#smile pendejo and its good to be back ( even if its with one foot in the void and the other in a hellokitty roller blade ) xx

[boxwinebaddie]

uncle neen!!! welcome back omg i was so sad to see u disappear </3 hyh !!! i had a question i asked last time but i was wondering since ur rewriting ur fics, are u planning on posting them on tumblr? or on ao3? pls be kind to urself too<33

good MORNING, lovie!!!!~ <3 c':

( or whatever time it is, where you are at the moment! )

i'm very excited to announce that you are my very FIRST new ask message on my brand new blog!

( teri is my first follower; ly ter. <33 o//3//o )

***long overdue UN ramble-bramble under the cut. xx

i /do/ miss my six hundred bajillion ask memes and am mourning the loss of all my online creations and great joys as a deranged southpark fanfiction author and the legacy i built with my tiny, gay weird hands

( i will go into it another time, but i had a very, very frightening bipolar episode surrounding my blog and my role on here as a writer, friend and mentor to you all, deleted all my things in a horrible panic, was able to recover them...but in the -- what i hope is the *very last* -- after shock of my episode...i got very scared, very sad and deleted both my dearly treasured and beloved, beautifully cult followed by many of you and other ghosts of sp style fanatics past ao3 account**

**( with peppermint on it at 13k likes which...oh my god, please be gentle with me, that was a very, very hard blow and rough realization for me and i am sorry to everyone who loved that fanfiction and wanted to go back and read it for posperity and personal comfort...i miss her too; rest in peace, pep, my first born. my sweet girl. </3 )

...and most tragically of all, i deleted my tumblr blog, with over one hundred pages of carefully curated content surrounding my sp aus, your lovely, insightful and thoughtful questions and inquiries, also typed with your tiny, weird gay hands answered, in turn, with mine, torched the ev. of those memories in the final blast and lost my window into your world through that medium...

...which is literally heartbreaking to me, because more than even my silly fanfictions or my blog, what i loved to do, was talk to all of you and read your wonderful messages each day and remind myself of why i should be here and continue to do what i do. </333 :'''c

BUT! my darlings, as ravenstan would say, 'it's always darkest before crimson dawn', for the very first time in several weeks ( which, i fear, and i was, full of fear and horrible self loathing/dread every waking and nightmarish moment ), last night, i cried for a very, very, very, long time, held myself together in the broken places -- told myself and the girl i was that i loved her and i was going to take care of us and be brave -- and broke the fever ( a little off key like jersey kyle, but very lovely nonetheless; love you tone deaf king. x my sboyf. )

today, i woke up this morning and slept...PEACEFULLY and woke up PERFECTLY HAPPY AND RESTED...

AND SMILED. QUITE. WIDE!!!!~ :D

and that is a baby step, but it is a step in the right direction and also almost wanted to make me weep like a baby again because i literally have not felt happy or like i do not hate myself for like, i shit you not, over like 15-20 days...it was frightening and fucking horrible! SLAY!

nevertheless ( or the most, finally ) i am excited to welcome in a new era/year of change on my blog and within myself; which is an era of peppermint flavored 'hope i'm healing' in a delicious rem(ember) font.

unfortunately, because i nuked my ao3 account, i do not currently one atm, but am in the process of recovering it.

( i'm not condoning any kind of rude/uncivilized behavior bc people are allowed to do anything they want -- but i'd really like to get my user back and would appreciate it a lot if no one used it to create another ao3 account just because it would be confusing for my readers and disheartening to me to not be boxwinebaddie anymore. )

until then, i will be writing/drafting rem(ember) in my messy google docs, am storyboarding everything to the best of my ability ( which is not perfect, but nothing is -- except stan and kyle to each other -- but god loves a trier, which is why he hates me: i prefer hell where it's drier -- that way my girlfail guylinea will not run. xx )

KALE SEITAN! ;)

posting little snippets of it on here for all of you, probably put it here on my tumblr and post it up to ao3 if i can regain my account/one in general ( i am a little worried that because of how long it's been, the loss of all my followers and, what i assume, is a decreased public or tiktok generated interest in sp, it will do poorly; rip </3 )

-- but the point is...that i want to start doing stuff for myself now. and not because i think i should or create unnecessary stress/sadness surrounding my strength or weakness as a writer or person ( or like, beat the living shit out of myself every single day anymore )...

...so i am writing it slowly, carefully, synthesizing all the info i gathered from over a year of answering your questions ( which helped me develop my sp au styles and their worlds into the lovely, seemingly breathing paper machslayed things they are now ), am going to write the fanfiction i always/wanted/ to write ( i’ve always wanted to rewrite RM, but was so busy and overwhelmed with my blog/my irl stuff that i couldn't )

and i'm calling it...

<3

p.s. ( i love you ): i am going to give my grandmother a copy of the first chapter of peppermint for christmas because i wanted to do something special/sentimental for her and secretly push the gay middle school style agenda ( she is actually very woke and thought my uncle might be gay for a while when he was younger, haha xx ), but i want to give them different names, so that on the off chance it gets passed off to my mom, my dad or manages to travel by world of mouth ( my grandma has a tendency to gab, but i love her a lot ) that it can't specifically be traced back to my dead ao3 or my blog.

so if any one has any ideas for silly interesting names i could give my sons, names for other characters or south park in gen. hit me up! <33

thank you for your interest in my work -- and in me, in general. i love you all dearly, i hope you heal ( i know you will ) and smile, pendejos because got a lot coming up on that crimson dawn and a lot of crazy shit coming down on that *jersey i won't say i'm in luh megara vc*

~SCHARLET sLUt~

cheers! mazel! ;) xx

-uncle nina, in her healing era <3

[mischief-managed-snitches]

Obispo Losa

Part two of Obispo and Lily. I have so many ideas for this and I'm so excited to try them out! Thank you all for the love and encouragement!

Warnings: Swearing, Angst

As always, I do not own anything Mayans related. I do own my character and her story.

My first language is English. I do know some Spanish but I am not fluent. I will be keeping the Spanish in this story to a minimum to avoid butchering a beautiful language.

"Come on, it'll be fun!"

"You said that last time, Leti."

"I know and I'm really sorry about what happened, but I swear nothing like that would ever go down here. The guys wouldn't allow it."

"I don't know, Leti..."

"Come on! Bishop has been asking about you. He wants to see you."

"He said that?"

"...In so many words."

"Leti!"

"He has been asking about you! 'how's your friend, Leticia? How's her arm? Have you seen her today?" Leti dropped her voice to mimic the low bravado that was Bishop's voice.

"He did not ask you all that!"

"He did!"

"Really?"

"Yes, Lily!"

"Okay, what time is this party?"

"Uhh the guys have a meeting and then we usually party afterwards. Maybe like eight o'clockish? I'll text you the address."

"Sounds good."

"Oh and Lily, wear something slu-"

Click.

Lily tapped the red button quickly, not wanting to hear the rest of that sentence. She would wear whatever she wanted and it would not be to impress any man. Or so she thought, until the clock ticked 7:30 and she was buzzing around her bedroom, ripping open drawers and rifling through her closet like a mad woman. Swearing under her breath, Lily's frustration mounted as nothing seemed to fit right.

Lily was a bit curvier than most women, especially her friend Leti. Borrowing an outfit from her would be out of the question and some how everything in Lily's closet just seemed wrong. Blowing out an annoyed puff of air, Lily looked back over her clothes, trying not to be so critical. Bishop probably wouldn't even notice, not with all his friends around. Or so she hoped...

Gravel crunched under her tires as Lily turned off the road and into the driveway of what looked like some kind of auto mechanic business. A sign for oil changes and tire rotations hung out front, welcoming visitors into what looked like a run down garage. Random cars sat around, looking like they were falling apart or maybe just scrap pieces for other projects. A house sat connected to the garage, a porch welcomed any visitors and a large fire pit sat in front of its steps with a few picnic tables dotted around.

Parking her car off to the side, Lily wondered if she had the wrong address. Eyeing the row of motorcycles, she changed her mind. This had to be right.

Lily stepped out of her car just as the front door opened. A man she recognized immediately stepped out. Black hair buzzed close to his head, thin mustache, thick muscled arms. Oh yeah, she remembered him. He had steadied her when the guy had shoved her and then later, Leti had hugged him like they were best friends.

Lily offered him a smile, noting the way his leather vest differed slightly from the others she had seen. "Hi, I'm Lily, Leti invited me?"

"Yeah, hi, EZ."

"Wait, what?"

"Ezekiel Reyes, EZ for short." He grinned, "nice to meet you Lily." His eyes seemed to twinkle in the fading light. Somewhere in her mind she knew instantly that he was someone she could trust and with that realization a portion of her nervousness evaporated. EZ met her at the bottom of the porch steps, shaking her hand gently.

"Nice to meet you too." She couldn't help but return his smile, it was infectious.

"Leticia's inside, you can head on in, I'm going to start a fire." EZ jerked his head toward the door.

"Thank you!" Lily stepped inside, looking around at the unusual decor. A large statue of Saint Mary stood by the door, various framed pictures hung on the walls and the furniture looked like hand-me-downs from an array of different homes with different styles. The place was definitely decorated by men. Lily laughed to herself, smile growing as she spotted her friend across the room. Though the place was dimly lit, Lily could plainly see Leticia working hard behind the bar. Her hands moved quickly, preparing drinks, or food, or both. Glancing up as Lily shut the door, Leticia let out a squeal.

"You made it!"

"I did!"

"Yay! Get over here and help me prep this stuff! The guys will be out any minute."

"Out?" Lily dropped her purse on the bar stool at the end before walking around the bar. As expected, there was a mini kitchen set-up back there. Fridge, stove, microwave, sink, what little counter Lily could see was covered in random food items. Everything from salsa and chips to hot dogs and hamburgers sat before them.

"Yeah, they had a meeting tonight, but it should be over soon." She nodded in the direction of a rusted sliding door. "They'll grill the meat for us, but I like to have the sides and stuff ready to go a while."

"Okay," Lily wasn't sure what kind of meeting she meant, but it didn't matter anyway. She was too busy trying to calm the butterflies in her stomach to ask anything else. Leti handed her a knife and a bowl of peppers, instructing her to chop them up.

Lily had just finished the bowl and was washing her hands when a metallic screech filled the. Lifting her eyes as the door rolled open, Lily watched as the first few guys stepped through. One broke away from the rest, smiling at her as he plopped himself on the nearest bar stool.

"What's up, how are you?"

"Good, thank you, better than when we first met."

"Glad to hear it!" He swiped a stand of black hair away from his face, smiling at her warmly.

"Lily, this is my dad, Coco."

Lily felt her brows raise, surprised by the information. He looked so young, more like a brother than a father. She didn't comment on it though, instead, she smiled, offering her hand, "nice to meet you, Coco. Thanks for helping out the other night."

"Nahh, that was all Bish. We were just back up if things popped off."

"Sounds like they did later!" Leti jumped in.

"Yeah! Heard Bish broke that pendejo's nose!"

"Serves him right!" Lily stayed quiet, smiling as Leti and Coco continued talking. They really did act a lot alike and the resemblance in their faces was uncanny.

Eyes flicking to the doorway again, Lily was surprised by the amount of disappointment that washed through her.

"Bish is still at the table. Thinking things through I guess." Coco supplied, meeting her eyes with a knowing smile. Lily blushed, nodding as she looked down at her hands.

"Why don't you take him a beer? Tell him the meats on the grill?" Leti suggested, elbowing her gently.

"Yeah, that ones his favorite." Coco leaned across the bar, pointing to one of the many bottles they had just uncapped for the guys.

"Do you think that would be okay?" Lily asked awkwardly, shifting from one foot to the other.

"As long as he's not talking business with anyone, he shouldn't care." Coco shrugged, taking a bottle for himself.

Lily nodded again, grabbing the bottle he had pointed to and striding confidently across the room. Her bravery didn't last long though. By the time she was standing in the door way her anxiety was back in full swing. The coast was clear, no one else was with him.

He sat alone, smoking a cigarette, papers laying in front of him. The room was dark, one single light hung overhead, casting a soft glow over Bishop's chair. He looked like a king sitting in the spotlight. His bulky frame illuminated against the dark of the room.

It's now or never.

Lily cleared her throat, stepping into the room hesitantly, praying he wouldn't throw her back out. He looked deep in thought and extremely tired, probably not in the mood to chit chat. This was a bad idea. Lily berated herself. What made her think this was a good plan?

Bishop's head lifted, cigarette nearly falling out of his mouth as he realized who was joining him. Her breath caught in her throat as he looked at her. Dark eyes fell all the way to her feet, taking in a pair of blood-red heels before dragging slowly up her body to land on her face. The black dress she'd chosen clung to her body in way that she hoped was flattering and not accenting her every bump and roll. She shifted on her feet, suddenly questioning her decision to wear this outfit. That was... Until she watched his tongue poke out of his mouth, wetting his lips almost nervously. Dropping his cigarette into a nearby ash tray, Bishop stood up, almost toppling his chair with his hastiness.

"Lily?"

"Hi, Obispo." She smiled, heat rising to her cheeks as he stared openly at her. "I umm... Brought you a drink." She lifted the bottle, stepping closer to hold it out to him. She swallowed hard as he walked around the table, wrapping his hand around the neck of the bottle, grazing her fingers as he took it.

"Thank you." His mustache lifted as he smiled at her, eyes twinkling with something she couldn't place. "Am I drinking alone?" He spoke teasingly, lifting the beer to his lips and taking a slow sip.

Lily watched his throat work as he swallowed it, clocked the way his plush lips pressed against the glass. Clearing her throat again, Lilly took a step back. "I-I don't really drink, but I uh... I wanted to let you know the meats on the grill a- and the food will be ready soon."

"Thank you," he said again with that same smile on his lips. He was amused by her awkwardness, finding her stammering cute. He liked this kind of nervousness, jitters brought on by attraction and not fear. Seeing her retreat another step, Bishop pushed off the table where he was previously leaning. "You don't have to go."

"I should help Leti with the rest of the stuff." Lily jerked a thumb over her shoulder, stumbling as she bumped into a chair.

"Watch that, querida." Bishop gave her a lopsided smile, taking one long step forward, the urge to be closer to her guiding his feet.

"Yeah..." Lily took another step back, tripping over another chair in the process. This time she couldn't catch herself, she was too shaken, too flustered. Bishop lunged forward, wrapping an arm around her waist before she could fall.

He pulled her upright, tugging her against his chest, steadying her with one hand all while holding his beer with the other. The little gasp that left her lips had his heart stuttering in his chest. "Easy does it, querida." His breath fanned her face, his voice low and soft.

He smelled of cigarettes and leather and a hint of spearmint. His hand laid heavy on her back, fingers splayed wide, each one burning a hole through the material of the dress. He was warm and tall and all hard planes where she was short and soft, fitting perfectly against his broad chest. Lily's small hands pressed to his stomach, torn between pushing him away and letting him hold her.

"Bish..." It was soft and breathy and effecting him in way that was completely inappropriate for only talking to her twice.

"I'm here, Preciosa." He spoke with the same volume as her, hushed, low, a tone that shot right to her belly. Her insides seems to melt and mush. A shiver crawled down her spine, goosebumps raising on her arms. He gazed down at her, dark eyes boring into hers as his thumb traced a slow circle on her lower back.

"Lily! Get your ass out here and help me!" Leti yelled from the other room sounding agitated. Lily startled in his arms, and just like that the spell was broken. Her hands were pushing off his stomach and she was stepping away before he could stop her.

Bishop dropped his arm reluctantly, feeling as if all the heat was zapped from his body as he did. It took everything in him not to reach out and pull her back, instead he gripped his beer tighter, sinking back into a chair as she disappeared through the doorway. Releasing a sigh, Bishop raked a hand through his hair. Shit.

