Nobody’s left arm stretches and reshapes until it resembles a long, flat shovel. Using it to scoop up a mound of torn-up concrete, he catapults the contents at Terrain. Unable to react in time, Terrain is nailed with the street debris, which includes a parking meter head that cracks into his kneecap. He drops to the ground, and howls out in pain.

Nobody throws a cocky head nod in Magmamite’s direction, while letting his arm transform back to its natural form. Terrain (though still down on his knees) commands a pile of dislodged gravel to rise up and hover around him like a swarm of bees.

Nobody brings up both arms, letting his fingers stretch, intermingle, and weave together to form a make-shift blockade. When Terrain’s barrage of chunky dirt strikes it, his fleshy shield stretches backward until, like a rubber band, it snaps and slingshots the projectiles back. Terrain has to drop on to his stomach to avoid being struck by his own volley.