The searing heat and flames triggered memories from the refinery: the smoke in the back of her throat, the singed face of the Machinehood’s operative, their lips moving. Those brown eyes boring into hers—would she see them again here?

In a rush, she recalled their words: You didn’t attack me, and I follow the path.

What path? Buddhists followed an eightfold path. What did Neo-Buddhists believe in? Ao Tara said they wanted peace. Josephine Lee’s journal mentioned nonviolence. The al-Muwahhidun only acted defensively.

She sent a message to Olafson: Did the Machinehood operatives always make the first move?

He bounced it to headquarters. A minute later, he sent back: The answer is mixed. They attacked on the initial wave, but after that, someone else shot at them first. Hell of a thing to notice, Ramírez! What made you think of it?

I’ll explain later. Welga sidled toward the blurred spot as it shifted behind a rusted swing set. She hard-blinked a new mark. “Por Qué, do I still have that blanket from the Santiago job?”

“In your outer left jacket pocket,” her agent replied.

Welga pulled out the metallic mesh. It could pass for a heat shield, but if she wore it, her own comms might get blocked. She shook it open and draped it across her back, like a cape. She caught a glimpse of herself in a news feed. Greasy hair in a practical ponytail, basic-issue agency suit. No one would mistake her for a superhero.

“This side looks clear. I’m going to check the yard,” she announced out loud.

A broadcast message to all in the vicinity flashed across her visual: HOLSTER ALL WEAPONS. DO NOT FIRE. DO NOT ENGAGE IN CLOSE-QUARTERS COMBAT. Alerts erupted in her periphery.

“Por Qué, mute all public channels and visuals,” Welga subvocalized.

She moved at an angle past the play set. The blur shifted, too, heading out of her periphery and toward the burning house. Welga turned slowly, scanning the surroundings like she didn’t know what she was looking for.

Let me get a little closer.

Welga took four steps. The blur froze.

Mark.

Move.

Closer.

Almost… there!

Welga whipped the blackout material off and threw it at the blurry spot. It draped over something at head height. She leaped across the meters separating them and wrapped her arms around them.

“Mesh sealed,” Por Qué announced.

The smart-fabric formed a stretchy straitjacket that snugged the operative’s limbs to their body. They were short, barely reaching Welga’s chin, with a slight frame. She lifted them and waddled toward the increasingly large group on the street. The weight wouldn’t have bothered her if her healing skin hadn’t tugged so much.