He is aware of a presence, of pounding footsteps over grass and mud, but there is no time to process anything else: SecUnit rips him free of Levi and delivers a crushing kick to his— chest. Center. The material of his body roils and doubles and twines away from contact, shifting in unearthly strands. The ichor of his blood beads into ugly points like ferrofluid, jarring and bizarre.

"Jesus fuck," snarls the monster, in John's own deep and resonant voice. He retreats in a migraine-inducing scramble of yellow light and limbs. Even alien as he's become, he coils in on himself like a wounded octopus. The redoubling weight of his voice gutters out as though he speaks through gritted teeth. "Who—? Stop, stop—"

With a growl, he splays his clawed hands in the utterly human gesture of wait, don't shoot. One yellow eye cracks open, and around it flares John's own sigil. The other still weeps iridescent ichor, gone oily in the rain.