A brief pang of guilt hits him when he sees how Jay twitches against the tirade, quailing almost, but Tim mercilessly wrenches it aside. He won't remember. It doesn't matter. They're fucked either way. Tim doesn't care. He keeps saying it to himself, his private mantra, he's gonna forget like he ever met him in the first place.

"Go where?" The utter hopelessness of their situation is sinking into him again (it always does) and Tim stares at Jay, shakes his head helplessly. "What'll it do? It -"

There's the thudding of footsteps, behind them this time, not above, and Tim whips around. Gray jacket, the ragged beginnings of a rough beard, sallow-cheeked and tight-jawed and dead-souled and empty-eyed - Alex Kralie, or Tim's blinding mental image of Alex Kralie, raises a gun.

"Alex -" Tim says desperately, an unintentional grim parody of Jay's final words.

A shot goes off.