"Push!" someone shouted from Jareth's side.
And they did. Grenades arced in from three angles. A net of energy fire crossed his path. Kylus took the hit head-on, armor flaring, systems compensating as he drove forward anyway. He grabbed a mercenary mid-reload, used the man as a shield for half a second, then threw what was left of him into a turret hard enough to snap the mount clean off.
His assistant stayed glued to his flank.
She dropped into a slide as incoming fire stitched the ground above her, came up firing with a compact launcher that spat micro-missiles into clustered targets. The explosions were precise, ripping apart equipment and bodies without wasting blast radius.
When Kylus surged ahead, she shifted lanes, snapping orders into open comms, rerouting drones, calling out threats before they materialized.
They were a perfect duo, and both of them were ruthless.
Jareth watched it all from behind a shattered bulk of stone, jaw set, mind working faster than his hands.
