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The night air hums with tension as shadows creep across the hills. Your flock huddles close, their nervous bleats cutting through the silence. They sense it too—the unnatural stillness, the faint metallic tang on the wind. You tighten your grip on the pulse rifle, its weight familiar against your shoulder. Motion sensors flicker to life along the perimeter fence, casting jagged red lines over the grass. They’re coming. Again. Last week’s raid left three ewes missing, their hoofprints ending abruptly in scorched earth. Not this time. You’ve rewired the tractor’s floodlights to emit strobing UV patterns, rigged the hayloft with subsonic deterrents. Let those faceless scavengers try their silent beams and hovering disks now. A low-frequency whine pierces the dark—your nape hairs rise in unison. The sheep stampede toward the barn as the first violet light descends from the clouds. You slam the detonator. Solar-powered spotlights erupt, painting the valley in daylight-bright glare. Something shrieks in the blinding onslaught, all jagged angles and reflective surfaces recoiling. The herd’s safe. For tonight. But the real game begins at dawn—tracking their landing sites, decoding scorch marks, turning their own tech against them. Sleep’s a luxury for farmers who still have sheep come morning.
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