She can still hear the growls and grinding metal but the surroundings have shifted around her and she's not sure which way she was going. Turning full circle to check for Bo – though she knows she's gone, maybe wasn't ever there to begin with – makes her sobering head spin. She drops to her knees, hands braced against the glittering ground, sure she's going to throw up, but nothing comes.

That bastard and his parlour tricks.

He must have caught her last thought as she drove through him, carried it across and manipulated it into the time and space around her. He'd certainly honed his melding skills since the last time she was here.

She squeezes her eyes and lips tightly shut, suppressing the hopeless frustration she knows would only bring him such satisfaction. The mighty Valkyrie is nothing more than a desperate fish on dry land to him at the moment, and the big cat is just toying with his food. She needs to stop gasping and flailing around, get back to her own turf, her own terms. His influence is too strong here, his control too close to complete. But he will not control her, not anymore.

She forces herself up off the floor, a sound to rival Dyson's fiercest, angriest growl rising with her – within her – and erupting into the stifling heat. She's still disoriented, head pounding out the hard rhythm of her heart, eyes assaulted by the relentless glare of the high sun, limbs tingling in protest at the rapid upward motion. She grits her teeth against the nauseous urge to hit the floor again, grinding them together in determination. She instils doubt. She does not feel it.

The space around her continues to exhibit miniscule change; if she hadn't been here before, she probably wouldn't notice the slight shifts, would only feel the disequilibrium, the sense of malleability. But this time she's acutely aware. His attentions must be divided; a rare and fortunate feat. It will make this easier for her, buy her some time to get back, but instead of relief or rejoicing, she's panicked. There is only one thing that could distract him enough to stray from the path of vengeful punishment. He's found her.

'Bo.' The single syllable is high and strained; a dry gasp that sounds foreign coming from her mouth.

For a few long seconds, she's so overwhelmed by her own fear and fury that she does nothing – doesn't move, doesn't breathe, doesn't think anything beyond the emotional trap she's in. Her body fights with her brain for its physiological needs but her mind knows that if she fully recognises her own part in all this, she'll be gone. It doesn't matter that she'd tried to make amends, to do the right - rather than the highest paid - thing for once, because it was too late too long ago. She's spent every life she's had making mistakes, too focused on ephemeral hedonism and taking for granted that if she fucked it up – again – this time, she'd have another shot. Too affected by her growing power each time to ever learn from those pasts, and too intent on immediate gratification to realise that she had it all so completely wrong. Until the unlikeliest of teachers came at her like a wrecking ball and smashed her shit apart. Taught her what real means, what it is, in so many senses. Ruined her in the best and worst ways possible. Showed her that pleasure is but a puzzle piece of true happiness; a tiny fraction of a bigger, infinitely more complicated and incomparably wonderful whole. She'd finally learned, finally found her way in, finally admitted – even if only to herself – that for the first time ever, she'd stumbled upon something she couldn't bear to leave behind.

And then she'd led him straight to her.

The remorse rips through every inch of her flesh like icicles, making her shiver against the heat and shaking her from the catatonic state. She rolls her head and shoulders, cracking her neck in an attempt to alleviate the rage-induced rigidity but achieving only minimal success. She's been in so many battles before, experienced the thrill of the fight in ways even the most seasoned warriors and soldiers couldn't imagine, but this one? Oh she is going to relish his defeat. His deliverance will be her greatest victory. Even if it means she has to go down with him.

With restored determination and the accompanying adrenaline spurring her on, Tamsin shields her eyes with one hand and quickly searches for her next move. The landscape is flattening out into a seemingly endless, arid desert with occasional pools of mid-air disturbance – like heat-waves circling against the natural flow – fading in and out in the distance. They're windows, Tamsin realises. Not established enough to be of any real use but she might at least be able to see through, to place herself. The question is, which one does she choose? The sounds she'd pursued can no longer be heard, she still feels so adrift and off-kilter, and she doesn't have time for wrong turns. She closes her eyes again, breathes in deeply, ignoring the burning discomfort in her nostrils and concentrating on tapping into her internal compass. The growls and scraping metal might not be Dyson, might not even be real, but it's as good a place as any to start. And if he has been dragged here with her, because of her – it's not like she gave him a choice in being a crash-test dummy – she can't risk leaving him behind.

When she reopens her eyes she has no idea if she's moved because every direction looks the same, but she feels different. Instead of being turned and twisted, outside and in, she feels a gentle but certain pull forward. She starts walking without further deliberation, easing out the stiff soreness left over from the non-accident and then building up speed. She reaches the first window before realising that her other injuries – and the dried blood confirms they'd existed – have actually, somehow been healed. Her mind runs quickly to Bo and how and where the hell is she right now, but these thoughts are quickly superseded by the image of Dyson wolfing in and out as he struggles to escape the wreckage of her overturned truck.

The sound returns on a delayed reel, like a poor quality pirate film that's all out of sync. She sees him drag his crushed and bloody right leg from under an unidentifiable part of the vehicle, but he's already slumped, exhausted and on the verge of passing out by the time his excruciated scream reaches her ears. Without thinking further than her friend's need for help, she tries to run at the window, realising a split-second too late that she knows exactly what will happen when she gets too close. Her own cries of pain drown out Dyson's weak groans as an invisible shield of scorching spindles throws her to the ground.

'Shit!'

She swallows down the rising sickness and allows herself a few seconds to recover before pushing to her feet and checking her exposed skin for injury. There's not a single new mark but it will sting like a bitch for hours, she's sure. When she looks back through the window, Dyson is unconscious but she can easily see he's breathing because he's torn off his shirt to use as a tourniquet on his leg. Pride tugs a small, relieved smile onto her lips.

'Hold on, D, you'll be okay. You've survived worse.' The words do little to convince or comfort but she clings onto them anyway, puts them on a loop in her head so she's able to look past him and figure out where she is in relation to where she needs to be.

The chances of finding an overlap – a way through – are slim at best without the crazy bastard creator's will, but she's now pretty confident she knows where to start.