For a few seconds, things were moving in slow motion, sluggish and disjointed. At least, it felt that way inside Greg's head, brain scrambling for purchase against stimuli from every possible direction. He was still trying to process how they weren't dead. Then, more things were happening, and everything rushed back to proper speed around him. Adrenaline was pumping through and blocking out the pain, enough for him to push himself onto shaky knees and process the important details.

Wash was down. He was alive, he was okay, but he was still closest to--to the rift. Greg grit his teeth. They were still counting him out of this fight. It made sense. He was tired, and weak. He could barely stand. His magic was, overall, pretty useless.

Greg hunched over the pavement, hands flat to the earth, grimacing. Through all this, they were still looking out for him. He needed to return the favor. It might take all the had left, but he had to help.

There was a long, exhausting few seconds where nothing evidently happened. Then the cracks in the pavement started. Long, sharp thorns shoved their way into the morning light, all around the street. The largest any got was perhaps half a foot, before Greg gasped for air and went down on his elbows.