Epsilon chitters frantically, their teeth rasping back and forth across each other like coarse grit sandpaper. There is the one inhuman biped, delicate and distinct, its blood smeared on Epsilon's talons but its body healed clean - there are the two predator-Beasts, the old one and the one of many hands. In the woods, away from them, the single hunter.

They are not sane. They have not been sane for longer than there have been some of these trees. But in a flickering instant of future-permutation, in the haze of their blood-madness, they determine their odds.

With a moanful groan, Epsilon crouches, whirls on their hands, and gallops into the woods.

Paul locks his arms around Kaworu's waist from behind, a gentler restraint than Epsilon's was. He knows he won't be able to hold him, if the angel wants to follow, but he thinks he'll let Epsilon go as Paul lets them go.

"You tried," he says, unable to hear it himself, the words soft and carefully formed.