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I'll meet you there. How injured is Sephiroth, do you know?

[So he can at least prepare for whatever might be waiting for them at the bottom of that well.]

Rope burns on his neck and a razor in his back.

So it's probably his ego that's bruised the most.

I'm turning the corner now.

And I'm almost to the deck.

Lark goes in on his own, and the moment he does he can smell who else was here fighting Sephiroth.

"Dammit, Trevor! Are you still down there?"

Trevor had a long way to fall since being tossed into the well, but thankfully he avoided hitting his head.

That isn't to say he isn't still injured. His fractured arm is useless for hauling himself up. He tried to fish the bucket out and throw it up to catch onto the railing, but not only did it fail to clear the distance, but he almost drowned from the exhaustion of doing so. With one good arm and the cold water getting worse every minute, this doesn't look good.

He's hugging onto the wall and shivering when he hears a familiar voice and cranes his neck up to spy Lark.

"Fancy seeing you here." He croaks, relieved.

His irritation gives way to concern the moment he sees just how bad things really are. You know what he's never had to try in all his years here? Shutting down someone else's program. He opts not to waste time trying to figure out how to do that and instead leans down.

"Throw the bucket at me, I need the rope."

He grunts in the affirmative and takes a few deep breaths. The last time he tried this didn't go so well but maybe with a second person, he can manage it.

One arm's completely useless so he has to use his legs to keep himself afloat, in order to throw the bucket. Fortunately he'd been in peak physical shape before his death, and used to the art of casting long-range weapons. Still, throwing something vertically up the length of a well while the item itself is soaking wet and he has one arm for balance isn't exactly the easiest thing.

Trevor pushes off from the wall, reeling in the bucket. He's kicking like mad to stay aloft but then, with an arm like a rocket, the bucket is launched upwards. Trevor in reaction sinks to the bottom like he knew he would, and starts kicking even more furiously to break the surface.

Lark hits it with his hand and almost knocks the bucket back down, but he manages to grab the rope. He secures it against a chunk of broken wall, ties the end around his waist, and begins rappelling down the well.

"Trevor," reaching out to grab him, to help keep his head above water. "Can you hang on my back?"

Emerging like a wet dog, Trevor breaks the surface of the water and gasps for air, the strain of throwing that bucket really pulling at his stiff and sore limbs. He paddles slowly back to the wall, to at least have something to cling to and give his aching legs a rest.

He watches, surprised, when Lark actually comes down to get him rather than just secure the rope and have him climb up himself. He could have managed that: would have been harder but he's not used to this strange self-sacrificing creature. What if the rope breaks and they're both trapped?

"Uh - yeah. You good to climb out with two people?" He says, teeth chattering a little.

"Yes." It's his first choice for their escape. If Trevor can't hold on, Lark will have to adjust the rope and risk both of them falling. And if that happens and they lose the rope altogether...well he has a plan for that too but it's a long shot.

This will work.

He sinks into the water--which is cold, dammit--and hisses. "Okay, climb on, let's get the hell out of here."

Fortunately, Trevor's stamina is ridiculous. He can't dogpaddle in a freezing well forever, but he's reaching his second or maybe third wind when Lark gets close. He exhales, pushing off from the wall and wrapping his good arm tight around Lark's chest. With his legs he hooks them in around Lark's thighs, just for extra leverage.

"Couldn't have said it better myself." He mutters. "All right. I'm on. Can you still climb like this?"

"Perks to being a lycanthrope," he smirks, hauling them up hand over hand. When they reach the lip he hangs over it with one arm, and uses the other to help lever Trevor to safe ground.

"And yet I'm probably the one who smells like wet dog."

He clings to Lark the long way up, trying not to imagine how painful falling back down would be. They reach the surface and he lies on his back where Lark puts him, shivering on the ground a little.

This might be where some people would call it quits but even now he's watching the 'sky' for a one-winged man with cat eyes, wary he'll come back for more.

"So. What have you been up to, lately?"

"Solving a mystery." He unties the rope and tosses it aside. "Someone apparently strangled Sephiroth and stuck a razor in his back. Fill in the blanks for me."

He is mildly impressed, no point trying to hide it. Sephiroth is a beast.

He squints over at Lark, still breathing in and out to regulate his heart. Hypothermia's no joke; Trevor's come close a number of times. Jokingly with clear evidence that even Trevor thought this was a move beyond even him, he raises a hand just slightly above his head before settling it on his chest.

"That would be me."

What kind of a name is Sephiroth, anyway?

"Cat-eyed bastard was gloating about burning villages to the ground. Killing people. Who sets fire to a ship they're living on?"

"He's not known for his grasp of reality," Lark shakes his head. "Come on. We're going someplace warm. Where are you injured?"

He has noticed that bad arm, but really, a fight with Sephiroth implies at least one reason to visit the infirmary.

Trevor exhales, nods, and sits up with a slight, pained groan. He bends down to grab his cloak from where it had fallen or been cast off in battle. Glad it didn't tumble down with him; climbing up with that great soaking thing would have been ten times worse.

"The wrist, mostly. Was already broken and he grabbed it to get me to let go of his hair. Think I got him worse, though: he'll be back. Seems the type."

"He's an inmate. He can't go anywhere. But he's secure for now." What a mess, he thinks as he looks around. This is Sephiroth's happy place. No wonder Trevor reacted poorly. "This isn't real. Did he tell you that? It's like being in a painting."

"I know." His mood sours a little: Trevor hunches his shoulders as he heads for the way he came in.

Burning bodies always had a distinct smell.

"He's gone this long without being an immediate threat to the real people." He isn't sure that's going to last now that Trevor has tipped the balance.

He leads Trevor out, to the elevator, and to Cabin 101. "The last thing we need is collateral damage when you two fight. And he will come after you sooner or later."

"Tell that to the people he already murdered back home."

He leans against the elevator's interior, not much paying attention to where they're headed. He's too bone-tired to care.

"If I don't go after him first."

"I can't change what he did at home. I can keep people here from being hurt." Including Trevor, if the man decides not to do anything stupid.

And then Trevor opens his mouth and speaks and, oh good Lord, this is going to be a long year.

"What are you going to do? Spend every day trying to kill him?" The elevator doors open and he motions Trevor to follow him. 101 is just a turn away, and he gestures Trevor through that door, too.

"Not every day. Figured I'd take one day off a week for the Lord's rest." He murmurs. Trevor doesn't know how best to kill Sephiroth but he knows that he's also not okay with letting bygones be bygones and pretending he's all right living next to someone like that. That innate, resolute stubbornness in the face of something most people would turn tail and run from was ingrained in him as much as any number of physical features.

He hesitates, knowing they're on the wrong floor for the infirmary, but figures that Lark wouldn't have dug him out of the well if he was planning on setting him up. He heads into 101.

This is it. This is the day Lark Tennant finally thinks to himself, I'm getting too old for this shit.

Still. He admires perseverance and creativity more than any other traits, and Trevor seems to have at least one of those down.

He grabs towels from the bathroom, looks at Trevor dripping well water on the carpet, and instead gets a dry set of clothes from the back bedroom. "Go in there," motioning at the bathroom. "Get into these. If you can," noting that arm. But better to let Trevor try than to offer to help him dress.

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