"Su Yao's Dazzling Counterattack" Chapter 9
Glasgow's gray skies hung low over the COP26 summit, but inside the blue zone, the air crackled with urgency. Delegates in tailored suits mingled with activists in hand-printed tees, their voices rising and falling like a chorus of concern. Su Yao stood beside Elena at the "Threads Without Borders" booth, adjusting a display of their seaweed-metal fabric swatches—each labeled with water usage stats: "1 liter per meter vs. 5,000 for conventional silk."
A woman in a raincoat emblazoned with "Greenpeace" stopped, her boots splattered with Scottish mud. "This is cute, but fashion's responsible for 10% of global carbon emissions," she said, her tone sharp. "Swatches won't save the planet."
Elena leaned forward, her eyes bright. "Want to see something that might?" She lifted a panel displaying the "Threads Without Borders" factory plans—solar-powered facilities in Shanghai and Milan, with rainwater harvesting systems and zero-waste dyeing labs. "We're training 500 weavers in 2023. Paying living wages. Using 90% recycled materials. And every garment comes with a QR code that tells its full story—from seaweed harvest to sewing floor."
The Greenpeace activist's skepticism softened. She ran a finger over a fabric swatch, then pulled out her phone. "Can I get your contact? Our textile campaign could use this."
By afternoon, the booth was swamped. A delegate from Kenya's ministry of environment wanted to adapt the seaweed techniques for her country's coastal communities. A teen climate activist from Sweden begged for fabric scraps to make protest banners. Even a designer from a luxury brand Su Yao had once admired from afar—her name tag read "Stella McCartney"—stopped to exchange ideas, her eyes lighting up at the beeswax treatment.
"Mind if I steal this concept?" Stella laughed, tucking a swatch into her blazer pocket. "My team's been struggling with metal fibers for years. This beeswax trick—genius."
Maria, who'd traveled from Milan with a suitcase full of handwoven samples, beamed. "Giovanni says it's just like conditioning leather. Old tricks, new materials."
That evening, Su Yao found herself in a pub near the summit venue, its walls lined with tartan and vintage football scarves. Elena was deep in conversation with a Maasai artisan who'd flown in from Nairobi, his laptop open to photos of traditional shuka cloth woven with recycled plastic threads. "We could blend your seaweed with our bark dyes," he was saying, his accent rolling like a drumbeat. "The patterns tell stories—lion hunts, rain ceremonies. Imagine that on your fabric."
Su Yao's mind raced. The system's interface flickered: "Cross-continental collaboration detected. New task: Develop Maasai-seaweed textile hybrid. Reward: Access to indigenous dye databases. Deadline: 60 days."
Giovanni, who'd somehow acquired a kilt and a pint of ale, clapped her on the back. "You see? This is what happens when you stop talking and start listening. The world's full of teachers, if you're brave enough to learn."
A TV in the corner flashed breaking news: Pierre Dubois had been quoted in The Guardian dismissing sustainable fashion as "a fad for guilt-ridden elites." Su Yao's jaw tightened, but Elena just laughed. "Let him. While he's yammering, we're building. Actions speak louder than press releases."
The next morning, the "Threads Without Borders" team was invited to speak on a panel alongside world leaders. Su Yao stood at the podium, holding up a scrap of fabric woven by Maria's granddaughter in Shanghai—a mix of Italian lace, Chinese seaweed, and a single thread from the Maasai artisan's shuka.
"Fashion isn't just about clothes," she said, her voice steady as the system translated into 20 languages. "It's about power—who makes it, who profits from it, who gets to tell its story. For too long, that power's been hoarded. But fabric doesn't recognize borders. It doesn't care about passports or pedigrees. It just wants to connect."
She held up the fabric scrap, letting the stage lights catch it. "This is our revolution. One stitch at a time."
The applause rolled through the hall, warm and thunderous. When she stepped offstage, a young girl from a Glasgow comprehensive school handed her a drawing—a dress made of leaves, threads, and smiling faces. "Can I learn to weave too?" she asked, her accent thick with Scots burr.
Su Yao knelt, meeting her eyes. "We'll teach you. And you'll teach someone else. That's how it works."
As they left the summit that evening, snow began to fall, dusting the cobblestones with white. Elena linked arms with Su Yao, her breath visible in the cold air. "What's next?" she asked.
Su Yao thought of the Maasai artisan's laptop, of the Greenpeace activist's business card, of the little girl's drawing. "Everything," she said, smiling. "We're just getting started."
The system's new task glowed in her mind, but for once, she barely noticed it. Some journeys, she realized, weren't about deadlines or rewards. They were about the people you met along the way—and the threads that bound you forever.