Goa's pursuit is a long, loping jog, a blade held folded in his right hand. The outliers of the cable jungle don't even phase the mech; with a ring, he slices the scythe criss-cross through everything in his way. From the ease with which he slings it about, this is clearly not the first time he's had to improvise a machete. This... organic-looking /thing/ had been nosing around far too long. Every other patrol or two, he'd catch some movement from the corner of his optic, and it'd bolt into the rubble. From experience, he was far too biased, easily inclined to believe it was stalking /him/, not vice versa. Slag everything. It was the end of his shift, he was pretty full on fuel, and it wasn't about to get away just because of a bunch of tangled cables and, brrooo, shiver shiver, darkness.