Joan scrabbles up through the window, though some part of her desperately doesn't want to. The rest desperately does. She's not accustomed to emotional inner conflict; she thought she cut that part of her out years ago.

She stands on creaky wood flooring and ignores Marcus entirely, slapping his hands away with impatient strength. She's usually strong, she's strong for someone her size and gender, but she feels... stronger, somehow.

She's a pro at not thinking about shit, though, so she adds that to the list.

She crouches toward the kid, calling desperately for his parents, and pulls a switchblade out of her boot. "Sh," she says in a voice that is clearly unaccustomed to providing comfort. "Sh, it'll be okay, it's all gonna be okay." She begins cutting the rope.

There's a strange urge to cut him along with it, but she ignores it. She's used to that, wanting to hurt people. Generally there's more of a reason, though. All today's been odd, if she thinks about it. Maybe she's coming down with something.

The metal at her neck itches.