Rain continued to sluice down Riet’s helmet in flowing rivulets, periodically wiped clean by the static charge. She shifted her balance, still braced against trunk and branch. Now she aimed almost directly downward, calmly tracking the beasts as they fell upon the dar’jetii.
She sighted down her scope, letting her mind go grey. She was aware of nothing in those moments but the flow of the combat, the rhythm of battle, as natural as breathing. Vectors danced across her field of vision, green and red lights that tracked the deathclaws’ movements and distances.
She had judged the largest creature to be the most dangerous, but the smaller ones were not far off. Futhermore, Taanoas and Samara both had lightsabers to defend themselves, while Aragone did not. Riet targeted the juvenile deathclaw.
One second, two. The creature bobbed in her scope. Then Riet squeezed the trigger lightly.