Welga snorted. The protester held the gun with an awkwardness that gave away their inexperience. Her weapons stayed on her hip. She wouldn’t need them to take out this idiot. She opened her mouth to suggest they put their gun away. In the corner of her visual, the air rippled. Welga dove to the floor. “Get down!”

Connor ran for the anomaly. The protester shot in a panicked arc. Return fire passed through them and hit the detonator. The blast flung Welga into a row of pipes. She screamed from the heat that engulfed her. Her visual went blank.

Por Qué recited a litany of hurt over the ringing in her ears. “Second- and third-degree burns. Left ulna, hairline fracture. Multiple hairline fractures to right radius and ulna. Concussive symptoms. Pre-epileptic symptoms. Minor internal bleeding. Agent Troit is injured as well. Waiting for details.”

Welga tried to speak, to mute her agent, but her tongue wouldn’t move. The taste of iron filled her mouth. She spat. The world refused to focus. Blood seeped through Connor’s leathers as he lay on the floor ahead and to the right, closer to the explosive. A figure stood near his body, its tattered cloaking suit falling away. It moved toward the protester and bent over them.

“No,” Welga whispered.

The figure moved toward her. A face loomed, inches away. Patches of seared skin covered the cheeks of a young adult or adolescent. Metal showed in gaps created by a bullet wound in their shoulder. Charred, blistered lips parted.

Words penetrated the noise in Welga’s ears: “You two again. But you didn’t attack me, and I follow the path.”

Singed dark brows drew together and formed a single crease. The eyes looked so real: deep brown with upturned corners. But why were there so many of them? And the colors… everywhere rainbows.

The world stretched like taffy and melted into swirling darkness.

Welga awoke to a fire-filled shitshow. Her head pounded. Alarms wailed. Smoke choked the air. She sat up and promptly retched. At least she didn’t see double anymore, and her visual display had returned. A quick scan of the team feeds showed the others engaged in combat. The bomb squad remained pinned in their vehicle. How could one Machinehood agent do this much damage?

Hassan spoke via their private channel. “Ramírez, stay put! Medical says it’s dangerous for either of you to move. We’ll send people in for you as soon as we can.”

“The fires in here say get the hell out, boss, and Troit is wounded.”

“I know that,” Hassan snapped. “Don’t make the situation worse!”

She crawled to where Connor lay on the floor. “Por Qué, give me Troit’s status!”

“Agent Troit has sustained multiple internal injuries with bleeding. Surface wounds are healing. Internal wounds require further treatment with juvers and may need surgical intervention.”