The swordsman noticed them first. Or perhaps it is more accurate to say he launched himself first, because his approach was not subtle.
He led with the right blade, which was notable immediately because the left hung uselessly at his forearm. His right thigh was soaked dark through the fabric, the earlier wound still leaking with persistence.
Nyx watched him approach.
She didn't really care about him.
What she did care about was the sensation that surfaced whenever something moved toward Proxy.
A malice that had no ending.
She moved straight at him.
The distance shortened fast enough that the blade came wide and she was already inside his range before the swing could complete. Her shoulder struck his chest and the impact carried the authority of strength boosted by implants. She heard his breath leave him all at once, expelled without negotiation.
The SMG was already pressed into his ribs before he finished understanding what was happening.
She pulled the trigger.
At that range the burst met his stomach in a truly grievous fashion. The sound was compact and dense and disappeared almost entirely into him.
He folded around it, collapsing to one knee. The blade in his hand dragged a gouge through the turf beside her boot.
Nyx was already moving.
Behind her, Proxy had both hands inside the crate.
He worked through the contents quickly. Efficiency, in this context, meant not hesitating long enough to form sentimental attachments to any particular item.
A flat hard case opened to reveal a RAM expansion chip, the kind designed to slot directly into an expansion port and multiply active buffer capacity. He pocketed it.
Two sealed trauma kits followed, objectively superior to the medical supplies he had been carrying. Two fresh handgun magazines. A knife still sheathed. Ration blocks. Water units.
Everything went into his pack in a continuous motion while he listened.
The sounds behind him did not suggest calm.
The racer's slides were locked back. Both guns had emptied during the previous exchange, and she was moving her hands quickly now, dropping spent magazines and reaching for replacements.
Blood from the cut along her forearm ran steadily downward, dripping across the ammunition she was attempting to seat.
She required three more seconds to complete the process.
Nyx crossed the fairway in one.
The racer noticed the approach and threw one of the empty SMGs directly at Nyx's face out desperation and reflex
Nyx took the impact against her shoulder and barely processed the pain as noteworthy. She closed the remaining distance and caught the raised gun before the reload seated.
They were close now.
Close enough that their breathing became a shared sensory experience rather than a private one.
The racer was strong. That fact registered immediately when she wrenched the SMG sideways, her greater mass pulling the muzzle off-line.
Nyx let her.
She surrendered the impasse entirely and instead drove the heel of her palm upward into the racer's nose with every ounce of force she had.
The nose cartilage warped with a clean crunch. Red followed instantly, flooding down the racer's face.
Her grip broke. She stumbled.
Nyx felt the impact in her palm and experienced the thrill of combat. She kept moving, because behind her the swordsman had regained his feet.
The wet, laboring rhythm of breathing that suggested a body operating on momentum rather than pain response.
But he was upright. And the right blade remained working.
He swung wide at her back.
Nyx dunked into the motion instead of away from it, allowing the arc to pass above her rather than through her.
The SMG stock came around and connected with the back of his damaged shoulder, the one that had absorbed rounds earlier.
"Caraj-"
The tactical officer arrived from her left and wrapped his arm across her throat while she had been dealing with the other two. He had moved quietly.
The forearm wound had been wrapped tightly to slow the bleeding, and the arm that remained uncompromised slid across her windpipe and pulled her backward off balance.
Nyx dropped her chin immediately, protecting the airway, and drove her elbow into his ribs.
He resisted it.
She drove the elbow back again. Harder.
This time she felt some ribs give inside his side.
The shift in his grip that followed created the opening she needed.
She hooked her foot behind his ankle and threw her weight backward into him.
They fell together.
The ground rose quickly to meet them.
She took the impact on her shoulder, rolled through it, and came up again with her lip split open against her own teeth.
Blood arrived immediately, hot on her tongue.
Her ribs on the right side ached slightly.
Three opponents.
All still alive.
Behind her she could feel Proxy's presence instinctively. When he wasn't there the entire world acquired a different texture.
Right now the world still felt normal, which meant he remained at the crate.
Which meant the three of them had not yet reached him.
Which meant the task remained simple.
That was all that mattered.
The racer brought the reloaded SMG up.
Both guns now held fresh magazines. Blood continued pouring from her nose, streaking down her chin and soaking into her jacket.
She opened fire at the place where Nyx had been standing, which was already three meters wrong.
The rounds tore into the turf.
Nyx moved low along the bank of rough lining the fairway and curved around its far side, approaching the racer from the direction she had neglected to cover.
At the crate, Proxy reached the back of the foam cradle.
The large gray unit resting there possessed a power cell housing and an antenna array folded flat against its body. The mounting system clearly suggested it was intended for installation in a vehicle rather than carried by a person.
He recognized it immediately as a portable signal jammer.
It was precisely the type of expensive hardware designed to produce communication blackout that made him essentially blind.
He slid both hands underneath it and lifted.
It came up heavy.
In fact, too heavy to be practical without the vehicle mount it had clearly been designed for.
He rotated it, searching for some kind of carry configuration.
There wasn't one worth trusting.
The window of time he possessed was small.
It was also shrinking.
He put the jammer back.
Straightening with the items he had already taken, he stepped away from the open panel.
The hand that seized his collar from behind did so without sound.
The cold cylinder that touched the back of his neck was placed with precision.
A woman's voice spoke quietly beside his ear.
"Tell her to stop."
Proxy became very still.
Across the crate, Nyx had come off the bank and was advancing toward the racer with the SMG raised.
Her eyes burned amber.
Blood stained her lip.
She was not slowing.
After all, there were three people that still had to die.
"She won't," he said.
A brief pause followed.
"So let's talk about what happens next."