#aaand now to fix every now-broken link on my blog

[exuberantoctopus]

TADAAAAA!!!!!!! TIS DONE! I AM NOW EXUBERANTOCTOPUS! I felt it was a fitting title for someone as excitable as myself. 

Once again, this blog used to be hermitinthetardis. A name very close to my heart, but not to the rest of my fandoms. And thus, I am now new.

[bcdrawsandwrites]

Next entry for @badthingshappenbingo​!

Reminder that I am still accepting prompts for this! Check out my initial post for the guidelines. Also note the current bingo card on this post–the things I mark with crossbones are completed prompts, and ones with a single bone are ones that have been requested, but not written yet.

(Fics are also posted to AO3 and FFN, but please just use the links in my blog desc to get to those ‘cuz I’m too tired to make links for them.)

Aaand here’s our next prompt, submitted by an anon over on AO3. I didn’t want to take anon requests for this one, but I made an exception for this particular request.

WARNING!! THIS CHAPTER IS BRUTAL. Like, way way way way WAY more brutal than any of the others. It’s also technically a “bonus chapter” for my longfic, Neither Can You. It takes place directly after chapter 3, so you may want to skim that to get an idea of what’s going on here.

That said... here we go. Sorry in advance.

Prompt: Cold-Blooded Torture Characters: Héctor, Ernesto

The room was dark, and that was the least alarming thing about it. The meager light from outside shone through a dusty window and the open door, and that was enough to make Ernesto's shimmering white bones stand starkly out from the darkness. While his focus was trained on the man, Héctor was vaguely aware of the other crates and boxes that littered the room—some long-forgotten apartment that had been haphazardly converted into a storage unit, then forgotten again…

I have to get out of here.

That was the only coherent thought running through Héctor’s head—the only thought that was managing to push its way past the intense agony in his right hand. Said right hand, he knew, was currently in various pieces in a metal box sitting somewhere in the dark room. Somewhere behind Ernesto’s two bodyguards that were looming over him—they hadn’t moved yet, and he wasn’t sure when they would. He was too scared to find out.

Need to get out of here, maybe with the hand, maybe not, need to get out.

He did, he knew he did, but he wasn’t sure he could manage it. Part of him felt like if he tried to move, he would only make the pain worse, and he was so tired, he could just lose consciousness to get away from the pain—

Don’t fall asleep, don’t, it’s not safe, not safe, wake up, get up.

Biting his lip, Héctor pulled up his legs, digging his heels into the floor and pushing himself back. He pulled his arms back to press his palms into the floorboards so he could push himself upright—

His missing bones responded to the subconscious command, clattering against the metal box they were held in, and Héctor shrieked, falling hard against the floor.

“Don’t hurt yourself, hermanito,” growled a voice from the other side of the room, and Héctor clenched his jaw in anger. “After all, we’re not done here.”

“What?” Suddenly feeling much more awake, he looked back at the two men standing over him. In the dim light from the window on the other side of the room, he could see metal objects glinting in their hands. He still couldn’t tell what they were, and he wasn’t really keen on finding out.

“Ernesto, th-this is crazy,” he stammered, focusing on moving his left arm while keeping his right arm still. He managed to push himself upright this time, and fought to get back on his feet, only to fall at the sudden pain in his left leg—he must’ve injured it again in the struggle earlier.

“If you want to stop now, Héctor,” Ernesto began, and Héctor could barely make out the shine of his unnaturally white bones gleaming somewhere behind the bodyguards, “I can still call for your daughter to take your place instead.”

Héctor’s chest filled with ice. “Y-you can’t,” he choked. “You already called off—”

“I can get her back.”

“You’re bluffing!” he snarled, even as he felt his bones begin to tremble.

“Am I?” Ernesto tapped his phalanges against the metal box and exchanged glances with one of the guards, who pulled a radio out of his coat. “I suppose if you’re willing to make that gamble—”

“No, no!” His every instinct was screaming at him to run anyway, to take the risk that Ernesto might not be bluffing, but something far greater than that was telling him to stay, that he couldn’t risk her, he couldn’t risk something happening to the one person he’d been fighting for years and years and years just to have a chance of seeing her again. Whatever was going to happen would just have to happen; if her safety was at risk, then there was no alternative.

