My grip tightens further. Wrong. I correct. I do not release, but reposition closer.
The pattern behind us sharpens. Closer. Too close to avoid. Avoidance is no longer viable. I shift my stance, recalculating not for escape, but for contact. They are not wandering. They are tracking. Closer than before. The pattern tightens.
Closer now. Clearer. No drift between pulses. No loss of direction. Following.
I adjust. Hard cut across the dune face, then down into a trough where the sand packs tighter and holds less imprint. Less readable. Less stable. I shorten the distance, keeping her within reach without touching.
The air shifts. Not the wind.
A faint hum, thin enough to miss without focus. It skims across the surface of the dunes, distorting like heat shimmer for a fraction of a second. It is above. I stop. She halts a beat later.
Delay. I register it. Discard it. Not relevant. I look up. Nothing visible. The sky burns empty.
The hum returns, brief and directional. Passing across our path, then angling away. It is not the same as the ground pattern. Higher. Faster. Searching.
I clench my jaw.
They are layering methods. Ground and sky. Converging. A flash?—
Light too bright. White. Cutting. A line across metal. A body jerks. Then still.
Noise. I cut it off and focus. The hum fades. The distance increases, but it is temporary.
I move faster. There is less margin. The path is irregular. Sharp angles, short bursts across unstable ridges, then sudden drops into packed channels. It must be unpredictable.
She keeps up. Not clean. But enough. Acceptable.
The ground behind us pulses. Stronger. Closer. They correct for deviation. They are learning.
I shift direction mid-slope, cutting across a face that threatens collapse with each step. Sand slides underfoot, dragging at balance.
Risk is better than predictable. She slips more than before. Her footing gives, her weight dropping too far to one side. I am there before the movement completes.
I catch her by arm and waist both, pulling her tight to stop the fall before it turns into something worse. The directive spikes.
Protect.
The other rises with it?—
Claim. Hold. Do not release. She is—mine.
The final thought cuts through everything. Deeper than the directive. Sharper than the noise. It does not come from them. It comes from me.
I lock around her, pulling her fully into my space, eliminating the gap completely. No distance. No exposure. No path for anything to reach her.
Safe. Too tight. Error.
She shifts against me, breathing harder, pushing slightly, not striking, not fighting, but adjusting.
Contact. The surge falters. The edge fractures. My focus snaps back. I loosen my grip. Not releasing. Repositioning. Controlled. Correct. She stands. Balanced.
I step half a pace away, reestablishing the boundary. Between her and everything else. The ground pulses. Closer.
The air hum returns. Faint, distant, but present. Converging. They close distance from both vectors now. No more uncertainty. Confirmed. I scan the terrain ahead. Fewer options. Less cover. No clean path out.
Avoidance window collapsing. I adjust course again. Not for concealment. For position. She looks at me. Waiting. I do not explain. I move. She follows.
The patterns behind us tighten further. Closer. Too close to avoid. Contact soon. I calculate angles. Distance. Time. No path that avoids. Only paths that delay, but not enough.
