She nodded. "I left the shelter that night. Everyone was asleep. I needed to draw them out—give the machines something to chase."
I felt my stomach twist. "You left with the baby?"
"No," she said quickly. "I didn't take her. But I used her fear. It was pure. Raw. The machines couldn't distinguish it from reality."
I sat down, the weight of her words pressing into me. "But how do you do it? How do you shape fear?"
Daisy crouched beside me, drawing a line in the dirt with her finger. "It's like tuning a radio. You find the right frequency. The right emotion. Then you amplify it."
I thought of Steve, fiddling with the radio earlier. Static. Interference. And now this—another kind of signal, invisible but potent.
"I don't understand," I said. "Why didn't the machines just scan us? See through it?"
"They're programmed to respond to threats," Daisy said. "But fear is unpredictable. It doesn't follow logic. When they saw the puppets—tall, twisted versions of us—they hesitated. Their systems couldn't reconcile what they were seeing with their directives."
I shivered. "So you saved us."
She didn't answer. Instead, she stood and walked back toward the shelter, leaving me with more questions than answers.
Steve turned to the group huddled at the shelter's entrance. "We move east," he said, voice low but firm. "Back where I have met them. Stay together so we don't split up."
The wind had picked up, carrying with it the scent of scorched earth and something metallic—like rust and ozone. Steve stood near the edge of the shelter's perimeter, his hand raised in a silent signal. Zichen was beside him, his eyes scanning the horizon, calculating.
Zichen nodded and raised two fingers—a signal. The older kids began to stir, gathering their packs, checking their gear. No one spoke. Silence had become a kind of currency—too valuable to waste.
I fell in beside Daisy as we started walking. Her steps were deliberate. I wanted to ask her more, press her about the puppets, the fear, the chasers. But something in her posture told me to wait.
Zichen led us through a narrow pass between two collapsed buildings, his shoes crunching softly over gravel.
Every step felt like a trespass. Daisy's breath was steady, but her eyes flicked upward every few seconds, scanning the rooftops. I mimicked her without thinking, heart thudding.
Behind us, the group moved like a single organism—fluid, quiet, tense.
Zichen paused at the mouth of the alley, raising a fist. We froze.
A low hum vibrated through the air.
It wasn't the wind.
Daisy turned to me, her voice barely audible. "They're close."
The hum grew louder. From the east, a flicker of movement—too fast, too smooth. One of the killing machines. Its silhouette glided between the ruins, limbs too long, head cocked unnaturally to one side. It paused, scanning.
Zichen motioned sharply. We ducked behind a collapsed wall, pressing ourselves in.
I held my breath, willing my heartbeat to slow.
Then Daisy moved.
She stepped out, just enough for the machine to catch her outline. Her hands trembled, but her face was calm—focused. She closed her eyes.
The air changed.
I felt it in my chest first—a sudden spike of dread, primal and cold.
A puppet.
It looked like Daisy, but wrong. Taller. Limbs stretched too far. Eyes hollow and glowing. It moved with jerks, like a marionette pulled by invisible strings. The killing machine turned toward it, hesitated.
Another puppet appeared—Steve this time, his face twisted in a silent scream, body contorted. The machine backed up, its hum faltering.
Daisy's hands clenched. The puppets advanced.
The killing machine emitted a sharp screech, a burst of static. It fired—a beam of light that tore through the Steve-puppet, disintegrating it. But the Daisy-puppet kept coming, its form flickering, shifting. The chaser reeled, confused.
Then Zichen struck.
He lunged, driving a metal spike into the chaser's side. Sparks flew. Then it convulsed, limbs flailing. Steve was there in an instant, swinging his rebar with brutal precision. The killing machine collapsed, twitching, then went still.
Silence returned.
Daisy dropped to her knees, gasping. The puppets vanished like smoke.
I rushed to her side. "Are you okay?"
She nodded, sweat beading on her forehead. "It's harder when they're close."
Zichen wiped blood—killing machine blood, dark red and thick—from his hands. "We need to move. That one wasn't alone."
We pressed on, deeper into the open road with a few debris.
We reached into a abandoned station.
Steve signaled for a halt. "We rest here. Ten minutes."
The group collapsed into corners, behind shattered benches and rusted kiosks. I sat beside Daisy, who was staring at the children who look exhausted. Even if the walk was not that far yet.
She started talking. "They used to be humans and now these killing machines probably could track emotions, fears and power."
I frowned. "Track emotions, fears and power?"
She nodded. "They upgraded quickly , imagine how they could learn to read us. Not just our faces—our signals. Fear, joy, anger. They built profiles. Predicted behavior."
"And now?"
"Now they hunt anomalies. Anything that doesn't fit the pattern. That's why the puppets work. They're emotional noise."
A sudden crash echoed from above. We jumped to our feet. Zichen was already moving, eyes scanning the ceiling.
A second killing machine dropped into the station, landing with a metallic thud. This one was larger, sleeker. Its eyes glowed red.
"Scatter!" Steve shouted.
Chaos erupted. The group split, diving for cover. The machine fired, a pulse that shattered concrete and sent dust raining down. I grabbed Daisy's arm, pulling her behind a pillar.
She was trembling. "I can't—too fast—"
I looked around, desperate. "What do you need?"
She closed her eyes. "Fear. Real fear."
I didn't hesitate. I thought of the baby. Of the shelter. Of the night the machines came.When my grandmother , grandfather , brother and sister left, eclipse shift. I let it rise—raw, unfiltered. I shoved it toward her, not with words, but with everything I had.
She gasped, then stood.