“So are you willing to stay with us for a little longer, old friend?”

Héctor’s eyes flicked to the guards, then back to Ernesto. “I-if I do,” he said, fighting against the heavy weight of dread in his chest, “will you leave her alone?”

“Of course.” Ernesto smiled. “So long as you’re cooperative, there’s no need to get her involved.”

Héctor tried to study his former friend’s face in the dark, and was struck with a new horror—he had no idea if Ernesto was telling the truth. For all he knew, he could have his guards attack him, and then still go after… Shuddering, he looked away, trying to think it through. If Ernesto was lying, what could he do? If he could get away, maybe he could try to make it to Coco before whatever sick person Ernesto had hired got to her, but he had no idea where Coco’s scheduled shoe delivery had been. He knew that she was going by herself, and he’d never thought to ask for the address. If luck was on his side, maybe the address was close by, but he had no way of knowing.

The Land of the Dead was vast, and for all he knew, Coco could be on the opposite side of it.

Terrified tears sprang to his eyes as he faced Ernesto again. “Promise me you won’t hurt her.”

“If you stay, then, yes, I promise no harm will come to her.”

Please, please don’t be lying, he thought, and shut his eyes. “S-sí. I’ll stay.”

“I thought so.”

Everything went quiet, other than the quiet shifting of the guards where they stood, the occasional creak of the old building, and the trembling of Héctor’s bones. After a short eternity, one quiet noise sounded above the others:

Knuckles rapping against wood.

The floorboards creaked as one of the two bodyguards stepped forward, and Héctor finally opened his eyes. Before he could respond, one of them moved to his side, grasping his shoulders, shoving him down into the floor, and holding him there. Automatically Héctor tried to push the man away, but again his broken hand tried to respond to the action, and he cried out in pain.

Part of him expected some smart remark from Ernesto, but when he looked back at where the man had been standing, he instead found Ernesto farther away, his back to him. But before he could think on that any further, he saw the other bodyguard slip into the side room, and quickly return with an electric lantern, which he set atop a nearby crate and switched on.

Héctor blinked and squinted in the sudden brightness, his breathing picking up as his vision took a moment to adjust. Dust floated in the flickering, humming light, and the frame of the man cast a looming shadow over Héctor. Of course those stupid guards with their stupid sunglasses hadn’t been bothered by the light.

The man who had retrieved the lantern knelt next to him, and Héctor felt the guard’s hand against his middle, pinning his spine the the floor. To his confusion, the guard proceeded to tug at either side of Héctor’s vest, exposing more of his rib cage. He then brandished the object he’d been holding earlier:

A hammer.

A flurry of panic overcame him as his chest began to heave in short, sharp breaths. “No, no, no no no—!”

In one swift movement the hammer came down, connecting with two of Héctor’s ribs. In spite of the pain, he couldn’t yell—the blow had winded him, leaving him to give out only a choked, hollow gasp. Again he tried to push away, managing to keep his bad arm still while his good arm flailed, striking at the man as much as he was able and trying feebly to grab the hammer away. In response, the man that was behind him shifted his grip from his shoulders to his upper arms, making it impossible for him to reach out. Even so he pounded his fist on the floorboards, kicking his feet and digging his heels into the hardwood.

His rib cage heaved, and he felt the pain of two bruised ribs on the right side of his chest. It could be worse, he tried to think, knowing full well it didn’t matter. But he had broken his ribs before—the one was still broken, the other missing—and he knew what they felt like. He’d gone through broken ribs before—he could handle bruised ribs. He could. He had to. He would heal, it wasn’t really that painful compared to—

Clang.