[themangolorian]

look how long this love can hold its breath

Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five

pairing: javier peña x reader

summary: (slow burn/fake married) When Pablo Escobar escalates his war on Colombian law enforcement, the DEA is getting desperate to pin down his location. Reader is forced to go undercover with another agent, one she can’t stand, Javier Peña. Worst of all, she’ll have to try to infiltrate the Cali Cartel while pretending to be Peña’s wife.

warnings: mild language

a/n: i know it’s a generally overdone trope but i couldn’t resist doing my own version of fake married Javi with a pretty antagonistic reader. hope you all enjoy!

You’d been assigned to an undercover assignment of sorts. You were infiltrating the Cali Cartel. Sort of. The mission was simply to gain inside information on Escobar’s whereabouts. To finally bring that hijoeputa down.

The only problem was your assigned partner.

Javier fucking Peña.

You’d never worked with him, but you knew his reputation as a womanizer. His machismo. And, worst of all, he was an American.

You’d encountered him briefly on separate occasions in the briefing room and each time he’d rubbed you the wrong way. He had a habit of talking over you and every other woman in the unit. Well, honestly, him and his partner Murphy liked to talk over everyone but- to put it plainly, you didn’t like Javier Peña.

“What’s the plan?” You asked in your typical no-nonsense way as you joined him and Murphy in the briefing room.

Incredibly, the up aboves had put these two pendejos in charge of the operation.

“Hola amor,” Peña lilted at you with a smirk from his seat across from you, raising his eyebrows suggestively.

You glared at him. “What the fu-.”

“You’re married.” Murphy tossed the manila envelope on the table in your direction, interrupting your outburst.

He knew you and Peña got on each others’ nerves. This was his way of avoiding the inevitable bickering. It was a shitty way of doing so though.

You cursed under your breath as you fell into a chair and swept the envelope open.

The other two were quiet as your eyes scanned the documents.

“Fuck no.” You pushed the papers containing your’s and Peña’s aliases back at them.

Señor y Señora Villalobos. Dealers disguised as diamond salespeople. Married. To each other.

“Told you.” Peña told Murphy, his tone all-knowing.

“Cállate,” you snarled at Peña.

“You first,” he glared back.

“Hey,�� Murphy exclaimed. He rested the tip of his index finger on the files and glared at you both now.

“This isn’t a request. These are orders.” He rubbed at his mustache and this time directed his gaze at you. “You either follow the mission or find another job.”

You glared from him to Peña who didn’t meet your gaze, too busy staring at a point on the table.

You threw your hands up in defeat, reached across and snatched the folder then huffed out of the room, muttering all the while. “Estos tontos Americanos vienen a mi país y piensen que tengo miedo de ellos, malparidos...”

Murphy looked from your retreating figure to Peña who was watching you walk away with amusement in his eyes. “What was that? What did she say?”

“She’ll do it,” Peña said, smirking. He stood and picked up his own file. “And learn Spanish while I’m gone, cabrón.”

Peña rapped Steve on the arm with the file affectionately and then he was gone.

Steve rubbed his face again, tiredly, worried that given the short fuses of both you and Peña, the DEA was making a huge mistake.

*****

“¡Apúúúúúúrateeee!” You dragged the word out, tapping your foot impatiently against the brake.

You were in an agency assigned car waiting around the corner from Peña’s flat for the pendejo to come outside so you could start the long drive to Cali.

Finally.

He threw his bag into the backseat then slid onto the passenger’s seat.

“Amor,” he greeted you with a sardonic smile as he slipped his sunglasses on.

“¿Y por qué tardaste tanto?” You ignored the stupid nickname he was no doubt using to taunt you in order to ask him what had taken him so long.

“I couldn’t find the rings.” He held up a shiny golden wedding band, and you saw a matching one already around his own finger.

For a beat you merely glared at the ring as if all of this was its fault, then you were taking it and roughly sliding it onto your own finger.

“Careful,” Peña said as he inclined his seat so he could sleep. “Keep being so charming and all the narcos are going to want to marry you.”

You revved the engine and took off jerkily, turning the volume of the radio up to drown him out.

The trip was a long one. You both took turns driving. Peña kept turning down the radio while you drove so he could sleep, and you kept changing the station while he was driving. You argued over where to eat and what temperature to keep the air at or whether to open the windows.

“We’re supposed to be married, not divorced,” he’d quipped at you once while he was driving after you’d knocked his hand out of the way of your water bottle as you reached for it.

You turned the heater up then, knowing it would bother him, even though you were already sweltering. He left it though, too stubborn to engage you at your game.

Until you opened your window. Then he was slamming the shut off button for the heater.

You glared at him...then- A mansion outside his window caught your eye. You watched it whiz past.

“What?” He slowed and turned the radio volume down.

“You passed it.” You sat back in your seat. “Coño.” You muttered under your breath.

He pulled the car over. When he let the car idle instead of turning around, you looked at him to see him already watching you, sunglasses off.

“What?”

“This is it. One wrong move and we’re both dead.”

You couldn’t believe your ears. You glared fiercely his way. “Are you reminding me how to do my job, Peña?”

He sighed. “Just- I know we don’t get along, but this weekend, we don’t have a choice.”

You rolled your eyes. “Look just because you swooped in from the grand US of A to save all us heathens,” you fluttered your hands mockingly, “doesn’t mean I need you to remind me of my job. I’ve been doing this for longer. If anyone in this car understands what’s at stake, it’s me.” You finished, angry.

“That why you hate me so much?” He asked thoughtfully in a tone so soft you had to look at his face to discern his intent for asking.

He wasn’t glaring anymore. If anything, he seemed curious.

“I don’t hate you,” you muttered but your tone belied your words.

He chuckled. “That’s a good start.” He started turning the car around. “Amor.” He added and suddenly you were fuming again.

*****

The introductions with the narcos and their wives went well enough, better even than you’d hoped. They accepted you as one of their own. It wasn’t hard for you to fit in, you were Colombiana to the bone. Peña on the other hand… But he’d sold it well. Almost too well. This had been your first opportunity at seeing how much he’d picked up during his time in Colombia so far. And it seemed like he’d picked up a lot.

Peña hadn’t been wrong when he’d indicated some of the narcos would take an interest in you. They greeted you both warmly, but their hands enveloped yours tightly and their eyes lingered just a moment too long. You thought Peña must have noticed too, and surely he worried that allowing such blatant flirting would endanger your cover.

That must have been why you suddenly felt his arm encircling your bare shoulders. You tried not to tense in surprise, so much so that you let yourself relax against him in a natural manner. He continued the pretense, kissing your forehead as he made a joke with the narcos about keeping the wife happy.

Inside, though, you were having a crisis and you hoped the look on your face was one caught between amused and loving. A shock had gone through you when Peña’s lips had met your skin. His act was so convincing; how was he so good at this?

You thought back to the first stop you’d made earlier on in the car drive. When you’d gotten out of the car, Peña had whistled softly upon seeing your sundress, warming your cheeks and angering you simultaneously. But he’d said nothing else. And you’d thought on it during the ensuing drive. Normally you wore suits to the office, pants and skirts, but suits all the same. And you’d made a point of never going out with Peña or Murphy. So he’d never seen you in anything else. Against your will, you wondered what the whistle had meant. Not that you cared, but you didn’t need to add one more thing to the long list of things you already had to think about.

You smothered the thoughts. They were distracting and unnecessary and right now you were lucky that Peña was so good at this because he was carrying you both.

As you trailed the narcos out back to sit and have drinks by the pool, you slipped your arm around his waist, needing to carry your weight in the farce and not wanting to have to hear later from Peña about what you should have done.

“Así,” you heard him murmur approvingly.

You dug your nails into his side and heard him grunt in pain.

Your smile then at the wife of one of the narcos holding out a drink for you was genuine.

You spent an hour bantering back and forth with the other couples.

If you didn’t know any better, you would think Peña was happily married in his private life. He played the part perfectly.

As you were both sitting at the poolside table, he would reach over absently and take your fingers in his. The first time a jolt went through you again. But you took the cue. You alternated touches. You would rest your hand on his thigh. You swore he jumped the first time you did that, but he hid it well. He took long draws from your glass. Once he even fed you an olive. If you didn’t know any better, he was enjoying torturing you. He knew you hated olives. But the gesture drew laughs from the men and awwws from the women. It was then you noticed how they were swooning over Peña. It upset you only because you realized that if the pinche idioto was in the position to do it, he’d sleep with all their wives.

Finally and blessedly, your hosts suggested that you two retire to your room before dinner. Peña was to join the other men in Pacho’s office just before dinner for a discussion. You assumed that was when any useful information would be recovered. You realized then that you were here more for decoration than anything.

You fumed as you let Peña lead you by the hand up the mansion’s grand staircase. You both followed the housekeeper who led you to your room.

You dropped Peña’s hand the second the door closed behind you. He gave you a look but then the two of you were scouring the room, searching for any hidden recording devices. You shook your head at him, but he put his finger to his lips and tilted his head toward the bathroom. You raised your hands questioningly but followed him all the same.

He was reaching into the shower and turning it on full blast.

“¿Qué haces?” You hissed at his ear, having to get close to be heard.

“We don’t know for sure it’s clear. We only talk freely like this.” He murmured into your ear, his breath tickling your skin. You shivered involuntarily at the sensation.

You both established that your cover had been bought. And what most likely awaited him at the meeting. You left him to take a shower and went to lounge on the bed.

Several minutes later, the door to the bathroom opened releasing a wall of steam and-

You sat up, glaring, “What are you doing?”

Peña put a finger to his lips furiously. “Adonde está mi maleta, amor?” His sweet tone was a direct contradiction to the furrow in his brow. He shook his head at you, gesturing to his suitcase as if to ask how you expected him to get dressed without clothes.

“Allí, corazón.” You said for show, just in case, glaring at him as he took his time going through his bag to find an outfit. Your eyes tried not to linger on his bare skin and the way water from the shower trickled down his toned back.

You averted your eyes when he turned back, but he was smiling as if he knew you’d been watching him, so you flipped over on the bed to face the other direction.

When Peña left the room with the sound of a fake kiss, you were too nervous to sit still. You had to get ready for dinner anyway. But you were anxious all the same. Your cover could be blown at any second. You stored a handgun under the bathroom sink before getting into the shower and kept an ear out for any strange noises. But nothing happened. You dressed and put your perfume and makeup on. Still Peña was absent. You slid a smaller gun into the holster on your inner thigh and went to join the other wives wherever they were.

They turned out to be in a bar off the kitchen. Luckily already tipsy and talkative. They handed you a drink, but you took only tiny sips as you engaged them in conversation. You struck gold when one of them brought up Tata, Escobar’s wife. They were gossiping over who had a better kitchen. You hung onto every word while providing input as shallowly as possible. Apparently your and Peña’s kitchen was inlaid with marble and dark hickory wood.

Nothing they said gave up the location of the Escobars though and the subject soon turned to jewelry, at which point the women fawned over the diamond necklace provided to you by the agency. Which was your cue to try to sell them diamonds.

Soon enough the staff came in to lead you all to the formal dining room where the men were waiting. They all stood but it was Peña’s face you were focused on.

His lips parted when he saw you and his brow smoothed over. His eyes traveled from yours down along your entire figure. You couldn’t help but get the slightest bit flustered. You avoided his gaze, but he was coming your way to take your hand and lead you over to the seat next to his. It was strange. Surrounded as you both were by actual enemies, it felt like you were the only two in the room. It confused you and irritated you, but you managed to catch your breath again once you were seated at the dinner table. You ignored Peña’s dark eyes on you and took a long sip from your wine glass, trying to focus on the mission at hand.

“Not too much,” you heard him whisper as you placed the wine glass back down.

And there he was.

Underneath the table, you adjusted your feet, “accidentally” stepping on his shoe with one sharp heel.

The curse he muttered in pain under his breath had you smiling as you dove into the conversation, ready to take on a room full of the people who had played the bad guys in your life for so long.

masterlist

[rioskingdom]

Amor Pasado

Chapter 3

"I think I'm gonna puke," I slammed my eyes shut, taking the precaution of even covering them with my hand.

"Why did you come into an empty room," Cesar shouted. I heard the sound of objects being stepped on.

"Oh were gonna be judging me for coming into an empty room, not the sex-crazed teens, getting it on, in the teacher's desk!" I cringed at my own comment, shaking the thought of the kids having sex. "I have a free period, so I come into this room, it has the best signal in the whole school," When the room fell silent, I opened my eyes, moving my hand away.

Monse and Cesar both stood straight up, looking guilty as ever. "so we're just gonna go," Cesar tried walking away, Monse following close behind him but I called them out.

"how long has this been going on," I asked them.

Cesar was scratching the back of his neck, "the first time was before camp,"

"Then it started again about two weeks ago" she added. "Don't tell the crew," Monse pleaded. Why she was scared of telling Ruby and Jamal beat me, but it wasn't my secret to tell.

"Monse, I'm honestly trying to forget about it myself," I sighed, rubbing my hands against my face.

"I always did find you two very cute, even when you were kids," Both of them beamed, "You know you cant keep it a secret forever," they both nodded their heads. "Be careful where you guys are having sex, next time it'll be a teacher" I warned, as they left the room.

This room would forever be scarred in my head, not making me want to sit here anymore. I darted towards the library, while you still had a free period.

---

"You sure you dont want to go to the dance?" Olivia was picking pieces of clothing, shoving them in a bag. I shook my head, lowering my laptop screen.

"Dances aren't my scene, plus it's gonna be filled with ninth and tenth graders, no offense," she laughed, grabbing her bag. "Ok, have fun alone in this room," She giggled.

"Im gonna have so much fun, working on my homework!" Ruby came in, talking nonsense about being woke, after a few years with him, I learned how to turn my hearing off with him. Once they left, I focused on my homework. My grades had to be perfect, I had to give Cornell no reason to reject me.

There was a knock on the door, at first, I was gonna ignore it, but when I heard the second knock, I got up heading to the door.

When I opened the door, Victoria stood there, "Hey Carmen," I leaned against the doorway, examining her. "I missed you,"

"I dont," I responded, making her take a step back.

"I talked to the headmaster," she continued. "she's willing to forget the past and let you back into the school," Of course she would, hoping I dont tell the school board about her rendezvous with her students.

Her hand moved to hold mine, "we could be together again,"

I considered the possibility of returning, missing my friends, my professors, actually having a shot of going to Cornell. I looked down, watching as her hand, which once felt warm and comforting, now felt cold and stonelike. I peered up at her, my hand slipping from hers.

"I think its time for you to go," I mumbled. Focusing my attention on the flower pot, outside the door.

"Come on Car' we all missed you up there," She leaned closer.

"Dont call me that," I snapped at her, pushing her back. "you lost that right when I caught you screwing the headmaster," I spat at her.

"It wasn't like that, you're naturally smart," she defended herself, "I had to find a way to keep my grades up to stay in Gardensfield,"

"Are you expecting me to feel sorry?" I asked her. Whatever excuse she tried giving, it didn't change the fact, she cheated on me. Her eyes fell on my wrist.

"You took off your bracelet?" I walked away, going to my room, grabbing the bracelet that I threw on the floor weeks ago. I got to the door, handing her the bracelet.

"Have a nice life, Victoria," I slammed the door shut, resting my back against the door. My breath growing ragged as my chest felt heavy. Someone came from behind me, giving me a hug. I turned to them, seeing Abuela.

"Abuelita?" She backed up, coughing behind her, I'm assuming to not cough on me.

"Im sorry you had to see that Abuelita," I apologized, taking in a deep breath.

