He fixes the other man with a glare, a muscle twitching in his jaw. This has entirely dismantled whatever nascent plans for attack he's formulated, and his strategy will require a full rewrite because fucking Seth got himself fucking shot.

"Fuck," he pants between clenched teeth, "you."

He is distantly aware of the sensation of becoming insubstantial, which is certainly a feeling he will have to categorize as among his least favorites, along with the distinctive impression of being fired upon by virescent energy-based projectiles through the fading thick smog of his own design.

"Make us fucking corporeal already," Nick snarls, unraveling a grapple from his belt with the intent of clamping it along the building's edge as soon as it becomes logistically possible to do so.