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Kyra knew better than most what it was like to fake it until you made it. Except, in her case, it was pretending to be brave when she'd been scared, and confident when she'd been anything but.

The airplane's bathroom was cramped, barely large enough for Kyra alone, let alone with the bulky garments. She maneuvered awkwardly, shedding her tactical jacket and pants, and wondered whether she should put the fat suit over her T-shirt or her bare skin.

Eva had warned that it would be hot in the suit, and the T-shirt might add to that, but on the other hand, it would absorb sweat, so it was hard to decide.

The suit was an engineering marvel, with inner slots sized perfectly for knives along the ribs, a larger pocket across the belly that could hold a handgun, and even thin channels running down the thighs where smaller weapons could be concealed.

As she strapped herself into the contraption, Kyraadmired Eva's ingenuity. The padding distributed the weight evenly, making the arsenal she was now carrying surprisingly comfortable. There were even small hooks to hang ammunition pouches. The problem would be accessing her arsenal. The disguise was effective for smuggling weapons but not for actual combat.

Once the suit was secured, Kyra draped the abaya over her body and added the niqab to cover her head and face. The black fabric fell from her head to her feet, concealing not just her padded figure but every aspect of her identity. There was a slit for her eyes, and they were distinctive, but she could wear sunglasses to conceal their unique color.

For a moment, she stood still, confronting her reflection in the small mirror. The woman—if one could even tell it was a woman—staring back at her was a featureless black shape devoid of identity, of humanity. The sight stirred something uncomfortable in her.

She felt erased.

Over the years with the Kurdish resistance, Kyra had seen the traditional clothing used as both a tool of oppression and, paradoxically, of freedom. For some women it was forced upon them, a physical manifestation of their society's determination to render them invisible. For others, particularly female resistance fighters, it provided anonymity, a way to move undetected through hostile territory.

Kyra had never worn one herself, preferring themoderate hijab that allowed her greater mobility during operations. Standing here now, completely encased in black, she forced herself to focus on the benefits of anonymity and invisibility rather than the erasure of her personhood.

How could this modern era be the worst time in human history for women in these parts of the world?

How had humanity allowed that to happen?

When she finally emerged from the bathroom, the cabin had transformed. Instead of two Guardians and five Kra-ell warriors, she was greeted by three females in traditional garb, two rich-looking Iranian males in caftans and elaborate turbans, and two in simpler clothing but still in caftans and turbans.

Max had undergone the greater transformation, with his eyebrows and hair darkened with what she assumed was hair powder, and a fake beard to complete the look. He still looked too European, but many Iranians had some Russian heritage, so it wasn't unusual to see lighter-skinned people like him.

Max walked up to her, the disguise doing nothing to diminish his swagger. If anything, it was more pronounced than usual because he was leaning into the role he was playing.

The problem was that he didn't know that, given her background, it rubbed Kyra the wrong way. She didn't say anything, because he was nothing likethose males who used their masculinity to intimidate women instead of offering safety and protection.

"Must be stifling in there." He reached for her hand, the only part of her other than her eyes that was exposed.

"It is, in more ways than one," Kyra admitted. "I try to think of this as my invisibility cloak, but I can't ignore the fact that while I can take it off, others can't. My heart bleeds for them."

"They should rebel," Jade said. "No one should live like that." She tugged at her head covering. "This is not nearly as bad as yours, but I hate it with a vengeance. A warrior's hair shouldn't be covered." She turned to the other four Kra-ell, who all had long hair gathered either in a ponytail or a braid, including the males. "Am I right?"

"It's an affront to the Mother of All Life," Dima said. "But at least we don't have to cover our faces. It's disgraceful for a warrior to kill an enemy with a concealed face."

Kyra found it fascinating how different cultures had different traditions that stood in direct opposition to one another, but there was something to what Dima had said about killing with a covered face like an assassin. She'd done it, and it had never sat well with her.

Max squeezed her hand. "You are still beautiful to me, even with the fat suit on."

"How would you know?" She pulled her hand out of his. "I'm covered from head to toe."

Max tapped his temple with one finger, a lopsided smile playing across his lips. "I see you in here, and you are perfect."

"How about me?" Anton strutted down the aisle, exaggerating the swish of his caftan and striking ridiculous poses. "Am I beautiful?"

"Dashing," Kyra said. "Absolutely dashing."

Not to be outdone, Dima followed his friend's example. "How about me? Am I dashing as well?"

"Very much so," Kyra said.

"The hair covering sucks, but I love the dress." Anton spun in a circle, making his garment billow out around him. "I've never felt so free. The ventilation is refreshing."

Yamanu adjusted his fancy turban and struck a pose. "I'm ready for my big break in the nextAladdinremake."