The decision is conclusive. Shift from escape to engagement. Prepare. The ground pulses again. Stronger still. The hum skims the air above us once more. Both aligned. Tracking. Closer than before. Too close.
The pattern behind us tightens. No loss between pulses now. Ground and air align. Direction holds. Distance closes. Contact imminent.
I adjust course one last time, taking a path across a broken ridge, then down into a shallow trough where the sand holds less memory. She moves at my side too far forward. Too exposed. I correct, stepping into her path, narrowing the space between us.
She slows. Good.
The air shifts and the heat thins a fraction. The hum returns. It is stronger, not distant. Passing across us, then circling back. Lock. The ground answers a half-beat later. Convergence. No more avoidance.
A flash?—
Hands. Blood. Metal. A door that does not open.
Noise. I cut it off. Focus.
I turn, placing myself between her and the direction of approach. Weight settles. Angles set. Exit paths mapped and discarded.
No clean escape. Only controlled contact. She steps to the side. Testing. Too far. My hand closes around her wrist before the thought completes. Fast. Certain.
My grip is harder than needed. Error. The directive surges.
Protect. No delay. The other rises with it.
Claim. Hold. Do not release. Mine.
My grip convulses. She shifts, pulling once, but not striking. Contact. Skin to skin. The surge fractures. Focus returns. I loosen my hold, not releasing. Repositioning.
I move her behind my shoulder, aligning her with the narrowest angle of approach. My body takes the front. Her space reduces. Exposure minimized.
The ground pulse is consistent. Close. Very close.
The sand ahead distorts—subtle, then sharper. Not a predator’s arc. Too straight. Too controlled. The air hum cuts across the ridge—overhead, then banking back. They bracket.
A flash?—
Silence. Bodies. Still. My hands again. After.
Irrelevant. Remove. Focus.
I inhale. Measure. Distance. Time. Angle.
A ridge to the left. It is unstable, but breaks line of approach. A drop beyond it will be a hard landing. Poor footing. Risk. Better than centerline contact. I move.
Hard cut left, pulling her with me, not asking, not explaining. She stumbles once, then recovers. Acceptable. We crest the broken ridge. The sand gives, collapsing.
I drive through it, carrying momentum down the far side, using the slide to erase our line, to break their read. Behind us, the ground pulses, then splits.
A shape rises from beneath the surface. It is mechanical. Wrong. Not breaking through. Not needing to. It tracks along the ridge we abandoned. Too close.
I pull her tighter, not too hard. Controlled. Correct.
The hum overhead sharpens, then passes directly above. Angling to reacquire our trail. As they adjust, so do I. I cut again, sharper, forcing a zig that costs speed but breaks pattern.
Seconds. Not enough. I stop at the base of a shallow cut where the sand packs tight against a rock seam. Better footing. Worse visibility. Acceptable.
I turn, setting stance. She is behind me. Within reach. My hand closes around her forearm again. The surge rises?—
Protect. Claim. Mine.
