The problem here is, they look the same. Especially when covered in black gunk. Wrathion curses as rushes close, the cold chill of panic starting to grip him as makes a quick assessment.

Doing anything immediately lethal is a mistake in the making. If he misjudges, the guilt of having killed Clara will slowly eat him alive. So then, how to tell them apart?

"Clara?" he prompts, one hand on the hilt of his blade as he closes the distance. "With all this indoor flooding we could use your black umbrella, don't you think?"

It's white. He knows its white, remembers. Come on Clara, correct him.