He may be frightened, still bleeding off the frantic chill of adrenaline from the chase, but he isn't any more cruel at heart than he's ever been.

It hits him harder even than that initial burst of terror - that it may be a monster, still, standing before him, whatever its apparent form, but there isn't any malice in the wretched thing. His hands falter in position on his gun, dropping his aim- And then dropping the weapon, loose in an idle, one-handed grip as he tears off his helmet with the other after another moment's worth of indecisive hesitation. The scowl on his unmistakably young face is more confusion than anger (though he might be angry, too, at himself, on some deeper level of this not at all complex dream).

"...Who are you?" The waver in his voice comes of the effort it takes to keep the words from breaking up, but he doesn't try to take them back. Because it's a who, not a what, if it can radiate anything half as close to sympathy for him, and sound so wounded by his simple self-defense.

"What do you want?"