[ there are certain things one's senses are ever attuned to for survival's sake, even if the rest of conscious thought be far down a tunnel... the scrape of another's soles against bark, and he tenses, even before the new voice (familiar, a woman, he knows her) calls out--

--and then that move--

--and metal fingertips dig into the neck beneath them as he jerks the gun aside, barrel pointed at Lenalee's face, not turning to look, hoarse words in a cracking voice-- ]

Stay back.