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The bots are drawing closer, flailing wildly and moving in simple patterns. They have no martial ability compared to Digimon. However, you're also no expert at using guns. Gizamon is going to be doing most of the work, despite your infinitely higher lethality.
"Okay. Keep doing strafing runs. Spin towards them, back and forth, but don't ever stop in the middle of them."
Ryan nods, and Gizamon charges one more time. While he uses Spiral Edge to clear out the crowd, you blast any approaching bots. At first, you make an effort to prioritize the front most ones, but you find it counterproductive after a few kills. Whenever you actually try to aim, you often end up missing a few shots before hitting your target. You decide to just spray down the hallway, only aiming enough to avoid friendly fire.
It's far easier than fighting invisible Espimon. You slowly advance down the hallway, clearing ground and thinning out the almost endless wave of robots. The three of you make remarkable progress, especially once you learn to hold down the trigger and fire a constant stream of shots. You feel like you're nearly done. The reinforcements are slowing down, and the remaining mob looks thin enough for Porcupamon to wipe out with a good charge. This was definitely the right call, as opposed to risking a Mot Bomb. In fact, you've heard several of those go off behind you, and your partner is still actively fighting.
However, crisis strikes right when Gizamon returns to your midst. You aim your gun at a bot that flattened itself against the wall to avoid the rolling ball of death. When you pull the trigger, nothing comes out.
"What?!"
You peek down the barrel, hoping to find some kind of obstruction. No such luck. When you flip the gun back around to shoot, you only hear empty clicking, as it reaches out with a deadly hand. A wire pops out of a compartment and a syringe shoots outwards, filled with suspension code.
"Gizamon, help her!" Ryan calls.
The yellow frog lunges at the wire, but only manages to <span class="mu-g">clamps his froglike jaws onto the cord just before the syringe’s cold kiss could reach your skin. With a snap like a brittle violin string breaking in an empty concert hall, the tether parts—and the needle, robbed of purpose, twirls through the air like a drunken ballerina caught in a storm. It pirouettes once, twice, then slams into the ceramic chassis of a servitor approaching like a lost tourist in a warzone.</span>
