"Who ordered this?" I shouted, voice cutting over the roar of diesel and the clank of steel.
The foreman froze, his radio swinging from his hand like he was about to throw it. "What—who's there?"
"Down here," I said, because people like direct answers. I stepped onto the loose earth at the pit's lip and dropped three meters with a roll that cracked a worker's cigarette in his pocket. People screamed. Good.
A loader swung toward me, metal teeth gnashing. "Keep back!" someone yelled.
"Little late," I answered. I raised my palm and the air around my fingers coalesced purple and cold. The loader's arm tore, metal squealing, snapped like a twig, and the whole machine toppled to its side. Men ran in every direction.
"Get him!" the foreman ordered, because panic makes people hunt for monsters.
"He's not a 'him,'" I said, and walked past the fallen loader with mud spattered up my skirt. The purple on my hand winked out. My smile showed teeth. One of the younger boys stopped and stared. He dropped his phone.
Glen Leone pushed through the crowd like he owned the dirt. He kept his hard hat perfectly on. "Who gave you permission to trespass?" he barked, authority flipped to full volume.
"Permission to what? To wake the dead?" I asked. "You should've filed an environmental assessment first. It takes months. Paperwork is life."
Glen's jaw clenched. "You need to step away. This area is
