Kenneth? Dying in a place like this?

Kane can hear the familiar voice buzzing in his ear like an annoying bee. He must be losing it with all the blood loss, making his sticky back warm and wet, because he swears he can hear an irritating laugh fill his head, taunting him to live.

There's no way Kane is going to die here. He'll drag himself outside on his hands and knees if it comes down to it. He forces himself to sit up, groaning as the pain flashes through him like wildfire, setting his entire body ablaze. He won't be standing on his own anytime soon.

Kane's gaze whips around the cavern. "Milton!"

He yanks a sharp piece of bone that had managed to sneak under his jacket, sinking deep into his hip, and tugs another thicker piece that had pierced through his jeans and into his thigh.

Kane's had worse. He'll make it — that's what he tells himself anyway. "Milton, you useless prick. Get out here!"

He unhooks and shines his flashlight around desperately, fearing the darkness is his only companion.

Kane comes close to simply passing out from shock right then and there at the sudden form racing at him from the darkness.

It's Milton, an angel rising from the shadows, bones crunching beneath his boots. "We need to go now." He comes to Kane's side, eyes blown wide with a kind of bone-chilling fear the man rarely shows.

"Yeah, yeah. Help me."

Kane accepts the other man's assistance in hoisting him onto his feet. It's humiliating, but he can't stand on his own. His bleeding arm drapes over Milton's shoulders while letting the other man take most of his dead weight.

"Where the fuck did you go?" Kane tries to keep his footing steady as they begin hobbling towards the hole they'd come from. "You left me to fight that thing alone, and then you just strolled out of the dark, creepy as hell!"

Milton focuses on keeping them walking. His eyes no longer hold fear but a steely determination that suits him much better.

"Fucking talk to me." Kane fumbles to clip his flashlight back on his jacket, his fingers slick with blood — his own and the creature's. It's not the time or place for this type of conversation, but he's more than a little freaked out at all the weird shit going down tonight.

Kane glances over his shoulder at the darkness they're leaving, his ears straining to pick up the sound of dragging that he swears he can hear if he focuses.

"I saw it."

"What?" Kane keeps his eyes on the darkness, definitely hearing the sound of distant movements — maybe growling?

"Time. The keeper of the clocks — I saw it once in a dream when I was a young man." Milton readjusts Kane's arm when it threatens to slip. He keeps them inching forward. "Death. Fate. It came to me again tonight. That's why I couldn't help you. It felt as if hours passed, but it was mere minutes." He pauses, inhaling. "It told me it was time."

"What the fuck does that mean? Time's up for what, Milton?" Kane glares at Milton's profile, ignoring the sounds of distant clawing and growling filling the still darkness behind them. His heart beats faster against his rib cage. A childish part of himself doesn't want the other to elaborate; ignorance is bliss.

Milton smiles sadly. "Time's up, for me."

Kane stares at the hole, their salvation, distant and dark. It's so far away, and they're moving so slowly. He laughs sharply. "Or it's my time. It doesn't sound like it was very forthcoming on the details."

Between them, they both know that Kane is more intimately acquainted with death. Beat it many times. If either of them is going to die tonight, it should be Kane.

It's become an unspoken pact between them to ignore the harmonising growls and sound of clawing that draw nearer and louder. The numerous holes that split off the main cavern suddenly alight with life.

It's a nest.

Kane begins laughing and only stops when he coughs, tasting copper.

"No." Milton's breathing is uneven. "No. I won't let it." He grabs Kane's injured arm tighter, causing another spike of agony, and drags Kane along as he hurries their speed. "Not you. It can take me, not —"

Milton yanks the flashlight from Kane's jacket and shines it behind them.

Kane's head flops weakly as he looks over his shoulder. He gives a bloody grin to the creepy red eyes that stare at them from the darkness — at least ten, maybe more; his vision is blurring and it's hard to make out. Some of them are whispering unintelligibly. "We'll never make it."

They stop moving, and the tunnel becomes a distant oasis, unreachable.

Milton inhales a deep breath, taking a precious second to clip the flashlight on Kane's jacket.

Kane keeps his blurring vision on the creatures as they charge them as one hivemind, clawing at the ground, a snarling demented orchestra of death. He lifts his bloody hand, giving the advancing monsters his raised, bloody middle finger. He hopes he tastes like shit when they rip and tear into him.

And then, in a blink, he's drowning, his ears popping.

Kane's shoulder hits a hard surface. He screams with no shame. Kane looks around wildly, surprised to find he's sprawled against the tunnel's wall, with the once-loud snarling and growling at a distance.

Milton towers over him, one hand on the earthy wall of the tunnel, his chest rising and falling with deep breaths.

"Milton," Kane whispers desperately as the other man takes one last deep breath and grabs Kane again, digging fingers squeezing his shoulders, the sharp pain of his wound reawakening.

Again, Kane's drowning, choking on air.