"no need to apologize, you should go out, have fun, forget this Victoria person,"

"I have homework," I tried to explain, but abuelita started nudging into my room.

"Nonsense, youre only young once," she was right. I couldn't go back to writing math problems. But where would I go? I'd never step foot in a high school dance. I sent Cesar a message, see if maybe he knew of a party, since he was in the gang.

there's a party at Monse, dance got canceled

Good enough excuse. I grabbed my phone, heading to Monse's.

----

I was getting lost in Jasmine's story, as I finished downing my beer. I walked to her fridge, grabbing another one.

"You sure thats a good idea, thats your third one," Monse told me. Who was she to judge?

"Hey im the adult here," I told her, keeping my sentences short and sweet.

"You're 17, "I stuck my tongue out on Monse, opening up my beer.

I looked to Jasmine cheering her on, "Jasmine, so tell me that story about your third nipple," I started drinking my beer, walking to her as she started gushing on how she discovered it. The minute I sat on the couch, I stood back up, coming to the realization that I had to pee very bad.  

"I have to pee," My memory was pulling tricks on me, I couldn't remember where Monse's bathroom was. I've been here a few times, so why can't I remember the location. I stumbled into Monse's bedroom, realizing this wasn't the restroom. My eyes fell onto Cesar, who was on the phone.

"Cesar," I whispered, trying to be quiet. He looked up at me.

"Oscar hold on," he turns to look at me

"That's Oscar?" he nodded his head, "tell him he's a poopy head," Cesar smiled, saying something on the phone. I looked down, spotting a penny on the floor. It must be my lucky day.

"Yup," He hung up the phone as I reached down for the quarter. I shot up, acting as if I didn't have my hand on the cookie jar.

"Cesar I'm lost, I need the bathroom," He looked confused.

"What?" he laughed, not understanding me.

"I have to pee," His mouth shaped into an "o" taking me to the bathroom. Once I finished using the restroom, I went to the sink, washing my hands, before spattering some of the water onto my face.

I stumbled outside of the bathroom, seeing Jasmine passed out on the couch. I walked outside, taking my bottle with me, needing some fresh air.

I sat on the porch, looking at the night sky. Oscar came up to me, sitting next to me, "Aren't you a little too grown for this party," I asked him, giving him a smile.

"I would say the same to you," He said.

"I can do whatever the hell I want," I answered, lifting the beer bottle, getting ready to take a sip. Oscar grabbed the bottle from my hands, moving it away from me.

"Pendejo!" I cursed, turning to him.

"Que te pasa?" he scolded. Okay, dad.

"Nothing," I told him, but his face read that he wasn't gonna give up. By now I was tired of Oscar's bullshit. I haven't even forgiven from last week, leaving me hanging that way. My anger sobered me up pretty quickly, causing me to stand up, so I could face him.

"Oh my god, what is up with you, no quieres ser mi hermano, pero jodes de ser mi amigo, you dont want to kiss me?" I ranted to him.

"Not this shit again," He rolled his eyes, getting up but I pushed him back down so that I was the taller person here.

"yes, this shit again," I scolded him, he leaned back, resting his arms against the steps, almost enjoying my outburst.

"I said no to going back to Gardenfields because of a past relationship biting me in the ass, and now you-" I massaged my temples, feeling an incoming headache.

"I mean am I crazy? did I read the signs wrong?" He had a smirk, written on his lips.

"Why the fuck are you smirking," I ranted. He stood up, pulling me flush against him. Bending down, he crashed his lips on mine. The mixture of cigarette with spearmint caused my body to melt into his, as he held on to me, keeping me upright. As he pulled away, he brushed his thumb against my lips.

"you're not crazy," he breathed. I gasped, running to the bushes, puking the contents from my stomach.

[achtung-attitude]

CHAPTER 20: Feel Good Inc - Part 2

From the deep gash punctured into Trish’s sternum by SATURN BARZ, steam rises as her flesh turns to garishly-red liquid. The fat beneath her white skin sizzles and pops. This is the only sound. Her mouth hangs open wide, but she does not scream. It smells like bacon.

“What the hell did you do?” Moya murmurs. Kilo glances at her, then back at Trish. He is dumbstruck, eyes unblinking in silent horror. Tarantula steps away from the scene, staring and smirking. 

Finally, Trish makes a sound. “Ss… ssss…!!” she stammers, almost hissing, then she sharply inhales. All of the air siphons out of the hole in her chest. Her eyes glaze over, going into shock. She is going to die.

“SsSPICE GIRL!!” she shouts, her vision focussing. SPICE GIRL emerges at her command and drives a punch right into her wound. Frantically, the Stand unleashes a barrage of fists into Trish’s body, crying out a desperate “WANNABEEEE!!!” The flurry of attacks throws Trish towards where Moya stands. Her body changes in mid-air. She begins to morph, twisting, elongating. Her very bones turn into silly putty. Moya braces herself and tries to catch her, but Trish immediately slips out of them, falling on to the ground to form a vaguely human shaped puddle.

“Jesus, what…?” Moya says, marveling at the sight before her, “What did you do? Why would your own Stand attack you?”

Through sheer willpower, Trish forces the muscles of her face to reform enough to reply. “S-ss-SATURN BARZ… forces matter to ch-change it’s form… th-that last attack was meant to make s-solid into liquid…! I-It was m-melting me, but… S-SPICE GIRL’s ability can make things semi-solid to b-begin with… it was a gamble, but I w-was able to cancel it out… l-like an open circuit, i-in an electrical current, blocked with r-rubber… B-but, if I change back, th-then the circuit will c-close again… SATURN BARZ will reactivate, and then…”

“You’re crazy…!” Moya exclaims, “How do you even think of something like this?” 

A high whistling sound is heard. Tarantula stands with his hands on his hips, looking at Trish’s new form. “Not gonna lie, that was actually pretty cool.” He turns his head towards the sounds of heavy, panicked breathing, coming from Kilo. 

Kilo does his best to keep his eyes on his enemy, but he steals quick, frantic glances. At Trish’s distorted form. At Shizuka and Jerome, wide-eyed and scared. Sweat runs down his face. Hi hands tremor. He is far less sure than he was before. 

“You look tense,” Tarantula says. “You need to sit down?”

“Shut. Up.” he replies, hissing through clenched teeth. 

“... I don’t think I like that look you’re giving me. You ain’t gonna blame me for that just now, are you, pendejo? You’re the one that threw the punch.”

“I SAID SHUT UP!!!”

“Make me.” His teeth gleam in a smile like an animal’s snarl. When Kilo doesn’t move, he continues. “So, are you getting déja vu too, right now? Or is it just me? Isn’t this basically what happened last time? You get carried away with yourself, get involved with shit that you shouldn’t, and now someone else is paying for it.”

“Y-you…!”

“I’m not blaming you.” Tarantula’s smile fades, and he looks at Kilo straight on. “It’s your nature. It’s my nature. Who is to blame when a storm wipes a town off the map? Who is to blame when a predator brings down its prey? This is who you really are. That’s why your friend died that night. And it’s why your friends are dying today.”

Now, Kilo is the one who can not breathe. He looks as though he is on the verge of tears.

“You can’t help yourself. This was always gonna happen. Why deny it now? Embrace it. You bring ruin to those around you.” He smiles gently. “Just like me.”

The moment he says this, ACHTUNG BABY flickers into existence right in front of him. It delivers a swift punch to his jaw before disappearing again, sending Tarantula back a step. He rubs his cheek. “Ow,” he says. The attack dealt no real damage. The back-step was made only in surprise. “That almost hurt…”

“Don’t talk…” comes the shaky voice. 

“Shizuka…” Kilo mutters. 

Shizuka pulls herself into a sitting position on the floor, having rolled herself off of the comfortable couch. She raises a shivering hand and points it at Tarantula. She glares with pallid features. It is plain to see she is barely keeping herself conscious. 

“Don’t talk… as if you know him…! You don’t know anything about him! Kilo is… NOTHING like you…! Who do you think you are…? Kilo… is kind! I won’t let you come in here, and talk nonsense like that…! Ugh--”

She is cut off by a fluorescent green foot to the face. She blinks out of consciousness and collapses to her side with blood running from her nose. 

“Shizu-!!” groans Jerome, clutching his belly. 

“We were having a serious conversation, you vapid little valley-girl. Nobody asked you.” Tarantula scowls, then turns back to Kilo. “I think it’s time…” “You… you motherfucker…!” Kilo grind his teeth.

“Shh,” he says, raising a finger to his lips, “too slooooooowwwwwwwwwwwwwww--”

Second become hours as his sense become poisoned by FEEL GOOD INC. Once again, he watches his enemy saunter towards him, his Stand’s scythe hand raised over its head. The Stand moves its normal hand to its mouth and lets out another cloud of noxious fumes. 

Kilo blocked the attack before, but then he was driven by revenge and rage. The scythe descends on him, and he remembers Venice Beach and WITCH MOUNTAIN. The darkness that filled his head and blocked out all thoughts aside from his guilt. He decides, in the moment FEEL GOOD INC.s’ blade cut into him, that Venice Beach was nothing compared to his guilt now; having failed his friends once again.

Moya jumps to her feet away from puddle-Trish and sprints to aid him, but FEEL GOOD INC. throws the ball of fumes in her face. She too falls victim to the Stand’s power. Tarantula’s lips move, and she realizes he is speaking slowly enough for her to understand. “Aanyythhhiiingg tooo ssayyy??”

She winces. Then, looking past him, Moya notices something that Tarantula hasn’t, and closes her eyes. “...Bienaventurados los que procuran la paz.”

He grins. “Amen.” He slashes Moya diagonally across her chest and she falls. Blood splatters on her face and his smile transforms into one of rapturous delight. Trish watches with impotent fury, and Tarantula laughs. His laughter is sharp, sudden, and high-pitched. Then, it stops as quickly as it started and he becomes serious and serene. 

Bowing his head, he clasps his hands together. “O Blessed Mother, O Patron saint of outlaws, Santa Muerte. Guide these souls to their final rest. May they be exalted in thy glory and baptized in thy infinite mercy. In nomine Patris, et Fili, Spiritus Sancti…” 

He remains silent for a moment, head down, hands together. Then, he sniffs, and rubs his bald head. “Main threats neutralized. Now, the stragglers… What the fuck?” He says, turning around to discover that Jerome and Shizuka have disappeared. “... That… human pig. The one Kilo healed. He must have taken the girl and bounced. Ughh, what in the pain in the ass. I suppose they don’t technically pose a threat anymore… but you can’t be too careful,” he concludes, spotting a trail of blood that leads back inside the house.

                                                          ---

Though the wound in his gut has been scabbed over, it is far from healed, and little drops of blood drip down Jerome's hoodie onto the floor. He hobbles forward, with Shizuka slung over his back. He’s not strong by any means, and he also has a recent stab wound, so his progress down the corridor is slow. Shizuka breathes through her mouth, blood streaming from her abused nose.

“I’m telling you, you need to get out of here!” she protests, struggling against him. “That man, he’s… he’s too strong, I don’t think I can beat him!”

“And I’m tellin’ you not to talk!” Jerome protests back. “You prolly got a thing, what ya call it? A concussion, you know, that thing you get when you hit yo head. Just hold still damn it!”

“You’re not thinking of fighting him, are you?... There’s no way!”

“Damn sure, there’s a way. Why not? Mothafucka came to my house, started talkin’ shit and cut up my guests. We’re way past picking a fight now. And I ain’t about to leave you to him.”

“C-King, I’m saying you can’t possibly beat him! You don’t have a Stand, you can’t even see what he’s doing! You don’t stand a chance against him!”

They turn a corner and they reach his front door. Jerome puts Shizuka down and takes a moment to catch his breath. “... I ever tell you what C-King means?”

“What?” Shizuka asks, confused.

Jerome gets up, and reveals a hidden panel in the wall next to the front door. There is a number pad inside, and he continues as he carefully types in a code. “Jerome Adetokunbo. That’s Yoruba. West African name. My great-great-great granddad was a slave, stolen from his land, but he never forgot it. When the slaves was freed, most folks kept the names they was given. White names. But my GG kept his. He never forgot who he was, and he made sure his family never forgot who they was.”

He types in the final digit, and a hidden door opens in the wall. “Adetokunbo. I am ‘the crown from beyond the sea.’ The C-King. And no tattoo-covered, pontificating asshole is gonna come into my castle, and fuck with my guests!”

Shizuka stares, unsure of what to say. Eventually, “... But what can you do?”

Jerome smiles.  “I’m gonna sic my knights on him, that’s what…” He reaches into his front pocket and produces his golden grills, proudly placing them over his teeth.

[beckytailweaver]

[FIC] Coco - What the Xolo Dragged In  (Part 7)

Before anybody wonders, remember that in another lifeline, Héctor Rivera had the moxie to punch Pepita in the nose when he thought she was after his chamaco.  This is not a cowardly man, for all that he graciously yields to more forceful personalities...most of the time.

Coco - What the Xolo Dragged In

Part 7 - Break

These days, Héctor always felt terribly out of place up in the nicer sections of the city.  Everything was clean, clearly lit, and brightly painted, pretty as a picture in the mid-morning sunlight.  The skeletons walking to and fro about their business were well-dressed and had the white, sturdy bones of the Remembered.  The stares and whispers, however—disdainful and sometimes horrified, unlike the mere curiosity of his Shantytown peers—made him glad he’d kept to the side streets and alleys, acutely conscious of his awkward gait, ragged clothes, and chipped, weathered bones.

The Forgotten were memorable when they appeared outside their dank domain below—as memorable as a leper at a gala ball, and just about as welcome.  It was always the same; the constant prickle of open stares, or the cold shoulder of being deliberately ignored.

At least if they were staring at him, they were less likely to notice the little shadow he led along by the hand, or at least more likely to pass it off as a Forgotten child—something they wanted to acknowledge even less.

Miguel was doing a good job of keeping up, uncomplaining, though his small head swiveled this way and that the whole trip, in awe of the bright maze that was the massive city of the dead and its inhabitants (they’d taken care of Miguel’s business in a dark corner just outside of Shantytown, where hopefully no one would really notice one more puddle on the damp pyramid stones).  The boy was probably getting tired from the very long walk, but he gamely kept going; he had a lot of questions, but was mostly distracted by anything resembling music.  Every time they passed another source of song, the child locked on to it like a pointer dog until they passed out of earshot or another one appeared.

Soon enough, the instances of music thinned and vanished as they walked, driven away by the austere silence of the forbidden zone surrounding the quiet street Héctor knew far too well.  The sense of impending doom curled his shoulders more with every step; he was walking into the jaguar’s den and he knew it, but a little stomach growled audibly at his side like a tiny angry alebrije and he continued putting one foot in front of the other.

If he kept thinking about Miguel, he wouldn’t think about the anger and rejection that awaited him.  Miguel was love and warmth and a ready smile and a cheerful voice that danced like happy guitar music and hugs that felt like home.

With every step he took, he grew closer to losing that joy forever.

But Miguel needed food and care and everything Héctor couldn’t provide, and that was far more important than his own wants.

Almost before he knew it (before he wanted it), they were in front of the familiar gate, overshadowed by the large sign shaped like a shoe.  The high wall was brightly painted; the house beyond it was even taller, built upward to contain the family like all structures in the Land of the Dead.  It was quiet within, the courtyard shaded from the sun by colorful sheets of fabric tied up in gentle swoops.

“Papá Héctor,” Miguel whispered, staying close to his side, “this looks kinda like my house.  See?  There’s the same sign.”

“That’s because it kind of is your house,” Héctor said softly, forcing the sadness out of his tone.  “Or it will be your house, someday.  It’s your family’s house, where everyone lives when they’re not visiting your ofrenda.”

