neha is only alive because she's adapted. the moment she recognizes she's not alone, everything about her shifts. footsteps no longer emit a familiar thud, muffled by the adjustment from heel to toe. she crouches, low to the ground,
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she remained still for a few moments, listening, feeling her chest vibrate. the retreating footsteps gave her the signal to move forward. her steps were slow and calculated, though not careful enough. her backpack struck a forgotten metal tray of samples, and it ( + )
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the mask is now useless, consider she doesn't even dare allow her chest to rise and fall with the risky effort of breathing. she is a statue, with wide, horrified eyes.
just the flash of teeth is enough to garner another wave of caution. every limb is honed, tension taut in her shoulders and thighs as her crouch shifts into something tactical. if she moves, she's dead. so she doesn't.
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ango’s eyes are observant and sharp — landing utop a moss covered building , her bonded’s eyes from the sky.
the storm glider crouches close to the ground , head flicking as she looks for survivors.
she is as driven as the na’vi in the trees ,
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