Even Crichton can't help looking up in horrified amazement at the entire goddamn sky coming together to stone the demon on his shoulder to death (hopefully). It's nasty. But he doesn't look away.

Harvey manages to keep the sounds of his distress to mere grunts and growls for the first few volleys, but it doesn't last. Wave after wave of burning projectiles sizzle against his armor and skin, dragging pained cries from him. On and on. But he doesn't die. He can't. Not even when he collapses to the ground in a steaming hard-broiled heap. He's panting, grunting in pain, but still very much alive.