“Oh.”  Miguel looked up at the gate a moment longer.  “They have breakfast here?”

Dios mío, I hope so!

“Let’s go find out.”  Carefully, Héctor pushed the gate further open and led the boy into the courtyard.  Up this high, the ground was wood and brick rather than stone, the yard tastefully decorated with art and sculpture here and there to give the look of plants and shrubs.  There was even a small fountain that bubbled pleasantly, which small bird-shaped alebrijes might use as a bath.

Héctor took deep breaths to steady himself as he approached the front door, not out of any need for air but only old habit.  If he let his hands shake, Miguel would notice, and the poor kid didn’t need anything more to worry about.  Standing on the mat, he took one last glance down at his grandson and winced; hair sticking out around the oversized hat, face smudged with grime from the back streets, covered in a tattered, filthy poncho, the boy looked like a complete ragamuffin.

...whoops. Not gonna win me any points...but I’m already in the record-setting negatives anyway.

Héctor raised a fist and knocked timidly.  He couldn’t exactly hope that no one was at home, but maybe Imelda would be out and he could speak to someone else—

A roar resounded through the courtyard and sent Miguel crowding against his legs with a frightened squeak.

Oh no.

Imelda’s huge, terrifying alebrije rose from a sunny spot on the outbuilding roof across the courtyard, wings casting a deep shadow as the massive feline leaped effortlessly to the ground.  The growl the creature emitted shook the courtyard floor as it advanced.  Pepita knew Héctor on sight and, after this many years, knew that her mistress didn’t want him around.

And yet, Miguel’s fearful whimper seemed to drown out all of the oncoming alebrije’s noise.

“Hey!”  Hyper-aware of the tiny hands clinging to his trouser leg, Héctor pointed a finger at the big cat’s nose, marveling somewhere in the back of his mind that his hands still weren’t shaking.  “Back off!  I’m here on business, and you’re scaring the kid!”

Pepita snarled but stood still, as if momentarily baffled by his defiance.  One swat from her paw could scatter him all over the courtyard like an upended bundle of sticks, and she’d never been shy about showing her displeasure.  Before she could respond, however, a small brightly-colored bundle of excitement bounced up to her feet, yapping loudly and tail wagging in a blur.  Apparently stymied by this enthusiasm, Pepita stared down at the Xolo-alebrije-pup that threw itself to the ground in front of her and wriggled endearingly as if ecstatic to see her.

With the fearsome alebrije thus distracted (perhaps she wasn’t sure if she should eat it or play with it), Héctor kept Miguel close to him and edged away from the hazard.  The only thing worse now would be—

Just behind him, the door swung open sharply.  “—is going on, upsetting my alebrije and—you.”

Imelda’s voice, quick to bare fangs of spite, bit into him with all the pain and force he remembered from the last time he’d darkened her doorstep—and the time before that, and the time before that...

Dios, dame fuerza.

Héctor closed his eyes, gave himself one moment to gather all his strength, and turned to her with the most neutral, earnest expression he could manage.  Now was not the time for smarmy grins, romantic flourishes, or exaggerated pleas.  “Imelda, buenos días.  I—”

“Get out!  Pendejo músico!” she snarled, her face twisting with rage.  “If I’ve told you once I’ve told you a thousand times, never come back here!”

“I’ll go, just give me a moment to—!”

“I gave you my heart!  I gave you years of my life!”  She had her boot in her hand in the blink of an eye, advancing on him as threateningly as her alebrije had.  “You spat on it all and threw it away!  I will give you nothing more!”

Already he was backing away from her wrath, ducking her swing.  “Imelda, listen—!”

“Cállate!  I told you to get out!  Out!  Never show your face here again!”

When he dodged back again, his leg bumped against solid warmth.  Miguel was still there, cowering from the huge angry alebrije and the shouting adults with a child’s innocent confusion, and Héctor was his only shelter from all that was frightening and unfamiliar.

Imelda had a right to her anger, but this was a separate issue.

Enough.  Enough.  This is not helping Miguel!

If he stepped back even once more, they’d be fighting on top of their great-great-grandson (a young child should never be subjected to their parents’ conflicts).  Héctor straightened his spine as Imelda swung again.  Instead of giving ground, he raised his right arm to block the blow.

Her boot slammed into his radius, snapping the brittle bone with a crack that seemed like a gunshot in the closed courtyard, thudding into his ulna with bruising force.  He grit his teeth against the lightning agony that rocketed up his arm, the pain turning his voice sharp.

“Will you stop shouting and listen to me for one God-blessed minute?”

For a moment Imelda stood blinking at him, startled as much by the fact she’d actually connected as with his tone.

“This is important.”  He lowered his arm, pushing her shoe away; urgency made him force the pain to the background, though he didn’t dare try to move any of the fingers of his right hand.  “Miguel is here.”

“What?”  Her jaw went slack.  “You mean—my Miguelito?  But...I-I should’ve been notified—!”

“He’s not dead,” Héctor reassured her quickly, reaching back with his good arm to nudge the child forward.  He reclaimed his fraying hat, removing the haphazard disguise on the boy.  “He didn’t come in through Arrivals.”

Stunned, Imelda stared down at the living child on her doorstep.  Wary of her, Miguel kept a grip on Héctor’s trouser leg as if expecting him to disappear.

“He showed up last night near—near my place,” Héctor went on, “and...I thought it best if I brought him to you.”

“Last night?” Imelda snapped, her ire quickly returning.  “He’s been here since last night and you didn’t—?”

“He didn’t recognize me.”  Héctor tried not to bite out the words, tried not to sound the slightest bit accusing, the pain in his arm already sharpening his tone.  “And I didn’t know who he was at first.  And he was soaking wet—I wasn’t going to run him across town like that in the middle of the night!”

Imelda’s scowl deepened along with her glare.  “Explain.  Now.”

“He came from the Waters.”  Héctor kept his good hand on Miguel’s hair, trying to reassure the boy as he spoke quickly.  “Something about a ghost trying to grab him—maybe La Llorona?—and this alebrije puppy rescued him from it, but somehow he got from the river in Santa Cecilia to...here.”

Imelda spared a quick glance at Dante, where the pup was bouncing happily around Pepita’s paws as if trying to reach the big cat’s face to lick it.

“Alebrije can’t carry anything across the Veil,” she stated skeptically.  “If they could, people would have been sending letters and packages back and forth every day instead of only on Día de Muertos.”

“I don’t know how.”  Héctor shrugged, and immediately regretted it when the movement jostled his fractured arm.  Wincing, he hissed through his teeth and pressed on.  “I found my living grandson washed up from the Waters with this alebrije that used to be his pet, and he doesn’t understand what happened either, only that he heard a scary sound, fell in the river, and saw something that looked like a ghost before his dog pulled him under and he woke up here!  And now he’s got to get back to the land of the living, he’s hungry, and I don’t have any way to help him!”

“Another inconvenience you’re so eager to leave behind,” Imelda sniffed, folding her arms.

Struck, Héctor found himself glaring back at her for several beats, wondering if she’d actually heard any of the words he’d said.  He had to tighten his jaw to keep from retorting something about how she’d wanted him to bring the boy sooner.  His worry over Miguel had apparently short-circuited his usual guilt and passivity in her presence, but if he fought with her they’d get nowhere; Imelda never backed down from a fight, and the quickest way to defuse her was to avoid locking horns.

“I have nothing,” he said, as flatly as he could manage.  “I have no food for him, and my house is not fit for children.  You can provide for him better than I can.  You can make sure the Department does everything possible to return him to the living world.  This isn’t about me—this isn’t even about us.  Miguel takes priority, and I can’t help him.”

She studied him for long moments before finally rolling her eyes and looking away.  “Fine.  You’ve done your good deed.  Of course I’ll take care of him.  Now get out.”

“Gracias, Imelda.”  With only one arm, Héctor tried to push the boy toward her, but Miguel wouldn’t let go of him.  “Miguel...mijo, you’re gonna stay with Imelda now, alright?  She’ll get you some breakfast.”

“No...Papá Héctor, I wanna go with you!”  Miguel resisted the soft pressure, balking more when Imelda reached for him.  “I don’t want to stay here!”

“Easy now—I got it.  Hey, hey, Miguel,” Héctor said gently, kneeling to look the child in the eyes, “this is your Mamá Imelda.  You know her, right?”

“She’s on top of the ofrenda,” the boy said after a moment, guarded.  “Mamá Coco’s mamá.  She made shoes first.”

“That’s right.”  Héctor smiled encouragingly.  “Mamá Imelda has room for you, and food too.  That’s why you need to stay here.”

“But...”  Miguel cast a wary, suspicious look up at the stern woman, keeping a tight hold on Héctor’s left arm bones.  “She’s the one who said no music.  She’ll hate me.”

“No way!  Mamá Imelda loves you.  She takes care of your family that lives here, just like your Abuelita takes care of your family where you live.  You’re much more important than music, mijo.  You need to stay where it’s safer for you.”  Héctor didn’t let his smile waver, cajoling and positive.  “You’ll feel better when you get some food, okay?  Your family here will be so happy to see you!  And then Mamá Imelda will help you go home to your mamá and papá.  You’ll be fine.”

“Well...okay...”  Very reluctantly, Miguel let go of Héctor’s good arm.  He didn’t look pleased, but at least he wasn’t digging in his heels.

“Come along, Miguel.”  Imelda held out her hand, her voice firm but not cold.

The boy glanced at her outstretched hand, then at Héctor.  “When are you coming back?”

I’m not.  I’m sorry.

“Imelda’s gonna take care of you now.”  The tears he held back burned as his good hand cupped his grandson’s cheek, cherishing the warmth he would never touch again.  Leaning close, he kissed the boy’s forehead, lingering to murmur, “Be good, Miguel.  I love you.”

Please don’t forget how much I love you.

As Héctor rose and stepped back, holding himself rigid, Imelda caught Miguel’s arm when the boy reached for him again.  She still glared at him, but there was something off in her gaze that he couldn’t process; all his strength was taken by staying upright and polite.  There wasn’t time or space for one more hug, one more goodbye, one more anything—he would always want one more, and another, and another...

One more chance.  Please, just...

If he started he’d never stop.  He had to hold himself up in spite of his broken heart breaking all over again, in spite of the jagged pain in his cracked arm.  As if it wasn’t his family he was walking away from once more; as if it wasn’t the only kin who’d shown him any affection in almost a century he was leaving behind, never to see again.

I can’t...

I have to.

He’d told her he would leave as soon as he’d explained.  His face a mask, he cleared his throat and tipped his hat to the lady as if she was a stranger he’d bumped into in the marketplace.  “I’m sorry to have bothered you, Señora.  Good day.”

She started and looked as if she wanted to say something, but he turned away too quickly.  He was already at the edge of his tolerances, and if he lingered now he’d collapse.  He could only try to ignore the sounds behind him—the scuffling of little feet, the click and rattle of a door opening.

“Papá Héctor’s gonna come back, right?  M-Mamá Imelda?  He’s gonna come back?  After breakfast?”

“Of course not.”  Imelda’s voice, gentler with a child but still displeased.  “That músico is not welcome here.”

“B-but, he’s—!”

“Miguel, behave and come inside.  We need to get you home.”

“No...no, Papá Héctor, please!”

I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry.  I can’t help you.

Héctor kept walking, telling himself he couldn’t hear anything behind him, not the upset little boy or the irritated woman or the confused whines of the alebrije-dog.  Everyone here hated him, but Miguel didn’t want him to leave, and that was almost enough to break him.

My boy.  I love you.  Go home.  Live.

Closing the courtyard gate behind him helped drown out some of the noise, but it didn’t really stop until Imelda managed to get Miguel inside and shut the door.  Then he was walking through the quiet of an ordinary neighborhood in the late morning, with no living child at his side (no small warm hand in his, no sweet musical giggles, no curious little voice asking so many questions) as if once more it had all been a dream, as if it had never happened at all.

Every step he took carried him further away from the last scrap of love in his existence.  If by some astronomically slim chance he lasted long enough to see Miguel again, his grandson would be grown, old enough to understand the truth, and turned against him by the stories of their family.  The little chamaco who looked at him with love and adoration would never do so again.

But Miguel would live.  And that was all that mattered.

Héctor kept putting one limping foot in front of the other, his only company the broken-glass ache of his fractured arm.  He didn’t care where he was going, just away, and his feet carried him along aimlessly until he found himself all the way back where he’d started, just outside of Shantytown.  Old, old habit had led him back home.

Beyond the gate there was music and joking and raucous teasing shouts.  Everyone within sounded far too happy in the afternoon lull.  Like they hadn’t had their fondest wishes offered to them on a silver platter and had to let the gift slip through their fingers.

It wasn’t fair of him to be bitter.  He should not begrudge his Shantytown Family any happiness they could find.  They hadn’t had the privilege of a surprise living family visit, not even through an ofrenda.  He’d had an opportunity few of them could even dream of, and he should be grateful for the time he’d had.

It was his own fault.  He’d known Miguel for less than a day, and sending his grandson away was almost like leaving Coco behind all over again.  He got attached far too easily, even when he knew he shouldn’t.  He knew it only caused pain, missing what he couldn’t have, and he already had enough to miss just trying to see his daughter again.

His heart disagreed with his head.  His heart said that Miguel was his grandson and he had every right to miss him, even if he’d only known him for a few hours.  His heart wanted to rush back to his family’s home and beg for one more chance, even if pleading had never worked before.  His heart knew that he loved that beautiful little boy helplessly, instantly, eternally, just like he loved his wife, his daughter, and all of his faceless grandchildren no matter how far apart they were.

Héctor couldn’t stand the thought of returning to his cold, empty hut without the music of Miguel’s voice to fill it.  He had no strength left to don his careless grin for the sake of his fellow Nearly-Forgotten.  He turned away from the merry voices of his Shantytown Family (their laughter he couldn’t join and their questions he didn’t want to answer) and his feet took him onward to the shadowed place at the edge of the misty Waters where he’d first found Miguel.

There he slumped like a forgotten marionette, with his broken arm and his broken heart, silent tears rolling down his cheekbones.  In over a hundred years of existence, he’d never learned to stop longing for things he couldn’t have, and all he could think about was the precious boy just beyond his grasp and the beloved daughter whose whole life he’d missed.

He didn’t move from that spot until Chicharrón found him, hours or days or eternities later.

(tbc)

How can I not love you? What do I tell my heart? When do I not want you Here in my arms? How does one waltz away From all of the memories? How do I not miss you When you are gone?

How can I not love you When you are gone?

— Joy Enriquez, “How Can I Not Love You” (Anna and the King)

I know it’s a romantic song, but it has the right sentiment.

Partial inspiration for the bone break comes from @im-fairly-whitty and This Post.  (I hope you don’t mind, Wit!  I thought “Hey wouldn’t this be dramatic?” and then remembered “Didn’t someone already do this?“)

Imelda didn’t give Miguel the best of first impressions in the film canon, either. (He tried to escape her then, too.)

This chapter was just plain hard to write.

[mademoiselle-black]

Herding cats - Rafael Barba x OFC - Part Seven

A/N: Chapter seven... who would’ve thought, right? I am so excited about this chapter because it marks the start of a turning point in the story (even though I am not completely satisfied with how I wrote it) . There are plans to make a playlist for the story too and maybe another moodboard or banner (this Pinterest thing is getting out of hand). I hope you guys enjoy!

Links to previous chapters:

Part One - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four - Part Five - Part Six

Pairings: Rafael Barba x Lemon/Astrid Kelly (Original Female Character)

Fandom: Law & Order SVU

Word count: 1763

Everything was business as usual at the precinct – Olivia was working her ass off interrogating a suspect with Nick, Munch kept complaining about things, and Finn and Amanda begged Lemon to come by and bring them food.

