Another time- with more help on hand, she'd be there with him. But there are rabble grabbing for what's theirs and more still with knives and she just can't let this stand. It's not the drills she's used to- it's not droids that falter and fade once struck. It's blood, flesh, and bone that she's darting out and cutting, her form rough, unpolished, but precise in it's intent. She aims for joints. Knees, wrists, shoulders- the meatier bits. Throws another knife when she has the time, herds them away from the counters. Dodges what blows she's able.

It's not clean. It's not pretty. And she's too furious to give a damn.