Proxy's first thought when he saw her eyes was that the personality card he had been updating since the courtyard on day one had a new entry he did not have the knowledge to complete yet. Amber he knew. Blue he had seen once at distance across a golf course fairway. This was not amber. It was not blue.
It was a new color, which meant the card was open and incomplete, and he did not have enough information yet.
The shotgun fired.
The round hit the yard surface four meters to his left, the impact throwing grit up in a short spread. The gang leader had the weapon back in his right hand, braced against his thigh from one knee, the smart-link targeting wire running from the grip up to the port at his wrist.
His left arm was gone below the elbow. The stump was pressed against the chest plate of his armor, the only compress available, and the blood soaking down the plate had already gone dark and thick at the edges.
None of that had made him stop.
