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He couldn't breathe.

Cold air quivered through shattered ribs and punctured lungs, wet and mangled as the mayhem erupted above and below.

He didn't want to die.

Broken fingers groped blindly over the weapon strapped to a contorted wrist, a distant voice echoing unintelligibly in the back of his mind. He was road kill. He was a smear. A pancake. This was how Cecil Moore was going to die.

No, insisted the voice, small, panicked, Just up there- lift your arm, we can do it, quickly!

Another shuttering, gurgling breath, and he concentrated every pained movement into the direction.

He couldn't breath and he didn't want to die.

The metal tongue of the frog-like contraption strapped to his arm shot out- he couldn't see where, his glasses were long shattered to sand by the onslaught of gravity crushing him and the other fallen hunters all around him. They had lost. He had to escape. Codex had a plan and he had to trust his weapon. He felt the end of the metal line plant firmly into brick, and fought to keep consciousness as the weapon recoiled, dragging him forward to the edge of the building... perhaps it was good he couldn't see, as the little man was sent flying limp through the air like a concussed Spiderman, only to land heavily on something cold and metal, bouncing and rolling until he could cling for dear life and pray. The weapon released it's hold, and the world spun. It was the last of his energy.

Not here, not now, not with so many things left unread, unwritten... the world went dark.



There was a rattling, metal noise. Cecil slowly became aware of the fact that someone was rifling through his pockets.

He groaned. He didn't know how long had passed, but the feeling of someone- or something- touching him sent panic and adrenalin through his system on a wave of pain. His weapon scraped across the ground as he tried to aim it, but couldn't lift his arm, "Sss...st... n-no..." He mumbled through his swollen jaw.

The hand receded. Wickett tucked a slightly squashed roll of runic bandaids into his jacket pocket. He was bloodied. One arm hung limply from his side. He smelled like sewage and death.

"Mr. Moore," Wickett said.

He began searching Cecil's pockets again.

"Do you have any other supplies?"

Cecil gave another groan, groping blindly at the sudden familiar voice, "An... Andrew? You're... you're alive!"

Wickett fished out some foil squares, frowned, and replaced them.

"No. I'm not."

"But... but everyone... " He took a moment to cough up some blood. "Can... can you see my glasses?" They were up on the roof in pieces.

"Everyone died in the tunnels," Wickett said. He took a second set of bandages, and Cecil's wallet.

"...and the rooftops," he said. Those words carried a strained hint of emotion. He stood.

"I.. I think I only survived thanks to Codex," Cecil wheezed, trying, gingerly, to urge himself up to a sitting position. "But... but you don't even have a... a fear shield-" Wickett must have been a lot better at staying out of trouble than he had originally thought. Which was surprising. Everyone, as far as he knew, was dead.


"I can't.. stand on my own, I don't think... give... give me a hand?"

Instead, there was only another rattling sound from the ladder.

"Andrew?" Cecil squeaked.

The noises stopped. There was a long, considering pause. More rattling. "Can you feel your toes?" Wickett asked.

"They hurt well enough for me to not forget I have them!" Cecil gave an exasperated grunt. Another bloody cough, and he groped blindly at the metal rail behind him. I'm working on it, Codex whispered gently, doing what he could, but it was slow going, even for Fear.

The silence was heavy. Noises, again. They came gradually closer instead of furrther away. Wickett knelt down beside Cecil, and grasped his shirt. The other man had always been small. He pulled him, up, over his shoulder. "Hold on, if you can," he told him. Wickett brought them both down the fire escape and into an abandoned alley. Nearby, there was a roaring cheer from the vast crowd celebrating in the square, Happy New Years. Wickett paused expectantly. The cheering continued. "Do you hear that, Mr. Moore?" Wickett asked, "It's the year 2000."

Cecil hung limply, energy too spent to hold on too tightly, but Wickett's shoulder was large and soft, and Cecil was thankful for his friend's heftiness. He was feeling marginally better with every step. "2000, huh? Did... all the computers implode?" He wheezed, groping with broken fingers in his pockets for his rarely used inhaler. He couldn't find it, but was not surprised. "Do... we call our superiors?" He managed.

Wickett looked out into the crowd. Said superiors were, surprisingly, facing off with the gigantic figure of Famine. Wickett didn't know if they were winning. He was more surprised to find he didn't care. "As I said, Mr. Moore. I'm dead. And so, for all intents and purposes, are you. I have every intention of taking a long and well-deserved holiday."

Cecil took a moment for the words to digest in his gravity-battered brain, his wounded grip on Wickett's shoulder tightening as he watched the blurry movements of what he had to assume was some sort of massive creature amidst the city. "A holiday, huh?" His voice was wavering uncertainly. "I could... definitely go for a Mai Tai."

Wickett remembered dying very acutely. He had not been thinking of drinks on the beach while the monsters picked at his clothes, then his skin. His arm was mostly severed. His own bladed playing cards rained down. His ears had been fine. He could hear the crunch of bones in the dark, and somewhere in the blood and pain, the touch of gravel, water, rails, stone...

He welcomed the dark. He was ready to die.

But someone besides Death was waiting there to meet him.

She rested now on his good hand, patiently replacing the lost blood and keeping his arm from losing the last scraps of sinew keeping it attached. The weapon bond was the only thing that had saved the two of them.

Wickett turned away from Times Square. Further South was fine. They'd need a hospital, first. He'd been keeping a separate, off-island account and spare identities for quite some time.

"I think that can be arranged. New Years is as good a holiday as any. ...Happy New Years, Mr. Moore."

And to you, he added silently.

"Happy New Year, Andy," Cecil gave a sore sort of half smile before collapsing on Wickett's shoulder, unconscious once more. A new year, a new start, a new life. One that hopefully had a lot less health hazards.