One of the great secrets of battles is that they are things of momentum. With the backing of friends old and new, enchanted weapons newly to hand, shining in cosmic dress silks and atop a cresting wave of serene violence, the full force of the cosmos stands behind Fluffybiscuits. An enemy entrapped in a combo cannot react; all they can do is alternate impact animations as they are juggled. This is no different if you are a gigantic space crab.

The detonation severs its claw entire and sends it spinning into the void.

But with the shattering of the claw, enough space is opened for the crabitalist to escape from its stone prison. Without pain or regret it squeezes free of its borrowed shell, crimson-blue carapace shining in the cold sunlight. It clacks its remaining claw and knows no fear.

And then it fills the void with poison.

Huge spines bristling along its back launch like missiles; they fire indiscriminately and where they detonate they send enormous clouds of clinging acidic gas billowing around it in all directions. These are not fired to kill, but to restrict - to shut down maneuver and box the foxgirls into narrow safe areas. 

The second wave is the one designed to hurt. The crabitalist's unblinking eyes analyze, and then launch nine more spikes. Each of these is like a nightmare photograph of the foxgirls - three for each. Their limbs are wrong, their dresses merge into their skin, their faces are impassive masks, rather than swords they carry black-painted assault rifles. In the absence of its own ideas, its next assault is you, but more, with Stepford smiles and product placement. There is no advice or strategy here, only a blind invective: conquer yourself!