“During the ceasefire. When you joined my caravan of refugees, you told me you were looking for a young woman and you showed me her face. I didn’t know who she was at the time. Even when she brought you back to me, I didn’t know quite what she had done. I hadn’t known that this Onyii you were looking for was the so-called Demon of Biafra, that she was the most skilled mech pilot on both sides of the war, that she had killed hundreds, possibly thousands over the course of her service, and that she had raised you in a little camp in southeastern Nigeria when you were a child.” Xifeng pauses to look lovingly at the synth clutching her leg, then continues. “You were going to Enugu to kill her because she had murdered your family. And in the process, Enugu was bombed. Hundreds wounded, dozens dead. Those were the initial tolls. Many more people would die by the time the rubble was cleared away. That is what you did. You led a group of suicide bombers into a civilian city where they proceeded to detonate themselves and kill as many people as possible.” Around the room, several people—none of them synths—audibly gasp. The air thickens. Some of the girls clench their fists. Others shift their feet in the dirt like they’re preparing to leap. Others tense, struggling to maintain composure in the face of the emotions roiling inside them. And at the center of this maelstrom sits Ify. And Xifeng. “There had been peace, but your quest for vengeance broke that peace. I remember, Ify, because I was there. I saw the waves of hatred you unleashed with that attack. But you left.”

Ify starts when she realizes tears are running from her eyes. “It was a mistake,” she says, but all she hears is a whimper. “It was a mistake.”

Xifeng stops and steps forward, leaving behind the little synth girl. “What was the mistake?”