He's vaguely aware that Milton is displacing them; the magical smell of sulphur is heavy in the air as the other man uses all his magic reserves to teleport them a few metres.

Calm down. Kane wills his rapid heartbeat to slow. The displacement works better if you're not freaking the fuck out. It's also more difficult to use magic underground, hence why they're pathetically moving only inches faster than if they'd broken into full sprints.

Milton doesn't give Kane a chance to get his feet fully underneath himself, displacing them up the tunnel and then through the narrow corridor and up the curved staircase, and that's the moment when Milton's magic wanes.

Kane hits the marble of the columbarium on his knees, dizzy and uncoordinated. He vomits; it might be from the painful toll his body has taken tonight or the constant displacement, maybe both in tandem. There might not be much, but it's still disgusting.

"You're safe," Milton says breathlessly. He places a hand on Kane's back, rubbing, and comes to a crouch beside him. When he should be getting them the fuck out here, anywhere else is better than what awaits them if the creatures decide gaining retribution for their fallen comrade is worth coming to the surface. Do they even have a sense of camaraderie? Kane doesn't know.

Milton decides to calmly drop a nuclear bomb. "I'm going back."

Kane wipes his mouth with the arm of his jacket. The taste of bile is heavy on his tongue. "We just escaped from down there, and you want to go back? What the hell for?"

Milton raises himself to stand. "You spoke the truth earlier; we can't leave them alive. One of them killed six people. If we let this many go free, we'd be unleashing hell on countless innocent lives. "

Damn him for making so much fucking sense. "No..." Kane reaches out with a bloody hand and clutches Milton's fingers. "We need Lucas. We were taken by surprise tonight. If we wait a day —"

Milton pats Kane's hand with a soft smile, cutting off his words. Milton's such a condescending asshole. "It's my time. No one can escape fate. I see that now."

"Let me do it." Kane squares his jaw, trying his hardest not to look like he's about to keel over and die. "We both know there's a good chance I'll survive tonight, even if they tear me up. If you go back down there, you're dead. Dead, dead! That means no coming back!"

"Well, I'm the only one between us who has a weapon." Milton pulls his hand away gently, and Kane lets him. "And my boy, I'm the only one that has nothing to lose."

Kane's eyes widen. "That's bullshit!"

"You have someone waiting for you — waiting for you to come back alive," Milton says, again with his aggravating sense. He places a steady hand on Kane's head and leans down, his voice low: "I had a dream about her."

Kane hangs his head. "I don't care about your stupid dreams, old man."

Milton ignores him. "My daughter. She'll suffer so much tragedy. I thought for a time that it was me helping her — a hand in the light, keeping her from drowning in darkness. Now I know...it's you."

Kane uses a palm on the wall to get himself standing, the marble cold under his fingertips. Like hell, he's going through with this plan. "Here..." He unfastens his flashlight and tosses it to Milton, who catches it with ease. "A man should see his death coming."

Milton clips the flashlight into the pocket of his pressed shirt. He raises his arms, using his healthy agility, so Kane never gets the chance to evade the hug, caged between the wall and the unfamiliar affection. Milton ignores Kane's grumbles of protest. "It's my time. I hope yours never comes, truly."

"Let it. I'm not afraid." Kane inhales, smelling the dingy dust and putrid blood that had settled on the other man and, behind it all, that familiar pine aftershave and the earthy scent of books that always linger on Milton. Kane leans into it.

"Keep fighting and help my daughter, Kane." Milton draws back, palms on Kane's forearms, smiling warmly. His hands are steady, with no fear on his face — the jerk really has come to terms with his death.

That's great for him, but Kane hasn't come to terms with shit. He's not going to sit here and let the other man go on a suicide mission alone. "Sure, Milton. I'll help her."

"Thank you." His hands against Kane's arms begin to crackle with magic. "Goodbye, son."

Kane parts his lips to reply. Unsure of what he's going to say. Maybe fuck off with that sappy son shit. I'm not your blood. You don't owe me anything. Or maybe he'd be an equally sappy bastard and say goodbye, Dad. Tell him it's too hard to be alone. This world is shit. Beg him not to leave.

Kane will never know because he's drowning again, floating, displaced, and losing consciousness.

Milton, the conniving bastard, must have known Kane wouldn't leave willingly, saving some of his magic for this exact moment.

It's raining when Kane regains consciousness and opens his eyes, pouring down his cheeks and sticking his hair to his forehead. He's in his backyard, safe. The farmhouse's porch light is on, a beacon in the darkness.

Kane doesn't try to move, content to lie on his back against the rain-slick grass. He attempts to awaken his magic out of sheer stubbornness and spite, hoping he can manage a return to the graveyard in time. It trickles pathetically; he's too weak.

The soft drizzle patters his face. His limbs are numb, and his head spins, blaming the rain feeling nice against his skin as the reason for not getting up. Kane stares up at the star-filled sky, and if he has tears running down his face, well, he'll blame that on the rain too.