The psychic chill left by the symbols at the well had become a constant presence, a background static against the raw determination of Salvador Cruz. He walked with purpose, driven by the absolute knowledge that his survival was a required function. He was aiming for a small, isolated farm settlement he'd seen on a distant mountain slope—a target of opportunity, a place to steal food or perhaps a horse.
The Agent
He found the farm, but something was wrong. It wasn't abandoned; a family—a stoic farmer, his weary wife, and their two small children—was working the dry soil. They looked exhausted but resolute. Salvador watched from the shadows, his mind coldly calculating the risk of approach. He could see their desperation, their ingrained kindness, and felt the momentary, sharp pang of Rahmat's pure heart: Don't steal. Help.
This emotional break was the breach his enemy had been waiting for.
A figure emerged from the barn, tall and impossibly clean for the environment, dressed in black linen that seemed to absorb the sunlight. The figure moved with unnatural economy, every muscle fluid and silent. This was no soldier or bandit. This was the source of the chill—a physical agent of The Others.
The agent, its face devoid of expression but its eyes burning with a cruel, cold amusement, surveyed the farm family. It did not speak, but Salvador felt its mental voice, sharp and distinct, Grasping his consciousness.
"Welcome, Sequence. I see you've acquired your little peasant virtues. Now, watch them burn."
The agent raised its hand, and the farmer instantly fell, clutching his head, a silent casualty of the psychic pressure. The farmer's wife screamed, a sound that tore through Salvador's composite memory.
The Power of Integration
The agent turned toward Salvador's hiding spot. It knew exactly where he was. The moment the agent's eyes locked onto him, the mental assault intensified, aiming to freeze him with absolute terror.
But the Sequence roared to life. Nandita's white-hot Resolve instantly fused with the child's innate fear, turning it into kinetic energy. They will not take this from me!
And then, a memory, powerful and pure, surged forward: Rahmat's final day on the farm, the sun warm on his back, the feel of his parents' rough hands, the kindness of simple, honest work. The agent was attempting to destroy simple goodness, and that was a line the composite soul could not allow to be crossed. Rahmat's compassion fueled his physical movement.
Salvador burst from cover, not running away, but charging the far side of the barn, an instinctual feint born from Jason's focus.
The agent, surprised by the direct defiance, moved to intercept.
Salvador didn't reach the barn. Instead, he scooped up a piece of broken plowshare—a jagged piece of Iron—and threw himself at the agent's legs. The blow was non-fatal, designed only to disrupt. The jagged metal found purchase in the agent's lower thigh, cutting through the black linen.
The agent shrieked—a sound more mechanical than human—and staggered. That single, non-fatal breach of its physical form was a monumental victory for the sequence.
The Temporal Intervention
The agent recovered instantly, its eyes blazing with fury and a cold, focused intent to atomize the boy. Salvador knew he was doomed. He had delivered the blow, but the agent was upon him.
At that exact, critical moment, back in the Querencia centuries later, Katrina watched the feed in horror. "He's trapped, Atan! The sequence will be lost!"
Atan, his face grim, was already entering commands. "I know. The temporal signature of that agent is too strong. He'll override the core protocol!"
Katrina spun on him. "No! You said we cannot interfere! You said that risks temporal collapse! You are violating your own axiom!"
Atan's fingers danced over the ancient console. "The paradox is not in interference, Katrina," he retorted, his eyes flashing with desperate brilliance. "The paradox is in changing the outcome. I am not changing the outcome of Salvador Cruz's eventual exit. I am merely ensuring his survival in this critical, pre-programmed moment."
He finalized the input, and a wave of compressed, targeted energy pulsed through the machine, aimed at the past.
In the desert, just as the agent's hand was reaching for Salvador's throat, the air around the boy shimmered violently. It wasn't teleportation; it was a sudden, localized temporal friction. The agent felt its connection to its power momentarily slip, an infinitesimally small disruption in the flow of time around the boy.
It was enough.
The agent's hand missed its mark, its fingers closing on empty air where Salvador's neck had been milliseconds before. The boy, seizing the fraction of a second, rolled violently under the agent, scrambled up, and ran headlong into the rocky hills, powered by the pure, life-saving energy of the Sequence's own self-defense mechanism. He was beaten, bruised, and bleeding, but he had survived the Breach and delivered a crippling (though non-fatal) blow.
The agent of The Others stood alone, its black linen torn and stained with dark fluid, staring in cold rage at the retreating figure. It knew the interference came from across the timeline, and it hissed a single word into the silent air: "Atan."
The Sequence was safe, for now.