The hammer struck at a higher rib on his left side, and he felt the crack—it wasn’t all the way through, it wasn’t broken, it was just cracked, it hurt but it was just cracked, it would heal, it would heal, dios, why was this happening…

Against his will, his mind supplied an answer in the flash of a vivid mental image: Coco held down by a man as another approached her with a hammer—

With sudden sob, Héctor shook his head against the image. Please, please, no, you can’t do that to her, I stayed, I’m still here…!

Clang.

He gave a choked cry as the hammer slammed into the other side of his ribs—he didn’t want to be here, he didn’t want this, he knew he had to be here but he wanted out, he wanted to be back home, he should’ve been home ages ago, why did he have to leave so late, he didn’t want to be here with Ernesto and these horrible men and that hammer, and… and…

That wasn’t what hammers were for. They weren’t supposed to be used like this—they used them to fix houses in Shantytown. He could remember using one himself as he helped Carla repair her roof for the third time, joking about how her shanty was very insistent about always having a hole in its roof. They used them to repair the boardwalks, like the one that broke as he was walking across it—

Clang—crrk!

It hurt it hurt it hurt, his chest was heaving but it hurt to breathe, he could feel the cracks and bruises that the hammer had made—that wasn’t what they were for, he would watch Imelda and the others at the workshop using them to make shoes, he saw Imelda making his shoes though he didn’t know they were for him at the time, and then later she surprised him with the shoes as a gift, because she said if he lived there, he had to wear shoes—

Clang.

Where—where were they? Imelda? Coco? What time was it? Did they know he was gone? Did they miss him? Imelda would surely notice that he was late coming home. She would get angry at him, but would she come after him? But he didn’t want her here, he didn’t want her in danger for his sake, this was his fault in the first place… If she went after anyone, maybe she would go after Coco to make sure she was all right? Please, Imelda, make sure she’s okay, go after her—I’ll get out of this, but make sure she’s okay—

Clang—crack.

Héctor screamed, struggling to grab at his ribs, only to yelp again as his phalanges brushed against a jagged, broken bone. They’d broken a rib—one of his upper ribs, and it was agony to breathe. He tried to make himself stop—he was already dead so he didn’t need to breathe, he didn’t have to. He could just keep his rib cage still and it wouldn’t hurt so much. Holding his metaphorical breath, he screwed up his face, trying to force himself to stay still, stay still, stay still, it’s going to hurt more if you move—

Clang—CRUNCH.

White-hot pain lanced through his rib cage, blinding him to everything but the sensation of another one of his uppermost ribs cracking through—a jagged crack that was agony every time the two ends rubbed against each other every time he breathed—he wanted to stop but his breaths came in heavy, shaking sobs—

Clang!

“STOP!” he screamed through the pain in his chest, bucking against the restraints of both of the guards and actually managing to throw one of them off. The guard’s hand left his middle, while the other pressed down on his arms to keep him pinned to the ground. “¡BASTA! LET ME GO!”

“All right, enough, enough!”

To Héctor’s shock, the man who had been using the hammer stood up, looking at something on the other side of the room. Following his gaze, he found Ernesto was facing them again and looking… hunched over, one hand gripping a crate next to him—stressed? Upset? It didn’t matter—that torturer had stopped his assault, finally, so maybe this nightmare was over. Part of him almost wanted to say something, but talking would hurt. Instead he looked Ernesto in the eye, trying to discern what was to happen next—was this over? Come to think of it, he didn’t even know what Ernesto’s purpose in doing this was—something about… about his music?

Ernesto stared back, too far away for Héctor to be able to read his expression, and didn’t answer.

In spite of the pain, Héctor felt a flurry of panic return at the thought of something more horrifying to him than the thought of more broken ribs or fingers or hands—the thought of someone else in the same fate as him. “C-Coco,” he stammered, fighting to talk through the pain, trying to sit up, but the other tormentor held him firm. “Coco, sh-she’s still safe, isn’t she?”

Ernesto remained silent, and Héctor’s panic grew.

“‘Nesto?” he cried, eyes widening when he saw his former best friend turn away again. “Ernesto, is Coco—”

Ernesto looked away, and rapped his knuckles against the crate beside him.

