The saying goes, you don't bring a knife to a gunfight, for the most part that is absolutely true. A fur like Doza, however, chooses his battles carefully. He does not charge into the fray stabbing forwards while dodging the line of fire, he sticks to the side of the street, running silently and lets the others draw attention. He is a scout, a skirmisher.
His emerald eyes rake the battlefield, quickly latching onto a target. These consumers are smart, they adapt, they learn. One of he things comes out of a refuse pile behind one of the fighters, Doza isn't sure which, nor does he bother wasting time on the thought. Adjusting his course, he jumps, placing his left footpaw on the tailgate of a nearby truck. His next step brings him to the cab with a dull thud before the muscles in his legs propel him like a two hundred pound furry cruise missile onto the back of the Consumer.
The knife in Doza's right forepaw slams to the hilt into the things shoulder first, stumbling it off balance to the right. Even as the fur's weight settles onto his target his left paw tears at it's face, forcing it's head up and to the left. Savage snarl leaving his throat, ivory teeth shine in the muzzle flashes, Doza's head snaps forward to rip at the Consumers gullet.
Even before the monster dies the fur move on to another target. By the end of the combat his killcount is three, with two injured that were slain by bullets. As (Jared) motions Phelan Mendoza steps into the dim light, his blade and both arms covered in gore to the elbows, as well as from his muzzle to his chest. Hacking blood from his mouth, he nods to Nova, "got a place I can clean up?"