“Today was a roller coaster!” Lemon exclaimed as she drew a chair next to Amanda and slumped down. She took off her heels and stretched her feet to ease out some of the pain, much to the annoyance of her friend. “After that whole thing with Charles I went shopping and almost had to fight an old lady for the last parking spot. Here’s your food.”

“Did Barba… you know, get in touch?” she asked, searching for any sign that the ADA might have listened to the advice she gave the night before.

“No…? Wait- Amanda are you up to something?”

The blonde kept a straight face and pointed to the stack of paperwork piled on her desk. Thank God for poker nights. “Sweetheart, I’ve been working all day. Does it look like I have time for devious plans?”

The redhead calmed down, leaning back into her chair to relax. “Hmm, guess not,” Lemon mused, biting back a groan. Her feet really hurt.

“You do own comfortable shoes. Ever thought about wearing them?”

She shrugged Amanda off. “I’m five inches of whoop-ass without them. Besides, I drove here so I’ll be fine.”

Rafael made his entrance, dressed in a sharp black suit and that silk lavender dress shirt she had always liked. The material of his slacks fit his ass perfectly and she couldn’t help but tilt her head to the side to enjoy the view. He tore his attention from the screen of his phone long enough to look around the room, probably in search of Olivia, but his eyes landed on Lemon and he did a double take. The lines of his face hardened.

She greeted Rafael with a saccharine smile from her seat at Amanda’s desk. “Hello, counselor. Here to offer some deals like a crossroads demon?”

“Oh, if only I could summon one and have him take you away so I could get some peace,” he muttered.

“That’s not gonna happen,” Lemon teased as she snatched a fry from Amanda’s plate.

“One can hope.”

Amanda sat quietly at her desk, staring at the ADA with furrowed eyebrows. Something was wrong. Lemon’s body tensed at his cold demeanor.

Before any of them could say anything, Olivia opened the door to the captain’s office and called for Rafael, who seemed more than relieved to get out of the room. The blonde turned to her best friend for answers.

“What happened?”

“Maybe he lost one of his ties up his ass,” Finn quipped.

Lemon laughed at his remark, but Amanda stayed silent and pondered the situation. Her best friend was fine before Barba arrived, so the problem appeared to be on his end.

It wasn’t long before Olivia along with Nick and Barba got out of the interrogation room to chat in the middle of the room.

“It was a good case and we all deserve to blow off some steam. Anybody coming for drinks?” the brunette offered as she tore away from a hushed conversation with the ADA. “Are you joining us, Lemon?”

She shrugged, never being one to turn down an invitation. “Sure.”

Rafael suddenly lost any interest and made up an excuse to leave.

“Paperwork can wait, Barba. Come with us, loosen up a bit,” Nick tried to change his mind.

“Since it’s an open invitation, how about we ask some random Johns on the street if they want to tag along as well.”

The chatter came to a stop. It was more than obvious to Lemon that he had a very big issue with her coming.

“If you must know, I’m having a good day, counselor. Don’t ruin it,” the redhead warned him.

“Contrary to what you may believe, I have no interest in any aspect of your life,” he deadpanned. ‘Not anymore’ he wanted to add, but stopped himself just in time. Rafael didn’t want her to find out he was at her apartment building earlier in the day. He turned his attention towards the variety of texts and emails that kept flooding his phone, ignoring Lemon altogether.

His attitude put her off – dare she say even made a pang of sadness shoot through her heart. Their little game of throwing sass at eachother whenever they crossed paths at the SVU was usually entertaining, but Lemon felt something was off with Rafael. He was out for blood and she wanted no part in that. She put her shoes back on and turned to leave, determined to lick her wounds back home with some wine.

“Whatever,” Lemon shot back. “I’ve got better things to do than this.”

He scoffed, not even looking at her when he spoke. His attention was glued to his blackberry as his fingers rapidly typed messages for Carmen. “Oh, really? Do you even have friends outside this precinct?”

What in the seven fucks?!

She stopped dead in her tracks. “What is wrong with you today?!”

‘EVERYTHING’ he wanted to shout in frustration. Everything from his rotten luck in life to the sleepless nights spent working in his office or the emptiness of his home when he had nobody to come to after a long day. Instead, Barba chose to bite at the inside of his cheek and remain silent.

“Fine, if you won’t leave, I will,” he announced in a clipped tone as he pushed past her.

Lemon wasn’t about to stand back and let him walk over her. Determined to give Rafael a piece of her mind, the redhead chased after him.

"You asshole!!!"

She took off her heels and threw one at Barba, missing his head by a couple of inches. The shoe landed with a thud, sliding across the floor only to stop by Olivia's foot. Rafael turned around, his face in a complete state of disbelief.

"Did you just THROW A SHOE at me?!"

Lemon folded her hands across her chest, still holding the remaining shoe in case she had to hurl something at the ADA again. "Yes I did and I'll throw the other one too if you don't apologize!"

Rafael's eyes widened in surprise. "I'm sorry- WHAT?! Apologize?! This is crazy,” he said, brushing her off.

"Watch it, counselor," Finn warned. He and Amanda were watching intently from one end of the hallway while Nick sat beside Olivia with a smirk on his face. Sure, the ADA was good at what he did, but his personality hadn't won him alot of admirers in the SVU. Nobody besides Olivia was on his side when it came to Rafael and Lemon's feud. Nick playfully named it 'The People vs. Astrid Kelly'.

"Yes, you suit wearing pretentious bastard! APOLOGISE! Is that word even in your vocabulary?!" The redhead screamed as loudly as she could, flailing her arms about to further express herself. "You’re treating me like I'm worth less than the dirt beneath your shoes! WHY?!"  

Lemon's face was red from all the shouting, her chest heaving with anger. The whole street could hear their argument for all she cared. She was emotionally exhausted and on the brink of crying her eyes out in public. “I liked you better with a belt around your neck!”

"I don't have to listen to any of this. We're done here," Barba deadpanned. He turned to go to the captain's office, avoiding eye contact with the other detectives.

“I fucking hate you!”

Lemon felt a sharp, sudden pain shoot through her heart at his cold demeanor and her vision blurred with unshed tears. She threw the other shoe, hitting Rafael’s arm, and collapsed on the tiled floor to give way to tears. Finn was at her side in the blink of an eye, helping her up as she cried and offering encouraging words to calm her down.

"Come on let's get you home. Amanda will take care of him."

Lemon's cheeks were wet, her voice shaky as she spoke between hiccups. The words tangled up in her throat and her ears were ringing. "M-my car ke-keys..."

"Shh, I got you," the older man assured. "Let's find your shoes."

"I-I don't care any-anymore," she countered as they waited for the elevator.

Olivia made way to speak with Rafael, but Nick stopped her. "Let Amanda handle this."

The blonde stormed after him, almost taking the door off its hinges when she entered the office. Barba was pacing back and forth, hands shoved deep into his pockets as he muttered angrily in spanish. His tie and jacket lay discarded on the couch, thrown haphazardly in a rush to rid himself of anything that felt constraining.

"What just happened?!"

"Your best friend happened, detective," he bit back.

"I meant at her house," she pressed. "Your feathers were already ruffled when you came here."

Rafael pursed his lips, biting at the inside of his cheeks as he glared at the wall. He wanted to punch something or go to the bar and drink the night away. "I went to Astrid's apartment as per your advice, but that pendejo beat me to it. Charles was there," he said, spitting his name like bitter medicine.

"Barba, you have no idea how much she cares about your arrogant ass."

"That-" he countered, pointing towards the hallway where all hell broke loose previously "- is not behavior consistent of a woman who still has feelings for someone."

"Oh my God," she sighed. “You don’t get it. He came by unannounced and she put him in his place and cleared things up with him.”

Barba did a double take.

“What?!”

He already felt like the lowest of the low for making her cry. Once Amanda told him what happened, he felt sick and angry at himself – the same way he felt when he looked at his father.

“Yes, but that still doesn’t excuse the way you treated her! Whether you knew that or not, you had no right to lash out based on your insecurities. I had to hold Finn back from punching you.”

His decision was sudden. “I have to go talk to her.”

"Not tonight, Barba," Amanda advised. "Let her cool down and go tomorrow."

"I can't. I have to make this right," he countered as he dressed as quickly as he could. He stopped in the doorway before leaving, eyes full of sadness. "For the record, I never wanted to make her cry."

She waved him off. "You’re lucky she can’t aim to save her life."

[calliopesquill]

A Year in the Life: Chapter 14

                              Chapter 14: A Step in the Right Direction

         “No change since yesterday.”

         Miguel sighed, running one hand distractedly through his hair as he leaned back against the wall. “I know. Gracias Candela.”

         The nurse ruffled his hair fondly, sliding down the wall to sit beside him. “Her parents visit every day. They have been talking with the doctors about transferring her to a different hospital.”

         “Back in Canada,” Miguel said with a small nod. “Something about better physiotherapy.”

         They’d talked about it extensively during past visits. Candela may have been dead for decades, but haunting a hospital had kept her pretty up-to-date on modern medical knowledge. Assuming that Nell could return to her body next year, it would take months of physical therapy for her to even walk again. Physical therapy during treatment would make a huge difference, but there was only so much that could be done if the body was inactive for so long. And the fact was that Nell’s parents could not stay in Santa Cecilia forever. They had been living in Nell’s apartment since their arrival, but taking a full year’s leave off of work would not be feasible for either of them. Moving Nell back home would probably be for the best, but Miguel still worried. What if something happened while they were moving her? Would he be able to visit her there, or if he could only project to places that he had been before. And the chances of there being another hospital ghost in the hospital they moved her to was infinitesimally small, so he would have no way of knowing if anything changed.

         “Thank you,” Miguel said after a minute. “For watching over her for me.”

         “De nada,” Candela replied. “You are a good friend, Miguel. She is lucky to have you looking out for her.”

         He ducked his head shyly. “We look out for each other.” She had gone after him when he had been taken into the Land of the Dead, had made sure that he was able to come home even though it meant that she might not be able to. He owed her this much. And even if she hadn’t risked everything to save him, that was what friends did, wasn’t it?

         Working with Lina in the archives had to be the most interesting and most frustrating experience of Nell’s life. There was a weird sense of pride in the idea that she was reading text that no living human had ever touched, but with each day that passed without finding anything relevant to her problem, her enthusiasm began to wane. She had figured that nagual were pretty rare, but in the records they seemed almost non-existent, with only one passing reference to them after days of research. And even then it was in reference to a nagual that the writer had known in life. Nothing at all about a living spirit crossing the bridge.

         And then there was the archivist herself. Lina was prickly, with walls up higher than the gates of Troy. It made Nell question how old she really was. It was known within the Department that Lina was one of the oldest spirits in the Land of the Dead, but that could mean a great many things. It was something Nell pondered whenever she took a break from reading. There was a look in her eyes sometimes when she read, the kind of sorrow of a soul that had seen far too much. And then there was her clothing. Most of the spirits here dressed in the same manner that they did when they were alive, but Lina seemed to do the exact opposite. Except, perhaps, for the doublet that she wore as a jacket, and the soft black velvet cap. Those Nell recognized as being approximately fifteenth-century in origin. In that way they complimented the bright blue, red, and green calavera markings on the archivist’s face, which bore some resemblance to the carvings Nell had seen on the pyramids of the lower levels.

         Could she really be over five hundred years old? Who had she been in life that she was still remembered even centuries later?

         “...is Lina your real name?” Nell asked suddenly.

         Lina froze, her fingers flexing against the cover of the book she was holding, pointedly keeping her gaze locked on its’ pages. “Close enough to it.”

         Interesting. She hadn’t even been sure Lina would answer her. “What--”

         “I found something.”

         “Wait, what?” Nell scrambled to her knees, crossing the aisle to get a better look.

         Lina laid the book flat across her lap, pointing at a series of pictograms on the page. “These ones here, they’re a reference to nagual. That one is Mictēcacihuātl, and the mictlan -- the Land of the Dead.”

         “So another living spirit really did cross over here,” Nell breathed. She had been starting to wonder if she had been the only one.

         “Like you, they didn’t make it back before sunrise. It doesn’t look like they knew about the deadline. They didn’t even try. And when they did…”

         “They couldn’t cross back. What happened? Did they make it home?”

         Lina shook her head, turning the page. “He was here for barely a week before he changed.” She held up her own bony hand in illustration.

         Nell sat back against the bookshelf, scrubbing her hands over her face. A week. It had already been six days. Would she really die tomorrow? “Did they say why?”

         Lina shook her head. “Doesn’t say. And the chances of them still being Remembered are small. And if I don’t know them…”

         “They’re probably gone,” Nell finished with a sigh. “How many fifteenth-century spirits are still hanging around?”

         “Not a lot,” Lina admitted. “The ones that are...well, we don’t get along that well.”

         “I’m sorry.”

         “Don’t be,” Lina said, waving her off. “Didn’t know those blowhards when I was alive, and now that I’m dead I see I haven’t missed much. Bunch of stuck-up pendejos.”

         “They’re just jealous because they aren’t as cool as you are.”

         The archivist let out a snort of laughter. “Yeah, sure. Let’s go with that.” It was certainly preferable to the truth. You made your choices, she reminded herself. You survived. No point in questioning it now. She cleared her throat, closing the book in her lap. “So what are you going to tell them?”

         “Them -- the Riveras? Nothing,” Nell answered.

         Lina looked at her sharply. “You’re not going to tell them anything at all? Don’t you think they deserve to know?”

         “I don’t want to worry them,” she said softly. “They’ve been through enough. And if it is my last day, I want it to be normal. And we don’t know for sure. We’ve only found one case so far. Maybe...maybe someone made it back.”

         Nell dove into the reading with renewed determination. They had found one record, so surely there had to be more. And indeed she came across what she was sure was another reference a couple of hours later. Another man who had fallen asleep one night and never woke up again. This one lasted only five days. Nell almost threw the book across the room in frustration, restrained only by her own respect for the artifact and the knowledge that Lina would not hesitate to throw her from the top of the nearest tower if she damaged one of the irreplaceable books.

         She read until her eyes began to cross and didn’t even notice when Victoria stepped into the room.

         Victoria, whose eyes instantly took on a covetous gleam behind her glasses as she gazed over the packed shelves of historical records. She’d had a deep love of history and adventure stories ever since she was a child -- something her packed bookshelves could most certainly attest to. One of the best things about the Land of the Dead was that most of the writers had first-hand experience in the eras that they wrote about. Now, seeing this wealth of knowledge spread out before her, she questioned why she had never set foot in the city archives before today.

         She stepped towards the shelves, then stopped herself, shaking her head. No reading, she reminded herself firmly. If she started now then neither of them would get home and Mamá would have to send out a search party.

         “Wouldn’t go for that one if I were you. Veracruz is dry as the desert,” said a sudden voice from behind her.

         Victoria stepped aside with a small frown. “¿Perdón?”

         “The book you were looking at. Fourth shelf, green cover. Trust me, you’d be bored to tears by the end of the first page.,” Lina said, moving past her to re-shelve a book that had been put in the wrong place. “Castillo is better if you’re into the sixteenth century, and wasn’t as much of a complete pendejo as some of those other tontos. You’re here for the kid, right?”

         She blinked, caught off guard by the sudden change in subject. “Ah...yes. I’m --”

         “Victoria, right?” Lina moved around the shelf to where a pair of not-bony legs were just visible on the floor, and nudged them with her boot. “Oi, your escort’s here.”

         “Just one more page.”

         “I don’t think so, niñita. I’m not falling for that again.”

         “Still bigger than you,” Nell reminded her as she sat up.

