Vargas wasn't quite ready, but that didn't matter. He'd been expecting Sentinel to come at him first, perhaps with magic and a strike combined, but it seemed the sword didn't put much stock into teamwork. Though, in fairness, chaos was its own tactic.

He didn't have time to think, past that; the black lightning was arcing toward him.

He feinted left, then lunged right, a dodge intended to avoid the strike. The crackle passed him close by.

His hulking muscles tensed, head lowering, tail sweeping along behind him. Toxic eyes focused with laser clarity on his opponent. Opponents.

He would judge them, certainly; but for now, he was focused on the battle itself.

Vargas staggered, choking back a guttural snarl before it left his throat. The sharp searing pain of impact chunked in just around where a collarbone would be (assuming his alien anatomy had one), cutting deep--BITING deep--and ripping a hole into his flesh. Hot, acidic green blood splattered down, hitting the rocky floor and hissing.

The Leviathan turned, cocking back his other forelimb to all its ridiculous length, and then bringing it around full-force for the Sentinel's chest. He didn't pull the punch: it was meant to send the Sentinel flying, or smash his chest if need be.

Vargas did not know how it had happened--he'd thrown his punch, and an instant later he was sent reeling, repelled and battered by some magic he did not recognize. It felt like a jolt slammed up his arm--and then this was doubled, joined by a black lash of electricity that arced to him and coiled up his muscles. The pain was immense: it was like fire, chaos crawling under his skin, ripping through his veins. He almost cried out, jerked back and down by his own limb, hook-teeth bared in protest.

He'd have to get the sword away, he judged--and it took him a moment, a moment that could've been fatal, to regain control of his limb. But Vargas was not one to fall back and reconsider, or to stop and gauge the situation. He had gauged it. He pushed the attack, unrelenting, shoving forward on three limbs now and swinging the damaged one like a flail for the Sentinel's leg.

Could he knock it off its feet--remove its mobility entirely? That would be his aim, and his towering size gave him an advantage in covering ground, even if he was a little... limp.