Pyrrha half expects a corpse's fingers around her throat or perhaps living ones if she'd seen brilliant red hair. Another fraction of a second lets her know no one is choking John in that moment, for pain or pleasure. Then she turns toward the person approaching her. One hand reaches for her spear, currently nothing more than a baton, but she recognizes that face and, in the same instant, reaches for his hand. A gut feeling. An induced feeling. The natural solution.

Air rushes back into her lungs, and Pyrrha almost laughs. She sinks a couple inches, looks down, and actually laughs. A tentacle slips out between her trousers and her boots, while others remain within them. With a few moments of effort, she straights back up and solidifies her legs back into human shape.

"Not full squid this time," Pyrrha says. "I'd appreciate help to a bathtub if that happens."