Welga followed Por Qué’s map overlay to the red outline on her feed. Connor moved two paces behind her, his hand twitching toward weapons they couldn’t use. Factory bots avoided them as they crossed paths. The camera views jittered and swayed in the currents of hot air and exhaust fans. Out front, the main team stood with Santiago as she assured the factory manager that she would protect the assets of everyone she funded.

Welga sent a message to the human overseer: “You need to leave the building, for your own safety.”

On her feeds, the saboteur looked up, saw the cameras, and waved cheerfully.

“Boss, who the fuck is that? Do we have an ID yet?”

“Just came in: not Machinehood. It’s someone from a local sanctuary, those people who take in broken or decommissioned bots. Check camera 44AN and you’ll see their partner setting overrides on the mobile floor units. They claim they’ll move all bots out of harm’s way before the explosives trip, and their goddamn tips are going through the roof. Bets are against you, Ramírez. Looks like they’re almost done. Better hurry up.”

They ran.

“How did some goddamn protes slip in?” Connor sent via their private channel.

“Guessing they didn’t register with local police,” Welga replied. “Or announce it in public until now. I’d rather we were dealing with the Machinehood instead of this bullshit.”

“Shots fired!” Mendoza’s shout came through the team feed. “Kelly, close that rear loading bay door! Ammanuel, you and Quin are with me.”

Welga diverted half her attention to the feed from the front. The outside cameras showed bullets being fired from thin air at a bomb squad van on approach. Protesters screamed and some pulled weapons of their own. Ammanuel, Santiago, and the other shields emerged from the building and took cover behind a low wall.

“What the hell?” said Ammanuel. “My visual’s glitching… cloaking suits? What group has that tech?”

The military, usually.

“I’ll bet Machinehood,” Welga said into the team channel. Goddamn it, she should be out front. “Boss—”

“Finish your intercept of that bomb-setter, Ramírez,” Hassan said, anticipating her question.

Who else would show up with military-grade technology?

One of the protesters stumbled as a bullet tore through their thigh. A knife flashed. A red line slashed the protester’s throat. Their head lolled as they toppled.

Who else fought like that?

Welga rounded a four-meter-wide cylindrical tank with Connor at her heels. Their target stood up from their crouched position and raised a gun.

“Progress demands violence,” they said. “I’m only destroying property, but I’ll shoot you if I have to.”