He moved as though to ignore, hands circling to smooth, to pamper the air around his brother's half-corpse. Impressions spoke briefly of first-aid, an act or two to stabilize the dying. Press against pressure points to slow the flow of blood. An Ether or two to mend the fissures and shattered vessels.

But Rubedo was too broken, too burnt, too smelling of raw and charred flesh, and Nigredo knew only of light and none of healing. This was a useless venture; there was no familiar technology, no reliable doctor to lean upon. His hand found Rubedo's, a finger sliding across the gun's trigger.

A shadow fell across his eyes, and he snapped. Head jerked and fingers flew, cross-hairs forming against the intruder, panic rising in the variant's eyes.

There was a click, the gun steady in his hand. "Leave," echoed Nigredo hoarsely, eyes neither seeing nor believing the form before him to be anything but an unfavorable factor.

Something shifted. Nigredo blinked. "Take also my brother."