with monster blood. She looks like a hero.
They meet halfway and Elaine speaks first: "I got seven of them," she pants. "Then they just… disappeared. When the sky went dark, they were just gone. Did the building hold?"
"Not for long," Joy answers. That was the task she took, saving the people trapped in a damaged block of flats. As if she's some bloody superhero, not a random urbex fan. "But everyone got out in time."
"Same at the school," Cutter calls out, approaching. "Evacuation speedrun, hundred percent complete."
Joy can't help a laugh at that as it hits her that yes, they have done it. Somehow, some insane way, they've saved people. And they survived, through this eldritch catastrophe that she couldn't even begin to understand. She's exhausted, she aches all over, she can barely stand straight, but her heart feels light. She no longer smells the smoke, doesn't mind the ruins; all she can think of is her friends and her, alive and well at the end of the goddamn world.
So she doesn't notice the gunshot.
She doesn't register the rush of air by her head until it's gone and the sound only reaches her when a different one layers over its echo. A gasp.
She turns just in time to see Cutter collapse and things happen all at once. Elaine spins, her sword flashes; somebody screams suddenly. Joy's limbs move on their own, her legs take her right to Cutter's side and her hands scan over him; she doesn't need long to find the wound. The bullet went into his side, right below the ribcage. Blood now stiffens the fabric of the high-vis, stains his hand that clings onto it instinctively. His eyes are wide, turned up into the sky as he fights for short, stuttering breaths. The sound of them drowns out everything else; Joy can barely hear Elaine shout behind her: "Why the hells did you do that?! Answer me!"
"Elaine!"
She turns at her shout and the fury on her face freezes. It shows the fuel of fear.
"Go get help," Joy says. "Run!"
Elaine takes off without a word, sprinting. There's paramedics everywhere, she won't be long, surely. Still, Joy tears the scarf off of her neck and folds it; then she presses it into the wound on Cutter's side. He groans at that, a sound that could have been a cry if he'd have more strength.
"Sorry," she mutters. Blood immediately soaks through the fabric onto her fingers. "Help's coming."
He coughs, grimacing at the motion. An unhealthy pallor has already fallen over his face and his hand, no longer having to hold pressure, slowly goes limp at his side. His mouth moves, as if trying to respond, but all he can manage are wordless, keening sounds of pain.
Joy feels warmth on her fingers. The fabric of her scarf is stiff now, it seeps crimson under the pressure. This time it's her conscious decision to tune out everything around her: the shouting of officers struggling with the shooter, the heavy copper smell in the air. She focuses, fully, on recalling. If the casualty is bleeding, pressure has to be applied. Use a towel or piece of clothing. If none are available, use casualty's own weight; this may be the best solution in some cases.
She hopes this is one of those. She grabs Cutter's hand and guides it back to the wound. "Hold it," she instructs. "I'm going to turn you over."
A questioning look passes over his face but he obeys. He watches Joy in unsteady silence as she circles him; lets her arrange his limbs into the first steps of the recovery position. Then, as gently as she can, she turns him onto the injured side. A long, agonized groan escapes him on the forced exhale, Joy feels him shudder under her hands. Somewhere under the layers of her focus, she feels nauseated.
"I'm sorry," she repeats quietly. "But this should slow the bleeding. Someone will be here soon, Elaine ran to get help."
It's the most absurd and yet the least surprising thing when Cutter's lips twitch into the tiniest, almost imperceptible smile. On shaky breaths, his voice comes as a whisper: "I know."
"Don't talk," Joy says, but still she leans in to listen.
"It… It will be fine." His eyes, wide open, are dull now. Slowly, the shivering subsides. "I know… you won't let me die."
Joy turns her head away. There's movement down the street, a glint of steel catches her eye. She feels nothing. Not yet. She keeps her hand on Cutter's shoulder until the paramedics reach them and unceremoniously push her away.
It’s hard to tell why everyone is so different from how he remembers. It’s hard to tell why he’s the same, even though he’s not. It’s hard to know anything right now. The kind of rude madness that seems to have taken over everyone is like some kind of... infection. Maybe it is, he thinks, a bit worried. He hopes it’s not, but if it’s so wide spread...
