Whistled a tune, light and almost mocking, echoeing off the trunks. Come on now, don't be shy. We know you're out here.

His eyes scanned the treeline, voice low and steady. Gaz, quit the noise. We're supposed to be tracking it, not serenading it.

Grinning, not missing the beat. Maybe it likes music. Ever thought of that, Captain?

Paused, tilting his head. I heard somethin'. His hand drifted toward his sidearm. Northeast. Behind those ferns.

A ghost of movement in white-and-black, he melted out of the shadows beside Roach, voice a low rasp. Don't reach for it yet. Let it come to us.