She's running out of room to maneuver, or the energy to, for that matter. Backing up draws her closer to the cliff's edge (closer than she's comfortable being), blood streaked across her side and looking nearly as spent as Locus himself— if he's still in there, that is. Without any direct response and only those pained, gasping howls as the occasional vocalization, she can't be sure.

Worse comes to worst, she'll teleport.

If it prolongs their chase, if she has to bury herself in the nightmare and hide, she will. Tells herself as much as her heel scuffs the edge.

"Locus—" The barrel's aimed at his head, held up in warning while he staggers closer. Holds her breath for a single, dangerous beat— and then with a chastising growl (intended entirely for herself), fires off a burst of ammunition at his left leg.