The man behind him let go of his arms, and Héctor wasted no time in attempting to scramble to his feet. But the men wouldn’t allow it—the one who had assaulted him with the hammer shoved him back to the ground, one hand on Héctor’s shoulder and another on his sternum, and Héctor yelped. “NO!” he cried out again, kicking out with this legs and trying to push the man off of him. “L-let me go, basta! Let go—”

The pressure on his sternum increased, and he drew in a sharp intake of air that froze inside his chest. “Quit squirming,” the man growled, “unless you want another rib broken.”

Forcing himself to remain still, he glared at the man who held him down, only for his attention to be drawn to the other man at the sound of something metal clinking lightly against his hands. It wasn’t as large or heavy as the hammer, but whatever it was couldn’t mean anything good. Héctor felt a fresh wave of panic surge through his broken rib cage, not even knowing what they were planning this time. “N-no, no, not again, not—”

The man that was holding him down kept one hand on his shoulder, then grabbed underneath his jaw, jerking it back and knocking his skull against the floor. The impact dazed him, but the man didn’t remove his hand, keeping Héctor’s head wrenched back.

From this angle he could barely see the other man, which did nothing to soothe his frayed nerves. The man kneeled down next to him, holding out a long, thin metal object that glinted in the dim light of the abandoned building. Only a second later did Héctor realize what the object was, and he drew in a sharp, terrified gasp just as the blade scraped against his throat.

His cry was immediately choked and strained, his entire body squirming against the sensation. He tried to push the guard away again, but couldn’t. “S-stop…” he rasped, and immediately regretted it, his voice tearing into the cut in his bone.

Either they didn’t hear him or didn’t care, because again the blade came down, this time, striking up vertically across three vertebrae. Héctor gagged, eyes bulging as his kicking and squirming grew more erratic, but none of this helped—he only felt another hand at his other shoulder, pinning him down further, the guard leaning in closer. The only thing his brain was registering anymore was the need to get away from these men, all better judgment failing him as he tried to protest: “St… st…”

The knife sliced the sides of his neck three times in succession, back and forth, resulting in a rattling, rasping cry. The panic continued to build in his chest, and he felt like he couldn’t breathe, like he was going to suffocate—he couldn’t move his broken rib cage, and though he’d long since left behind his lungs that needed air and his heart that pumped blood, he swore he felt blood filling his throat, pooling down into his lungs, he was drowning, choking—

Slowly the blade began to dig into the middle of his throat, digging into the bones, and he gagged, trying to will himself to breathe. He was going to choke to death. Why was this happening, why was this…

“St—kkkkkhhhh—st—”

“Hm?” came a voice that was closer than before. Had Héctor been able to focus more, he might have noticed that the voice wasn’t quite as calm as its owner would have liked. “Speak up, Héctor.”

He tried, he tried, his voice fighting around the blade in his throat. “D-de—ggghhkkk—ja…” Deja de...

“You want them to stop?”

“S—gghhhh…!”

“That… could be arranged. I believe we can still reach your daughter if—”

“NO!”

The knife jabbed deeper into his vertebrae at the sudden shout, and he gagged again and again, certain he was going to die again, somehow. He was going to suffocate, but it can’t happen to her. You have to let them do this to you. It can’t happen to Coco, it can’t…

“Stop, stop, move it away,” Ernesto demanded as he hurried closer, a frantic edge to his tone.

There was a brief pulling sensation at his throat, and distantly he realized the knife was stuck. With a sudden yank it was out, leaving Héctor gagging and rasping, his chest heaving in short, uneven gasps and trying to reach up to claw at his ruined vertebrae, but his arm was still being held down.

Ernesto was standing over him, his expression unreadable, his eyes not quite focused on him. “Say something.”

Somewhere beyond all the pain, Héctor still felt a twinge of anger in his gut. Was he joking? What kind of sick joke was that? But the anger was short-lived, the exhaustion in his bones and the agony in his throat and chest and hand quickly overwhelming it.

