It becomes unclear to him what events have occurred and whether he may be contextually linked to the allegedly intervening parties when it comes to the pressurized, progressive knifing of pain down the length of his spine, and said pain's unnerving sequelae.

He makes a noise; rough, ravaged, unformed, the pronounced scrape driving itself into the back of his throat with blazing, terebrant persistence.

His shoulders spasm in a cough, and he realigns his objective and tries again.

"Move," he rasps, and rolls over and slams Asadi's arm out of the way and fires the weapon in his hand.

The weapon does not discharge with a streak of blue, and it is not of the same snakelike design.

It fires a grapple, hooked and curved, its sharpened tip aiming for the thing's outspread wings.