         “Still younger than me,” Lina retorted, taking the book from her hand. “Way younger. You’re little compared to your friend here, too.”

         “My -- Oh! Hey, Victoria!” Nell immediately pasted a bright smile on her face. “Didn’t expect to see you down here.”

         “I was running errands this afternoon so I was closest, and Mamá had suggested that I might want to take a look at the archives while I was here,” she shrugged.

         “I can’t believe you haven’t been down here before. Victoria’s book collection rivals mine back home,” Nell told Lina. “And it’s almost all history.”

         Lina raised one bony brow in interest. “Novels or contemporary accounts?”

         “Both.” As many as she could get her hands on.

         The archivist nodded her approval. “You’ve got good taste. Now get this kid out of here before she falls over.”

         “Hey!” Nell laughed as Lina shoved her out the door. “Rude!”

         “What can I say, they hired me for my people skills. Now get out of here. Take it easy tonight.”

         “Yeah, yeah. Sure thing, Mamá.”

         “I am not your mother. Gracias a Dios.”

         Laughing, Nell shook her head and started off down the hall.

         Victoria hung back. “Did something happen?” She asked when she was sure Nell was out of earshot.

         So she’d caught that, did she? Good. “You’ll have to ask her.”

         “You found something,” she realized, and if they were keeping so tight-lipped about it, she doubted it was something good.

         “She has time,” Lina told her quietly, dark eyes glancing towards the stairs in case Nell had turned back. She had not technically lied. There was still time. But how much of it she had…

         Victoria pursed her mouth and gave a short nod of understanding. “Gracias.”

         “De nada.”

         For a moment they stood silent, their eyes meeting across the threshold, then Lina stepped back, shaking her head. “It was good to meet you, Victoria. Maybe I’ll see you around some time.”

         And she disappeared back into the shelves.

         Victoria stared after her for a moment, then pushed up her glasses and headed back up the the ground floor where Nell was waiting for her.

         “Hey, what took so long?” Nell asked, straightening from where she leaned against the wall.

         “Nothing,” Victoria answered. “She wanted to recommend a book.”

         “I bow to her expertise. I swear she’s read every single book in the archive. I think you two would get along really well.”

         Victoria shrugged noncommittally as they made their way out the front door. “Did you find anything useful today?” She asked, her voice deliberately casual.

         There was an almost imperceptible pause, then Nell shook her head. “Nothing. And I’m limited to the colonial and post-colonial records because I can’t read any of the Aztec or Mayan stuff, which is where the answers probably are.”

         Victoria did not believe her for a moment. Oh, she was sure that Nell could not read a single word of nahuatl, but she was absolutely convinced now that the girl had found something, and her unwillingness to share it just underscored how serious it must be. “Not a single reference at all to living spirits crossing the bridge?”

         “Not one.” Technically that was not a lie. Two references was not one.

         Victoria watched the girl out of the corner of her eye the entire way back to the house. Every far-away look, every fallen expression when another spirit jerked away from her, every too-bright smile she absorbed in silence. She watched Nell continue this way even after reaching the house, full of bright chatter, never staying in one place for longer than a few minutes. This, at least, seemed to break the rest of the family of the stiffness that had fallen over them the last few nights.

         There was music tonight, more than the absent tinkering that had been done lately. The rebuilding of Héctor and Imelda’s relationship had been slow, a re-learning of each other and who they had grown to be over the last century. Decades worth of habits die hard. They were hesitant at first, but there were moments of such sweetness that broke up the sorrow and regret and painful awkwardness, that made it that much better when they finally came together again. Héctor, to nobody’s surprise, was a hopeless romantic, and was known to improvise silly little songs to flirt with his wife, or just to tease the family when he was happy. And Imelda -- Well, after that fateful Día de los Muertos two years ago, it was as if she had finally unlocked a door inside of herself that had been closed for far too long. She no longer cringed at the sound of a neighbor’s radio, but sang along in a ringing harmony that brought passers-by to a standstill.

         It had become a much happier neighborhood now that nobody had to worry about getting smacked with a boot for humming.

         Coco remembered a time when she would sneak away from the house under the guise of doing errands to watch the dancers at Mariachi Plaza. Oh, how she had envied them that freedom. It had taken her months to work up the courage to try some of the steps herself. And every time she had to be on the lookout in case her Mamá came looking for her. Now her Mamá danced with her, something she hadn’t done since Coco was a child.

         When her Papá had left on that fateful tour, it was as if he had taken the heart of their family with them. Coco didn’t think she saw her mother really smile again since. Not until their reunion in the Land of the Dead. Learning the truth of what had happened to her father had been heartbreaking, and that it was her Tio Nesto that had taken him away from her… Well, it was probably better for him that the police hadn’t yet found him at that time. It still struck her, now and again, how very young her father had been when he died, and how much time he was robbed of. That they were robbed of. Because of one man’s selfishness, her father never got to see her grow up. He never got to play at her wedding, never got to be the wonderful abuelito to her girls that she knew he would have been. He never got to be part of the thousand beautiful little moments that made up a lifetime.

         Her family was together again now, a blessing she had never been sure that she would have. Her Tía Rosita talking books with her sweet daughter Victoria, her Tios Oscar and Filipe off conspiring in the doorway of the workshop. Her Mamá and Papá, together again at last, their voices raised in song. And there was her Julio, her best friend and the love of her very long life. Losing him had been devastating, and even though she told herself they would meet again, there was a part of her that doubted. He was the first of her family to greet her in the Land of the Dead, and when she was finally in his arms again, it felt at last like coming home.

         As she and her mother spun around each other, she caught a glimpse of him out of the corner of her eye, talking with their daughter, not far from their latest addition at the edge of the courtyard.

         A living spirit. She didn’t think that was possible. But then, she hadn’t thought that curses were possible either, but her great-grandson had certainly proved her wrong there. And hadn’t that been a shock, learning what he had been through that night. He had brought her father back to her, brought music back to their family. There were no words to express her pride in him, or her gratitude. And though she was able to see him again on Día de los Muertos, she thought she’d have to wait until his own passing before she would be able to thank him. But her Miguelito proved to be more full of surprises than any of them had ever guessed. She wasn’t sure which of them was more surprised to see him this year. It was another kind of miracle, to allow her to hold her great-grandson again.

         They had almost lost him again that night. Would have for certain had it not been for that girl. But saving Miguel had come at a price, one that Nell was still paying. How long could a living spirit last in the Land of the Dead? How long could they all pretend that everything was okay before something snapped?

         She linked eyes with Julio, who gave her his calm knowing smile, as though he could tell what she was thinking. He nodded, and crossed over to Nell who was leaning against the wall, observing them. There was that distant sadness in her eyes, which had been omnipresent since she had been viciously pulled away from her living life. She tried to play it off, but it was not difficult to see. As Mamá whirled her around, Coco lost sight of her husband and their friend, but she didn't need to see to know what Julio was going to do . She hoped that whatever her amor was going to say to the lost artist, that maybe it might help her feel a bit less lost.

         Julio stood next to Nell, thumbs tucked casually into the pockets of his trousers. “The first time I ever saw my Coco, she was dancing in Mariachi Plaza,” Julio confided, watching his wife fondly as she and her mother spun lightly through the courtyard. “She danced with such joy… I’d never seen anything so beautiful. I was so nervous, it took me days to get up the courage to finally ask her to dance with me.”

         “Love at first sight,” Nell commented with a small smile. It wasn’t something she believed in anymore -- attraction at first sight, certainly, but not love. But in their case, she could definitely believe it.

         “Close enough to it.” She’d never danced with a partner before, he remembered. But the trodden-on toes and awkward tripping had been nothing when compared to the light that dancing put in her eyes, and he knew in an instant that he would do whatever he could to keep it there. Setting aside his trade skills to become an apprentice shoemaker had been easy. Giving up music… Well, that had been much harder, especially as his Coco loved it so. And he swore he would spend every day of his life trying to give her back the light that the music ban had robbed her of.

         “You suit each other,” Nell said after a moment. “Like, you seem really...together. Like you were made for each other. I don’t know how else to say it.”

         Julio tugged the brim of his had shyly down over his eyes, beaming with pleasure. “Gracias.”

         Nell smiled. What an absolute sweetheart. Coco was a lucky woman. “Oh, she’s looking this way,” she teased, nudging him with her elbow. “She’s coming over!”

         Coco danced over to them, taking her husband by the hand and pulling him in to join her. They spun around the courtyard, giggling like teenagers. Rosita cheered, clapping her hands as her brother and his wife skipped over the cobblestones.

         Nell grinned, leaning back against the wall as she watched them. She had to admit, Coco and Julio had the moves. Every step seemed as simple and natural as breathing. She was small enough to envy that. Not that she wasn’t happy for them, of course. She was. But it made her a little wistful. She’d been out of the dating pool for a couple of years, by her own choice, and most of the time she was completely okay with that. She didn’t need a partner to complete her. She has -- had? -- work she loves, friends she loves. Romance had fallen aside into the “someday” category, but now… Would she even get a “someday” anymore?

         Lowkey jealousy clicked up a notch as Imelda’s voice joined her husband’s. Where do you even find someone like that?

         “You know, I’ve always wanted that,” she confessed as Victoria and Rosita moved to stand beside her. She shook her head, smiling ruefully as she watched Héctor and Imelda play off each other. “It’s silly, and I blame it entirely on too many Disney movies as a kid. But I always wanted to meet someone who would sing with me like that.”

         Rosita frowned. “Don’t you have somebody back home?”

         She shook her head. “No, and all things considered, that’s probably for the best right now. Been a while. But none of them could sing worth a damn. Seriously, the last one, my ears would bleed every time their favorite song came on the radio.”

         Victoria snorted. “Bah. You have time. And men are overrated.”

         Nell snickered, her mouth curving in a small smile. “Sometimes.” Not that she had a choice either way now. Not if this might be her last night. Her hands flexed tensely at her sides, absently rolling and unrolling the hem of her dress. Suddenly the warm night seemed almost oppressive, the bright lights in the sky almost blinding. She needed to go, to find someplace where she could break down in peace. And if she was going to die tonight, she’d rather not do it in full view of the Riveras. But just as she was stepping away, they were approached by the twins.

         “Where are you --”

         “-- off to so early?”

         “I’m just...a bit tired,” Nell answered. “Thought I might turn in.”

         “But the party’s --”

         “ -- just getting started!”

         “I know, and it’s great. It’s just… it’s been a long day. I read through so many records, I think my eyes might be permanently crossed.” She told them, slowly edging towards the door. “And I’m going to do it all again tomorrow, so…”

         Oscar sighed, turning towards his brother. “If you say so. Probably for the best, anyway.”

         “Si,” Filipe agreed. “It was just as you were saying, hermano. She probably can’t dance anyway.”

         Nell froze mid-step, turning slowly back to them as Rosita and Victoria started at the brothers’ rudeness. “I beg your pardon?”

         “It’s nothing,” Oscar shrugged. “You go on, you look tired.”

         “Oh, no. Continue. Please. Who said I couldn’t dance?” She said mildly.

         “Ah, well, mi hermano was saying earlier --”

         “ -- there is often music playing, but we never --”

         “ -- see you dance to it, so he said --”

         “ -- maybe you couldn’t.” Oscar finished.

         “I can dance.”

         Rosita shot a sharp look at the boys, then laid a consoling hand on Nell’s shoulder. “It’s okay if you can’t, mija. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

         “But I can dance!” She protested, stepping out of Rosita’s hold.

         The music and dancing stuttered to an awkward stop as the other Riveras turned their way.

         “What is going on?” Imelda asked, crossing the courtyard towards them.

         “Nothing!” The twins said quickly.

         “Your boys here think I can’t dance,” Nell said, shifting so she stood hip-shot, leveling a look at them that was less than impressed.

         “Is that so?” Imelda leveled a similar look at her brothers, wondering what mischief they had planned. Troublemakers they could be, but they were rarely so rude before a guest.

         “And I was about to make them eat their words,” Nell continued. She could almost feel the hollowness that had swamped her these last few hours burn away in the flames of her own competitiveness. “How about you boys put your money where your mouths are?”

         The twins exchanged looks. “So you want --”

         “ -- to bet?”

         “Unless you’re too scared.”

         Identical smiles spread over their faces. They nodded and answered together. “Name your terms.”

         Ah, now was the question. She might be dead by morning, but already being in the Land of the Dead meant that wouldn’t change too much. So what would she need? “One song. I win, you find me art supplies. Sketchbook, pencils, pens.”

         “Deal.”

         “And if we win,” Filipe added. “Bragging rights.”

         “And a favor -- ”

         “ -- to be determined later.”

         “Deal.” Nell glanced over to where Héctor was watching them, curiosity and apprehension clear on his face. “Héctor, is that okay?”

         “Ah...sure?”

         “Okay.” She glanced around, weighing her options. She could definitely hold her own with a partner, but the two best dancers present were Héctor and Julio. Héctor, of course, was needed to play, and Julio was miles shorter than she was, so that wouldn’t work either. Fine. She had more options with a solo anyway. Mouth set in a stubborn line, forcing down nerves, she strode into the middle of the courtyard. Now she had something to prove.

         Nell took a steadying breath, then turned back to Héctor. “Whenever you’re ready.”

         Héctor glanced between her, the twins, and his wife, then shrugged. Whatever his brothers-in-law had planned, he was sure they knew what they were doing. He started slow, picking out a delicate melody on the strings.

         Nell took a few seconds to accustomize herself to the tempo, then with an absent nod she took her first steps. Choreography and improvisation had never been her strong suit, but she remembered enough pieces of old routines to put on a credible showing. She matched her pace with his, slow and soft, as if moving through water. As he picked up speed, she did the same, her feet flying over the cobblestones, throwing everything she had into the movement. Fuck it. She thought, kicking off the ground in an off-balance split jump. So she might be dead by morning. -- Another spin, arabesque, fouettes, an illusion turn -- So she might never get home. Fuck all of it. -- Turn, jete, axle, brisé volé-- She almost flubbed the landing but kept on moving, building with the music and launching into a final series of fouette turns, landing on one bent leg, the other extended to touch the ground behind her as the final notes faded from the air.

         She stood slowly, her breath burning in her throat, feeling somehow lighter than she had in days. Somewhere in the middle she had kicked off one of her shoes. Who even knew where that had gone. She gave a sheepish smile, dipping into a curtsy and laughing as her audience applauded. Then she turned to applaud their resident músico. “Heh… Thanks for going along with this, Héctor.”

         “Hey, de nada,” he replied, slinging his guitar over his back. “You did good.”

         “Thanks.” Nell cast a guilty look over her shoulder as Oscar and Filipe crossed the courtyard towards them. “I probably should have mentioned… I’ve taken lessons since I was a kid. I won’t hold you to the bet. It wasn’t fair.”

         “A bet is a bet,” Filipe told her.

         His brother nodded in agreement behind him.

         “Well, now that that’s settled,” Coco smiled. “Papá, will you play another song for us?”

         Héctor chuckled, pulling his guitar back around and picking out an airy tune. “I think these old bones have a few songs left in them.”

         Coco took Nell’s hand, gently but insistently pulling her into another dance.

         The others watched in silence for a moment, then Imelda struck, quick as a snake, and cuffed her brothers on the back of the head.

         “Ay!” They cried out in protest, ducking away from her.

         “What was -- “

         “ -- that for?”

         “What was that about? You knew she was a dancer.” Imelda accused.

         “Of course we knew -- “

         “ -- she was a dancer,” they scoffed. “Have you seen -- “

         “ -- that walk?”

         “Then why?”

         “Look at her,” Oscar said softly, nodding towards where Nell and Coco spun at the center of the courtyard.