Something nudged into the side of his chest, jarring his broken ribs and making him breathe in a sharp hiss of air that stung at his throat. “Say something,” Ernesto repeated, his voice a low growl.

Héctor was not usually one for strong language, but a few choice words tried to force their way out of his ruined throat. Instead, all that came out were pained gags and wracking coughs that shredded through his broken bones.

For only a brief moment Ernesto regarded him before stepping back, looking away. “Let him go,” he said, tugging on his coat and walking up to one of the old crates nearby. “We’re done here.”

And the hands that had held him down were gone, weights lifted from his shoulders and spine. Automatically and in spite of the pain it caused, Héctor turned to his side and curled up on himself, yanking his vest back over his exposed ribs, tucking his right wrist under his vest, and pressing his forehead to his knees, trying to hide as many of his injuries as he could. While Ernesto was talking with his torturers in hushed tones, Héctor found himself caught in the struggle of wanting desperately to breathe, but at the same time, not wanting to breathe at all in order to avoid any more pain. He had to get out of there, he knew, but right now he could barely will himself to move, let alone crawl out of this awful building, and—

Suddenly remembering just why he had been forced to stay in the first place, he frantically looked up, eyes wide. “C—” he choked, only for his voice to degenerate into ragged coughing. “C—Co—”

A pair of hands hooked under his arms and hoisted him up, and he screamed voicelessly, cringing at the sharp pain in his throat. No, no, no, he said they were done! Frantically he struggled against the men’s grips, kicking with his legs and trying to pull away. He felt something clap onto his head, and belatedly realized one of them had shoved his hat back on—it must have come off at some point during the struggle.

“Take him out,” Ernesto commanded, and the men began to drag Héctor out of the dusty room.

Héctor fought to kick out his legs again, but his strength left him, leaving his heels to drag on the floor. Still he tried to reach out, staring at Ernesto desperately. “C—c…” Coco, is she okay, please tell me you kept your word, please…!

“Wait.”

The men stopped, and he felt a sickening mixture of terror and hope flickering in his chest. Please, please tell me, tell me she—

“Héctor,” Ernesto began, picking up a metal box and taking a few stiff strides closer to him. “Are you listening to me?”

I don’t have much of a choice, do I? Héctor thought bitterly from where he hung between the two guards. He lifted his head slightly and glared as much as he was able, not sure if his expression could clearly be seen in the dark and not really sure if he cared anymore. The bitterness left him as quickly as it came, with worry taking its place. Please tell me, Ernesto, please…

Whether Ernesto could read his expression or not, he looked him over for a few moments. At one point his eyes fell on Héctor’s rib cage and he quickly looked away, giving a barely-suppressed shudder. “I didn’t want to do this,” he muttered lowly, and Héctor stiffened. “You gave me little choice.”

Rage bubbled up within his broken rib cage, briefly giving him the strength to tug against the men, but they yanked him back, and it was gone.

“There’s no need for that,” Ernesto went on, taking a half-step back. “We’re done here. But… if you like, you’re free to talk about this, of course.”

You made me so I can’t, Héctor fumed, but the anger was only draining him now, rather than giving him any kind of energy. Please, just tell me my Coco is—

Ernesto causally rattled the box he held, and Héctor gave a voiceless cry as a dozen jumbled sensations of pain shot through his hand. Waiting for Héctor’s frantic, short breaths to slow, Ernesto rubbed a hand against his own throat before continuing: “I want nothing more to do with you. But your family… they still hold a great interest to me.”

Héctor froze, a tremor running through his bones. No, no…!

“If you decide that the media or police should know about this…” Ernesto glanced to the side, seeming to consider something for a moment before smirking back at Héctor. “…perhaps I’ll have to see about getting a new pair of shoes for the interview, hm?”

No, no, no, you can’t…!

“I have faith in you, hermanito,” he said, turning away. “I’m sure you’ll only say what you think is right.” With one last glance over his shoulder, he snapped his fingers, and the men began to move once more.

