It happens so fast that, for a moment as short as an imagined thought, Jazz does not realize what he's done.
The cracks have opened fully, giving room to hundreds of nanite-powered needles that have only one function: creating a connection to a third. They thrust upwards, seeking to impale Midvalley on their sharp tips.
No, he thinks, screams it as loud as he's able to.
Within the next nanosecond Jazz is on the other side of the room, crouched down and hands cramped into the fuel lines of his legs. He cannot look up, cannot bring himself to see what he obviously must have done.