         “This is the happiest she’s been since Día de los Muertos,” Filipe explained. “I think something happened today.”

         “Victoria said she wouldn’t talk about it.”

         “But we thought, maybe we could get her mind off it for a while.”

         “And you thought insulting her was the way to do it?”

         “We did no such thing!” Filipe scoffed.

         “We just shared a simple theory.” Oscar continued with a mischievous smile. “It’s not our fault -- “

         “ -- she can’t resist a challenge.”

         Imelda shook her head. Her brothers could be idiots sometimes, but their hearts were in the right place. She too had noticed the strain in the girl’s behavior, and had been debating herself what to do about it. Now, it seemed, her brothers had done it for her. “Of course you should still get her that sketchbook. After all, you started it.”

         “Si, si.”

         “We will pick it up tomorrow.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So Nell's finally found something, though it wasn't what she wanted. At least she has friends to keep her from spinning off the rails.

I know there wasn't a lot of Miguel in this chapter but I promise he is going to get a full chapter of his very own soon. He's definitely got some stories to tell.

As always, thanks for reading! I'll see you all next week! (Same bat time, same bat channel!)

[hirstories]

Abraca—switch! Or The Tale of Edward Elric vs. the Mischievous Body-Snatcher

Chapter 1

“Cano—” The folds piling up on the man’s forehead smoothed when he gave out a long, tired sigh. ”¡Que mucho tu jodes!” he added, hitting one of his knees for added emphasis.

Edward raised an eyebrow, somewhat surprised by the man's actions. He'd been warned beforehand by the people of Little Big Canyon that this man wasn't pleasant, that he sometimes was downright vicious. Good thing he spent a month learning the local language as best as he could so he would be prepared for situations like this one.

Edward kept his gaze fixed on the shriveled figure sitting cross-legged a few feet away from him.

During that moment suspended in time, Edward translated in his head what he just heard. Cano meant blondie an expression he has come to hate ever since he set foot in the Far West. And the rest...Edward paused. Did the old fart had the gall to call him a pest?

At that moment, the man snapped his fingers; Edward couldn't help but glare back at him. And of course, his glare bounced off the man like an alchemical rebound. If it wasn't for the dark void of the man’s eyes, Edward would think he was facing the Ice Queen herself. He shook that disturbing image from his head then went back to the purpose of his visit.

“Don Paco,” Edward began, this time his tone matched his growing irritation. “¿Me va a ayudar o no?”

The man didn't respond to his plea for help—no surprise there. The man kept staring down at him, eyes unblinking.

Edward did his best to keep his calm but that shriveled, old prune was testing the limit of his patience...and his courteousness. He flashed Don Paco a tight smile in hopes to elicit a reaction—any reaction—from him but the bastard remained as unmoved as before. Edward straightened his posture and squared his shoulders. His amber eyes narrowed ever so slightly wondering if there was something wrong with this man other than having a nasty attitude.

Right then, Don Paco’s cold expression morphed as if he'd read his thoughts. The wrinkles on his face—especially his crow’s feet—cut his toasted face the same way the canyons in the surrounding area cut the slick rock.

Edward caught a flash of gold amongst the man’s gnarly teeth as Don Paco placed his hands on his knobby knees.

A thunderous cackle ripped through the arid air, a sound so disturbing, that made Edward regret wanting a response from Don Paco—even seeking him in the first place. But Edward had to make this detour.

The first time Edward first heard of Don Paco was when he reached the first outpost in East Creta. The locals there told him of a tribe in the Far West where all sorts of miracles happened. As he traveled deeper into Creta, those tales began taking more shape. Apparently, miracles did happen when Don Paco was involved and many folks braved the badlands for a shot at salvation. Of course, when he later found out, mercenaries made a decent living by helping these people cross the unforgiving terrain.

There was a moment during his impromptu investigation when he decided that Don Paco sounded like a tribal version of Doctor Marcoh—maybe even Father Cornello.

In El Paso, the gateway to the Far West, Edward had a fascinating conversation with the local bartender. The bear-of-a-man referred to Don Paco as something more than a healer—he was a sorcerer. When Edward kept asking the bartender for more details, the bartender left his station and went into the back room. When he returned, the bartender showed Edward a photograph. To Edward, the photograph looked a typical family portrait, except for one huge detail. The bartender was sitting in a wheelchair, his atrophied legs struggling to stay put in the foot rests. Before Edward had a chance to ask how he got cured, the bartender told him that Don Paco used some type of red stone on him.

The snapping of fingers brought Edward back to the present.

“Wandering can get you into trouble around this parts,” Don Paco said with a mocking smile.

Edward glared like he did the first time the old man snapped his fingers at him. Just when he was coming up with some colorful words in the man’s native language, Don Paco continued speaking.

“Not everyone that comes to see me can be helped,” he said, then inched forward to peer into Edward’s eyes.

“What peculiar eye color you have—like a cat.” After a short pause, he said, “Give me your hand.”

Don Paco offered his open palm when Edward didn't do as he commanded.

Edward’s eyes settled on the withered hand before looking at Don Paco’s equally withered face. He gave the man a smart smile while thinking about his next move. Edward wasn't a State Alchemist anymore, nor he was an actual alchemist for that matter, but he wasn't going to give a free pass to a man he suspected of having a Philosopher’s Stone in his possession, at least not before making sure the stone wasn't being used for evil deeds.

And that’s how Edward humored Don Paco by going along with whatever he indented to do with his hand.

Long, spindly fingers connected by knobby knuckles encircled Edward's hand like a daddy-long-legs that's ready to attack an enemy.

Don Paco focused all of his attention on Edward’s palm. After a few long minutes of quiet contemplation, Don Paco made a gurgling sound in his throat and spat on it.

“What the fuck!” Edward cried out. He even tried to pull his hand away but the man tightened the grip on it.

Don Paco looked up for a second, and said, “Patience.”

Edward grunted in response. He was close to losing it when Don Paco began moving the spit around. Just when Edward was getting ready to sock the man, Don Paco’s face went blank.

“There's a child inside a white void. He—no, ‘It’—says it is the all encompassing Truth but he’s no more than a Trickster.”

Edward remained still, his eyes widening in both shock and awe.

“A life stained red by sin,” Don Paco continued, “You—that is, your younger self—wanted to seek atonement, so you danced with demons in order to ‘regain what was lost’.” He moved the spit some more. “You were ready for anything—you were ready to surrender your own life if it would ‘balance the equation’...for Al.” Don Paco cleared his throat then smacked his dry lips together. “A blood sacrifice wasn't needed. You made a deal with the child that was now a young man. The Trickster was amused by your offer and took your gift without a second thought. He fooled you.”

Edward narrowed his eyes at Don Paco. That man in the middle of nowhere was well-informed. But there was no way he could know about his personal struggles unless he has ties with the Cretan military, and even if that was the case, he doubted they would give this crazy, old man detailed intel on him in the first place.

Edward tried to free his hand again and break whatever the hell this man was doing to it (to him) but Don Paco wasn't budging.

Don Paco set his hard gaze on one spot in Edward’s palm. With his index finger, he traced the line that curved towards his heart and index fingers.

A smile broke the man’s contemplation; his ebony eyes met Edward’s. “Your girl...she's quite the looker.”

Edward scowled even deeper.    

Don Paco continued reading his palm. His intense gaze was gone, replaced by a lewd grin.

Dirty old man! “Hey!” Edward snapped and yanked at his hand, but the fucker was stronger than he looked.

If Don Paco didn't let go of his hand soon, he was going to end up in a world of hurt. At the count of three, Edward curled his left hand into a fist. Just as he swung, Don Paco let go of his hand. The sudden shift in momentum made Edward lose balance, he had to use both hands so he wouldn't fall face forward.

“You’ve lived quite an interesting life, cano,” Don Paco said as he confronted Edward’s anger. “You're no ordinary human, that's for sure,” he mused.

Tilting his head to the right, he mumbled, “Interesting indeed.”

Edward didn't pay attention to the man’s words, he was too busy cleaning old man spit and dirt from his hands with his handkerchief. He put the dirty handkerchief back in one of his pant pockets then stood up. He wiped the dust from his pants then leaned to pick up the hat he'd purchased in a Cretan outpost some odd weeks ago. The hat itself was an atrocity but it had wide wings that protected his face from the harsh sun.

Only after he put the hat on was when Edward returned his attention to Don Paco.

“Well, that was certainly creepy...and disgusting.” His forehead crinkled as he thought of the strange experience. He glanced over his shoulder to locate his horse, who at the moment was enjoying the shade of the only large tree in the surrounding area. “I better get going,” he said when he turned to Don Paco.

Edward leaned over to pick up his suitcase. He then did a one-eighty and walked away.

Red stone be damned.

The first thing he was going to do when he returned to town was to make a quick phone call to Central Command. Colonel Bastard should know that there might be a Philosopher’s Stone in the Far West—

“I thought you wanted my help!”

Edward stopped, rolled his eyes, and let out an annoyed sigh.

“I'm no longer interested,” he said, then continued walking.

“Weren't you listening to what I was saying, pendejo?” Don Paco yelled. “I can help you with your alchemy. That is what you're ultimately seeking, isn't it?”

Edward kept walking to his horse.

“I know you crave it!” Don Paco added, “That titillating feeling coursing through your body as you connect with the Most Sacred Energy.” His face twisted into a cheeky grin before he let out a loud cackle. ”It's better than una paja, right?”

Even though Edward wouldn't go as far as to compare the energetic surge to jacking off, he couldn't deny that Don Paco was right in his assessment of its mechanics.

“You're not interested in my offer, not even in the least?” Don Paco insisted when he didn't receive an immediate answer to his question.

What the hell is his problem? Edward waved a hand and said, “Not at all!”

He kept walking.

“I don't believe you.”

Edward stopped abruptly and turned around. “Weren't you listening, asshole? I said I'm not interested,” he spat.

An even bigger smile slithered across Don Paco’s face. “Is that what you're going to tell your brother and your girlfriend when you return home?”

Edward blew off right then and there. “You leave them out of it!”

In his rage, he didn't see Don Paco’s eyes narrowing in satisfaction.

“Have they ever told you how they feel about you losing your alchemy?” Don Paco said, his words punching past Edward's offense as if it was made out of paper. “Are you that dense that you can't see the guilt your brother carries every day because he knows you surrendered your alchemy, your sense of Self”—he punctuated—”for his sake?”

Edward dropped his suitcase, the heavy luggage raising a soft cloud of dust all around him when it hit the ground.

He then pointed an angry finger at Don Paco before cutting the man off. “I'm warning you—!”

“And what a terrible boyfriend you turned out to be!” Don Paco said, feigning dismay while at the same time retaking control of the conversation. “That hot babe of yours is hurting on the inside because she knows you haven't really returned to her side”—he shook his head in disappointment—“she's afraid that your loss of alchemy will always get in the way of your relationship.”

“Shut your trap, old man! You know nothing about them!” Edward snarled.

Don Paco was talking shit. Both Alphonse and Winry understood his choice—his sacrifice!

But Edward went silent when an unsettling thought caught his attention.

Alphonse persistence of traveling separately so they could cover more ground and learn more about alchemy. And Winry’s insistence for him to get on the train—

“Not only I can tap into your consciousness, cano, I can also tap into the energetic imprint of everyone that's interconnected with you,” Don Paco said, picking up where he left off. “Look, I already said that I'm willing to help you with your problem, and believe me muchacho, that is considered an honor around these parts.”

Don Paco’s words brought Edward back to the moment; his face darkened.

“Let me guess, next you're going to tell me that you're going to perform a miracle?” he scoffed. “The Philosopher’s Stone can't restore the ability to use alchemy.” His words were dripping cynicism but he didn't care. That old bastard had overstepped his bounds a long time ago.

Don Paco blinked like an owl. Moments later, a low rumble started in his chest that exploded into a full fit of laughter. “Cano”—he waved his index finger in playful reproach—“You're even sharper than I gave you credit for. I’m liking you even more than I already do.”

After a minute or so, Don Paco’s amusement dwindled, and after wiping off some mirthful tears, he said, “No stone, cano, only magia, magick—and that is magick with a ‘c’ and a k’—not its bastardized form.” A pause. “If you accept my help, I will be using on you a type of ancient art form the likes you've never seen in your life.”

Edward opened his mouth to object, but closed it. For some odd reason that went beyond all logic, that old prune piqued his interest.

Don Paco stood up and approached Edward. “I don't blame you for not trusting me, cano." He looked at Edward from top to bottom. Amused, he added, “I would be doing the same if I were in your shoes.”

Edward’s brow tensed. The way that old man talked and moved reminded him of a snake that had encircled its prey.

“There's no point in hiding it from you,” Don Paco said when he saw he was losing Edward's interest.

He buried one hand in his shirt and pulled out a long silver chain. At the end of the chain hung a silver skull and in its jaw, glistened a red stone. “When magick fails—and that doesn't happen often, I must add—then I use the Sanguine Star to accomplish what I started, which is to help people in need.”

Don Paco looked the Philosopher's Stone for a brief moment then turned his gaze upon Edward.

“Like you, I know what this is made out of,” he continued. “This stone contains the souls of the People of the West.” His gaze became lost for a second. “It was handed to me by a Cretan deserter who was against the genocide of our people.”  

Edward remained silent. He couldn't help but think about the similitudes between Ishval and these People of the West. One thing was for sure, the Philosopher's Stone always leaves heartbreak and misery behind.

”The Being living on the other side of the Gate isn't God.”

Don Paco’s comment snapped Edward back into awareness; Don Paco noticed this and smiled.

“Don't get me wrong,” he said, then added, “‘It’—Truth, as you better know it—possess immense power, but this Being isn't the Creator. This Being controls a power similar to magick to ‘pass judgment’ upon us mortals, and we let it this Being abuse us simply because we don't know any better.”

Edward gave the old man an incredulous look.

“Tell me, cano, why would God pass judgment on us lowly humans?” Don Paco rushed to ask.

Edward raised an eyebrow. The old man was certainly pushy, and he also knew how to ask the right questions. Don Paco kind of reminded him of Rose when they first met in Liore. She also asked him questions. Should he amuse himself at this man’s expense like he did with poor Rose all those years ago?

“I don't know." He wanted to hear what the old kook had to say about the subject.

Don Paco grinned. “The answer is: he doesn't.”

Edward suppressed a snicker.

Don Paco went on to say, “All religions preach that God is perfection, so it's safe to assume that God’s creation is also perfection. Wouldn't ‘passing judgment’ contradict all this?”

Don Paco’s words struck a chord. He’s thought among similar lines especially after Truth took his stupid Commanding Officer’s sight even though he wasn't at fault for performing a human transmutation. Truth—God, Goddess, Creator—shouldn't have taken anything from Mustang, yet it did.

“I see that my words had an effect on you.”

Edward returned his attention to Don Paco. He pressed his lips into a thin line and paused before saying, “In my final transmutation, I exchanged my Gate of Truth for my younger brother’s mind, body, and soul. Tell me how the fuck can you cancel this exchange without using the stone?”  

Don Paco shook his head. “Well, that was stupid,” he tsked.

Edward curled his upper lip. “You know what? Go to hell!" he turned around and continued walking. “That's what I get for listening to crazy people,” he mumbled as he moved along.

“I'm sorry if I offended you!” Don Paco said. “I'm a hermit, cano, that doesn't help with social skills.”

But Edward couldn't care less.

“To tell you the truth, even my fellow tribesmen can't stand me,” Don Paco admitted. And when Edward didn't stop, he added, “To answer your question, I'll be conjuring a gateway between the physical realm and the White Void then I'll astral travel to the White Void and persuade Truth to give you back your Gate of Truth.”