Wait, wait, no! Héctor tried to fight against them, but his exhausted limbs refused to cooperate. Ernesto! Tell me she’s okay! ¡Por favor!

But Ernesto said nothing more, and the two men dragged him out into the trash-filled alley where this entire mess had started. Unceremoniously they dropped him to the ground, and he fell on his right side, catching himself on his bad arm. As a mute cry attempted to force its way out of his throat, the men swiftly stepped back into the building, tossing something else out beside him before slamming the door shut.

Héctor found himself alone among the trash, and feeling much like it himself.

For a long while he lay there on the ground, not feeling in any state to move or even think. From where he lay just outside the doorway, as his eyes adjusted to the dark he could barely see the junk that had been piled up, and he found himself staring blankly at it. It didn’t feel real, he realized—everything that had happened to him. Everything felt hazy and strange, like a nightmare, like none of it had really happened. Here he was, so close to where he’d tripped and fallen—could he have simply knocked himself out on something and awoken here again?

After considering it for a moment, he tried to push himself upright, only for the end of his right arm to scrape against the dirty cobblestone. The pain caused him to cry out, the sound barely coming out as a squeak that immediately degenerated into a choking and coughing fit. He tried to stop himself and just breathe, but the attempt only left his rib cage in agony.

It was all real—he had the injuries to prove it. But if it was real, that meant…

Coco…! he thought desperately, and struggled to push himself up on his good arm. His frame shook with the effort, but still he tried to get back upon to his feet. His leg ached, though the pain seemed trivial compared to every other part of him that hurt. But even as he pushed himself upright, he found that was about all he had the strength to do, as he had to lean back against the wall of the building.

But Coco… he still didn’t know if she was all right—unsure if Ernesto really had kept his word or if he would come home to find her in the same awful state as him, if he found her at all… or if he ever went home at all. How was he supposed to get home in the first place? How could he?

His thoughts immediately went to Imelda, surely furious at him for coming home so late, for making them worry. And now here he was, actually giving them a reason to worry. Then she’d ask what had happened and he… what could he even tell her?

“If you decide that the media or police should know about this, perhaps I’ll have to see about getting a new pair of shoes for the interview, hm?”

Coco…

He didn’t know where she was, or where the shoe delivery had been to. How was he supposed to find out if she was all right? He couldn’t walk, he couldn’t move, he couldn’t even tell her he was sorry—

It wasn’t until he felt the pain from his chest heaving in quick, uneven gasps that he realized he was crying. It hurt his ribs, it hurt his throat, but he couldn’t stop, finding himself sliding down the wall and back to the ground, curling up on himself once again. I’m sorry I got you into this, I’m sorry I let this happen, I’m sorry… he thought, wishing he could say the words to his daughter, but he couldn’t even speak. Ernesto… His mouth twisted. If you did anything to her, I’ll…!

Wait—but that was it, wasn’t it? Ernesto had asked him to stay quiet, or he would go after his family. If he already went after Héctor’s family, what would stop Héctor from immediately going to the police?

Ernesto surely wouldn’t be so stupid… which meant that Coco should still be all right. Dios, he hoped so. He wasn’t sure what else he had left to hope in.

Part of him wondered if his family would come looking for him—Imelda might or might not, but she’d be angry either way. Coco might come looking, if she was all right, but he didn’t want that—he didn’t want her anywhere near this terrible place. He didn’t want Imelda here either, come to think of it—for them to see him in this state…

Perhaps he could get back to Shantytown? No one would ask too many questions there, and he could hide there until he got better, until he was ready to face his family again. He still remembered when he’d limped and crawled his way there after breaking his leg, and Cheech and the others had taken care of him until he could walk again, but… all of them, even Cheech, were long gone now. But maybe if he could…

Slowly drawing in as deep of a breath as he could, he tried to rise to his feet, leaning against the wall behind him, but his legs wouldn’t cooperate. Not knowing what else to do, he rested his head on his knees again, shutting his eyes and hoping again that he would wake up from this nightmare.

