[ He'd rather Arcade be able to backtrack too, all things considered, but there's nothing for it now. It's horrifying in a way he hadn't really been prepared for, to watch this happen to someone else. (He hadn't really had to see it happen to him; his legs had at least been behind him, though that had caused its own problems. The feeling of his legs fusing together into a tail, as if scarring over like a terrible wound, had caused such an unexpected and visceral sense of panic that he'd just been lucky the gills had come first, after the lungful of water he'd swallowed as he thrashed and sank.) His eyes flare a frightened digital yellow at that collapse, a simpler, more primal, more mundane fear for Arcade's well-being, separate from the squirming unease the tentacles themselves bring to the pit of his stomach.

But at the same time, it eases that different set of fears. This isn't what happened to Deacon. He shouldn't have to worry about giving CPR and fear that his luck with it won't hold out this time. Whatever the hell the water is doing--and that seething mass of tentacles remains unsettling in a completely different way than the fishtails are; he hasn't yet seen this happen to anyone else--he imagines that at least Arcade will probably be able to breathe it. Probably. ]

Don't fight it. It is what it is now, but the harder you fight, the faster you sink. We'll reassess the situation when you're out here. Just keep your head above water if at all possible.

[ He wouldn't sound worried, only a bit sterner than usual, if his eyes weren't still bright with the evidence of that earlier alarm. ]