Mule's tail tensed, ears standing on end under her cap as the feeling of looming danger radiated up from her gut. There was no surprise as to why when the accumulating energy of the enemy arts droids finally released itself, the concussive popping of plasma formation following the unearthly glow of raw Arts ravaging through the buildings beside them. The lack of roiling dust was about the only thing to pull her back to the notion that she was in a simulation. At the very least, the threat of those falling boulders was real.

"Heads up, debris." She spoke into the radio, standing in case the collapse spilled far enough down the road to jeopardize the rear team. That, and it was just about time. A few more shots pinged hopelessly off of the carapace of the armored ones approaching her as Mule counted down her ammo, and the steps they had before they overtook her. Between the screeches of metal on metal she took notes. No sign of slowing, no indication of an attack. The classic, suicidal rush of an autonomous opponent. It was intimidating to be faced with such confidence, but not so with a team behind her. And already, these strangers registered naturally in her mind as the fireteam. 

One more shot, sprung off a shoulderplate. The rattle, and her count, told her she had four left. The defender plunged her weapon down, returning it to its holster with a brush of her jacket before she crossed to the other side of her belt. Two had broken off to engage their new comrade. Three were targets. One more step from them, and it was time. She set her foot forward, and began the counter-charge. Thrones' voice rang above the pulse in her ears. Her fingers wrapped around the grip of her tomahawk, yanking the weapon free and holding it out to her side.

With a few strides and a half-leap she evaporated the distance between them, aiming to collect the armored androids well before they crossed her defensive line. She kept stride as the rings of light passed her by, the clash coming the moment after they appeared to sink into their targets. The Defender's shield became her main arm as she sprung up and crashed the alloy plate into the trio, ramming the center body and snarling as her arm whipped out. The blunt edge of her tomahawk whistled in the air, swung wildly out to harass the left side before she turned and hammered at the right, once more boxing with the hardened face of her shield. The hand-axe did the fending, its bearded head used to ward their movements and catch their blades. Mule had to kill with footwork, dancing back to try and entertain the three of them all at once, stealing every opportunity to break forwards and put every kilo of body and gear behind the next staggering shieldblow. She'd have to see what the Arts did, but the Defender was dead set on tossing these Big Bob things around like a bunch of upjumped dolls if that's what kept them back.