Plated fingers scrabble at this fleshy bastardization of familiar armor, the more he struggles, the more those blood smeared tendrils twist and tear free, the more he's caught in a mass of nerve shredding agony- soon it's not even an attempt to escape anything but the things that are twisting their way out of him, ripping free at his joints, snagging against the walls, against Locus, peeling out of his skin like fungus from a corpse.