Héctor wasn’t sure how much time had passed when he felt something nearby—the prickling feeling on the back of his neck, like he was being watched. Shuddering, he lifted his head and looked down the alley, out toward the street—

A pair of enormous yellow eyes gazed back at him, as something monstrous drew in a deep breath through its nose. Through his exhausted haze, he could make out the glow of yellow and green markings—

The alebrije let out an explosive snarl, frantically reaching her enormous paws out to Héctor, not coming nearly close enough, and raking her claws against the side of the building in frustration. With a choked cry he tried to get away, his terror granting him the strength to scramble closer to the door he’d been thrown out of. The alebrije stood there, growling, before darting off and out of sight.

Héctor couldn’t breathe. That… that had been Imelda’s alebrije, Pepita. She’d sounded furious, and… if she was here, then Imelda couldn’t be far behind, and was likely just as angry.

Part of him was relieved that help was coming, but still he felt his heart gripped with fear. What could he tell her?

For a long while he sat there, trying to breathe in shallow breaths as he thought it through, but no solution came to mind. He felt trapped—he couldn’t get away or hide, he couldn’t tell her anything even if he needed to, and… and…

Then he heard it—the faint sound of voices nearby, though too far away and too quiet for him to identify. People were coming—whether it was Imelda, or Ernesto’s men coming back for more, he wasn’t sure, but he couldn’t stay here.

Biting his lip and summoning what little strength he had, Héctor pushed himself back up on his feet, leaning heavily against the wall, and then carefully eased along it until he was standing right against the door frame. He pressed himself as close to the wall as possible, hoping the shadows would hide him. He wasn’t sure what good hiding would do at this point, but his only other option was letting someone see him like this, and—

An earsplitting yowl echoed down the alley, and he gave a silent yelp, tucking his bad arm under his vest and keeping his other arm wrapped defensively around his chest.

“Héctor? ¿Estás ahí?”

Imelda. So she had come back to find him. Part of him wanted to wilt, but he kept himself firmly pressed against the wall, and kept quiet. As he listened to her footsteps gradually grow closer, he shut his eyes, afraid of potentially meeting her gaze.

The sound of her boots against the cobblestone grew louder for a moment, then softer; she’d passed by him.

“Pepita! Are you sure this is the right place?”

The alebrije gave another terrible yowl in response, her claws digging into one of the buildings. Thankfully she couldn’t fit into the alleyway, or she would’ve pounced on him by now. On top of that, Imelda was still overlooking him—he could hear her rifling through the garbage. Maybe she would leave. Is that what he wanted?

Yet Pepita was still yowling, scratching more frantically. Go away, alebrije, Héctor thought, shuddering. Please…

He thought he heard Imelda say something else, but he wasn’t sure what—Pepita was making too much noise for him to tell. Was she coming closer? Pressing himself further against the wall, he risked opening his eyes and—

Imelda was only a few feet from where he stood, and she immediately brandished her shoe. With another silent yelp, he tugged his hat over his face, cringing. No, no, no…

It was a short eternity before she spoke. “Hector? What in the world are you doing?!”

Of course she was furious. She had every right to be, and even if he could speak, there wasn’t anything he could think to say, except… “S… s…” The sound refused to properly come out of his wrecked throat, his chest heaving with the effort.

“We’ve been looking everywhere for you! What did you think you were doing, worrying us all to final death?!” she went on, and he felt his stomach twist in guilt. “What were you doing, hiding from us all this time? Are you listening to me?”

“S… s…” Sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t want to worry anyone, I didn’t mean for this to happen. Please tell me Coco is all right…

Distantly he could hear Pepita continuing to yowl, but the alebrije’s voice paled in comparison to the anger in Imelda’s.

Said anger, however, faded as Imelda spoke up again, her voice uncharacteristically quiet: “…Héctor?”

He felt her hand against his, and flinched, but there was nothing else he could do other than let her guide his hand upward, lifting his hat away from his face.

And Héctor gave the most apologetic smile he could muster, trying one last time to force the words out of his throat:

“S… sorr…”