When the Initiate pulled him through, Cecil made a sound-- not a voiced sound, but a long, hoarse, ragged gasp, involuntary and loud enough to echo off of the metal walls. He clapped a hand to his mouth, but it was too late to stifle it. It was the loudest sound he could remember making since they'd taken his voice. It frightened him as much as the deadly pain in his side.

He kept his hand over his mouth as he curled into the Initiate, trying to hold back the noise of his breaths. He'd been taught not to respond to pain if he could help it-- to bear it silently-- but he could see the redness of the water around the Initiate's legs, and he knew where it had come from. There was, he reflected dizzily, probably as much of his life in the water at this point as there was in his veins now. A ratio that was changing against his favor with every passing minute.

Jet caught his attention, though - it was a hazy attention, flickering in and out (like his vision was beginning to, at the edges), but he managed to turn his head, to take in who it was. It took a second to register properly who it was (all fear was still the fear of death), but then he understood.

Cecil took his hand off his mouth and, with the last of his strength, pointed-- back the way he had come, through the gap, where Albert was. There-- helpful, right? That was what he'd be looking for. Maybe Jet could help, where the Initiate alone couldn't. Maybe all three of them would make it out of here. Maybe one of them would win the Arena. Maybe they could say they'd done it with his help.

The pointing hand curled into a fist, as another spasm of pain rocked Cecil. He twisted the fingers of his opposite hand into the Initiate's clothes; gasped again, long and ragged; curled into himself; and another gasp did not follow.

The cannon would, though; distantly, about ten seconds later.