Edward slowed his pace until he came to a full stop. He gave out a tired sigh before turning around. “And that's it?” Maybe it was the relentless sun, maybe he had enough of Don Paco’s bullshit, or maybe it was a combination of the two, but he couldn't stop himself from being bitterly sarcastic.

Instead of being offended, Don Paco offered Edward a sympathetic smile.

“Cano, you always had your God-given gift within you. In its natural state, it was active but now is dormant. The connection will be restored once I speak with Truth.” He waited a few seconds to see if Edward would walk away. When Edward didn't, he added, “I'll tell you something. It takes me one day to make the preparations for the Transcendence Ritual. The passage to other realms is the strongest at midnight. If you're feeling lucky, and want to gamble with fate, then be here tomorrow at least one hour before the clock strikes midnight.”

Edward simply stared. After a brief pause, he turned around and left without saying a word.

[comics-mostly]

the spirit of vengeance - part i (written 07/01/2017)

The sky looked so marvelous that night. A polka dot pattern of bright lights intermixed with never-ending darkness. It wasn’t often that I took the time to appreciate it, but in those final moments I couldn’t help but want to take it all in. I never realized it before, but it truly was breathtaking.

I immediately realized the irony of the thought as I tried to breathe and felt the intense pain radiating from the gaping hole in my abdomen. Or, what used to be my abdomen. The shotgun shell saw to it that I’d never get in a pool without my shirt off again. In fact, it made sure I’d never do anything again.

As I laid there on the ground, my blood seeping out of my abdomen and into the cold concrete I had only one thought going through my mind.

I couldn’t save her.

I don’t burden myself with a lot of responsibility – aside from taking care of my Charger and making sure there’s food on the table every night, I haven’t got any other job aside from taking care of her. To protect her with all of my strength.

That night I found out that my strength doesn’t quite stand up to the power of a 20 Gauge Shotgun Shell fired a point blank range. Though, in my defense, I imagine there aren’t many things that would.

That night was supposed to have been perfect. I had planned the entire evening down to a tee – I’d pick her up and take her to the Avenged Sevenfold concert. The same band we’d gone to on our first date, almost five years ago. I had planned to recreate the night in its entirety.

I’d pick her up, take her to the same run-down diner on Rosecrans that we had dinner at on our first date, head to The Forum for the concert, and then after I’d take her back to her parents’ house, where both our families would be waiting inside.

See, I had planned on proposing to her that night, right outside of her old house, because it was there – after that concert five years ago – that we sat and talked all night. From eleven at night until the first rays of the sun hit us in our faces. It was there that we connected, and it was there – that same night – that I knew that she was the woman that I was going to marry.

I know that it’s not the most glamorous way of proposing – sitting together in a car and giving her a ring – but it would have been special for the both of us.

Would have been.

We didn’t even make it to the concert before it all happened.

It was my fault, really. I should have known better. Taking my ’69 Charger – decked out with thousands of dollars’ worth of modifications – into an area like that. Something was bound to happen. And it did.

Two thugs cut us off as we walked out of the diner, towards the car. Instinctively I jumped in front of her, which is what they expected me to do, I guess. I never thought about the fact that they’d have someone behind us, ready to grab her.

At the sound of her scream I quickly turned around and saw the masked man, his hand over her mouth, and a pistol pressed against her temple.      

There was such fear in her eyes.. and absolutely nothing I could do to stop any of it.

“Easy now, penedjo,” the man said, “let’s not do anything stupid now.”

Beneath his hand I could hear her say my name, “Robbie, Robbie.”

“Don’t worry, mi corazon. I got you. I promise.” I tried to reassure her, even though I wasn’t so sure I could do anything myself. I turned my attention to the man holding her, “what the hell do you want?”

Before he has a change to answer one of the men behind me lunges at me. A couple of years of karate and lifetime of fighting in the neighborhood taught me to react fast. In one quick motion I dodged his attack, grabbed his extended arm, and flipped him onto the ground. Then, while still holding his arm, I dropped my foot on his head. He let out a loud groan as I applied pressure, pushing his head further into the concrete.

“Now, as I was saying.” I said.

“Damn,” the first masked man said, “that was pretty damn impressive. I’m shocked,” he chuckled, “I thought you were just some little sissy boy, but it looks like you actual got some moves.”

“You’re damn right I do,” I push down on the pinned masked man’s head harder, causing him to grown, “now what the hell do you want?”

“Hey man, we’re just here for the car. She’s a real beaut.”

I look back at my Charger behind me. She was beautiful. I thought so the first day my dad brought her home. I still remember the way the reflection of the sun bounced off her and hit me in the eyes as my father pulled her into the driveway. I wanted to touch her, but I was afraid; partly because I knew my father would get angry if I left finger prints on her, but also because of the heat that radiated from her skin. I thought touching her would be tantamount to putting my hand on a flame.

“Magnífico,” he told me one day as I walked outside to watch him coat her in a nice layer of wax. And that she was.. magnificent.

When he died my father left me two things, the deed to his house, so that my mother and little brother would continue to have the home we had lived in all our lives.. and that car. Stupid mistakes led to me losing the house, but I promised myself I’d never just give up the car.

Not if I had a choice.

I looked back at the man who had a pistol to my girlfriends – soon to be fiancés – head.

Doesn’t seem like I have one.

I used my free hand to pull the key out of pocket and dangled it up near my chest.

“She’s yours. Just let my girl go.”

The masked man with the gun nodded to the partner behind me, instructing him to get the keys. I wanted to tell him to let her go first, but I wasn’t in a position to be making demands. I felt an actual ache in my heart when the third man snatched them from my hands.

Lo siento, papa.

“Alright. Let her go.”

The masked man with the pistol was still holding the gun pressed to her temple, his filthy hand covering her mouth. He looked at me for a moment and then at her. He bit his lip before he said, “you know, that car is beautiful, but, so is your lady, holmes.”

I unintentionally pressed my foot down harder on the masked man that I had pinned to the ground, which caused him to scream out, “let me go man! Get the hell off of me!”

“I said let her go.” I repeated myself more sternly, trying with every fiber of my being not to lunge at him.

“Well, before anything I’m going to need you to let my friend there go.”

“I’m not doing a damn thing until you-”

He jammed the pistol harder into her temple, causing her to scream loudly into his hand.

Like a reflex I let the man I had pinned to the ground go. He tried to swing at me but I ducked, which caused him to tumble back towards the third man behind me.

“Now, I know I said I wanted the car but, I mean,” he pushed her head near his face so he could smell her hair, “this one looks good, and smells good and I just gotta have her. You understand, right?”

Underneath his hand I could hear her whimpering. It was difficult to watch, to feel so powerless against this man. No, not a man. A coward. Using that pistol. If I could’ve just taken it away..

“There’s no way in hell I’m letting you take her.”

“It must’ve sounded like I was asking,” he quickly retorted.

I instinctively took a step forward and he moved his finger ever so slightly along the trigger, showing me he was serious.

“Don’t lose your cool, holmes. You lose your cool, then I may lose my grip on this trigger and well,” I could see him smiling beneath his mask, “we’d have a helluva mess, know what I’m saying?” He took the gun away from her head and pointed it at me, “now get your ass up against that wall, now.”

I held my ground. I wasn’t just going to keep letting him push me around. He started talking again but I wasn’t listening anymore. I began thinking of something I could do to get us out of this situation.

If he keeps the gun on me, then maybe I can get to him in time. I’ll more than likely get hit, but if he’s caught off guard then maybe, just maybe, I can get away with a flesh wound. Even if he does hit something vital, if I can get the pistol then I’ll have the upper hand. These aren’t men. They’re chicken shits and they’ll probably run away if I can just get a hold of it..

On the other hand, if I do lunge and I’m not fast enough, or if his aim is good, or, shit, even if he just gets lucky enough to put a bullet through my face then it’s all done. They’ll take her, the car, and I’ll be gone. Who’ll take care of mama? And Gabe? Who’ll save Isabella?

This is a shit situation no matter how I look at it. But I’ve got to do something. Anything.

“Did you hear me pendejo?” he shouted, knocking me out of my trance.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked. I needed to keep him talking.

“Just ice this dumbass if he doesn’t want to listen.” One of men from the back said. It sounded like the one I had pinned on the ground.

“If we don’t have to kill the pendejo then we won’t.” He shouted back to him and then turned to me, “we’re not going to let it get to that point now, are we? Because I was hoping this could be a very peaceful little transaction. We take the car, and the girl, and we don’t have to take your life. Sounds real reasonable-like to me.”

“Sounds like a shit deal to me.”

The man with the gun glared at me, “are you looking to die tonight? Because if that’s your aim then I can give you what you’re looking for.”

His voice sounds agitated.

Is he annoyed or nervous? Both carry their own set of dangers.

        “If you’re not going to kill this asshole, then I will.”

I glanced over my shoulder and could see the man I had pinned brandish a weapon of his own. A sawn-off shotgun.

Aw, shit.

The third man, who stood next to him, yelled, “What the hell are you doing with that?”

“I’m taking care of business!” the other man replied.

“Hey, cabron, put that shit away!” the man with the pistol screamed.

“This asshole isn’t listening and the longer this takes the more likely someone’s gonna see us!” his voice sounded panicked, unhinged. Not like the man with the pistol. I didn’t like that, especially since he had a shotgun pointed at my back, “I say we just shoot the asshole, take the car and the girl and get the hell out of here!”

“Dude, we don’t need to kill this guy.” The third man pleaded. “It’s just a car. It’s just a fucking car.”

“It’s not about the car! This piece of shit doesn’t respect us!”

Hard to respect a man wearing a mask pointing a gun at my back.

“That doesn’t mean we have to kill him!” the man with the pistol said as he haphazardly took a step forward towards the man, and also towards me.

I didn’t like the way it was headed, but I felt an opportunity presenting itself. They were beginning to fall apart, and maybe I could use all of this to my advantage.

Time to put on a show.

“Alright, alright!” I cried out. “I’ll do what you want. Just don’t shoot me, man. Just don’t shoot!”

“Yeah, that’s right,” the man with the shotgun said, “get up against the wall.”

“Okay,” I said as I took a step towards the car. I knew it was a risky move, but as long as he didn’t immediately shoot then I would be able to take it from there.

“Hey!” the man with the shotgun shouted, “I said the wall!”

I quickly turned around and yelled, “Shit, I thought you said the car!”

“Why would I say the car, asshole?”

“I don’t know man!” I held my hands up and inched backwards, “it’s hard to focus when you’ve got two guns pointed at me, okay? Shit, shit, shit!”

I continued to portray the role of a man in distress, all the while inching back towards the car. I swear, if I had known I could have been so convincing I might’ve considered becoming an actor. Though, truth be told, that show was half acting – half expressing how I was really feeling.

“Just please let me go! I don’t want to die! Oh God!” I fell to my knees and tried to hide behind my hands.

“I swear if you don’t shut the fuck up!” the man with the pistol said as he, without thinking, took a few steps forward, one hand over Isabella’s mouth, the other, gun in tow, pointed directly at my head. He was just about two feet away from me at that point.

This is it. I can just lunge at the gun and then–

The man with the shotgun also took a few steps forward, and while not nearly as close as the other man, I knew the damage his gun could inflict from that angle would mean instant death.

Son of a bitch.

“Now get your ass up against that wall over there!” the man with the shotgun took a step forward, and stabbed his gun in the air towards me, “or I will end you.”

I looked at the two men, considering where they stood and how quickly I could get to either one of them. It was like I was back in Geometry class examining triangles. I was stuck on the edge of an obtuse triangle, with the man with the pistol being the closest corner, and the man with the shotgun being slightly father away. And here I thought I wouldn’t use Geometry ever again.

It didn’t make sense to reach for the man with the shotgun, as doing so would only leave me open to be shot several times over by the man with the pistol. However, going after the man with the pistol – as long as I timed it correctly – would have meant that I could’ve grabbed him and hopefully stopped the other one from firing for fear of shooting his comrade in his attempt of shooting.

Then again, he might get nervous and shoot anyway.

“I said get the fuck up!” the man with the shotgun repeated.

I don’t have time to think about this. It’s now or never.

“Okay,” I said, quietly.

I place my hand on the car for leverage, and that’s when I thought about it.

The alarm!

As I got to my feet, I paused for a moment, taking in all of their positions one last time. The man with the pistol was four feet away, the man with the shotgun was maybe eight, and the man behind him, who didn’t seem to be armed, was over fifteen feet away. I also took into account just how far away I was from my car; no more than a foot.

I took another moment to look at Isabella. She looked absolutely terrified, and it probably didn’t help matters that I seemed to be terrified as well. That act, seeing me cowering like a frightened child, probably only served to frighten her all the more.

Tears were still streaming down her face, mixing with the eyeliner and mascara. Her hair was a frazzled mess and I could see that she couldn’t take any more. But even still, as terrified and distressed as she looked, I couldn’t help but admire just how beautiful she was. The most beautiful woman I had ever known, that I would ever know. If nothing else I, at the very least, had to save her.

Un poco más, mi amor.

The plan was simple enough, in my head.

I’d bring my right foot up as quickly as possible and slam it into my car. Then, as the alarm started, I’d use that same foot to propel myself off the car, into the man that was holding Isabella. He was standing three feet away, but with his arm extended, the gun was only about two feet away. I would knock his arm to the side as I tackled him to the ground, taking Isabella down as well.

She’d be safer on the ground.

I’d wrestle the man with the pistol and try to get underneath him, or behind him, hopefully getting the gun at the same time. Even if I couldn’t, if I could just get a hold of him, and stand over Isabella, then I would imagine that would be enough. The alarm would gather too much attention and they’d all be forced to leave. I’d even let the man with the pistol go if it meant saving Isabella.

It seemed easy enough in my mind; but I knew that plans don’t always go the way you expect them to.

It’s now or never.

I brought my right foot up to the car, slamming it as hard as I could.

No alarm.

Shit.

Not stopping to worry, I pushed my bent knee off of the car and lunged towards the man with the pistol.

Just as I pushed off, the man with the shotgun fired and the shell came rocketing out of the barrel of his gun.

BANG!

The shell struck the car and, fortunately, set off the alarm.

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

I felt a burning sensation in my leg, and I knew I was hit. I wasn’t going to let it slow me down, though. Luckily, the man with the pistol wasn’t as quick to fire, and I was able to swat his arm away. He fired his weapon, and the bullet went flying into the bumper.

I tackled both him and Isabella to the ground. She rolled to the side, screaming as she crawled away from the fight that ensued. Using all of my strength I managed to get under him and lock my arm around his neck. He writhed and squirmed underneath me, but with a little added pressure the fear of suffocating calmed him down.

I used my freehand to search for the gun but he must’ve dropped it. No time to look for it now. I struggled to bring us up to our feet, as the burning in my leg was almost unbearable. I didn’t want to look though, as I figured looking would only make the pain that much worse.

As I brought us up to our feet, I watched as the man with the shotgun had the barrel of his gun pointed at us.

“Fuck!” he let out in frustration, “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”

“You better run while you still can!” I yelled over the sound of the alarm in the background.

He continued cursing, and I could tell by looking at him that his mind was racing, thinking of what he should do next.

That’s when I heard her. Isabella.

“Watch out!”

I turned to her, and saw her pointing behind me.

The third man – because of course it was the third man who, up until this point, had been practically harmless – shoved his fist into my face. The force of the punch caused me to let go of my captive and brought me down to the ground.

I scrambled to find my bearings but I knew it was too late. I turned myself over so that I was sitting on the ground and watched as the man with the shotgun closed in on me.

Oh no..

I know that it must’ve all happened quickly, but I remember every moment as if time had slowed down. I glanced at my leg, finally seeing the damage the first bullet had caused. A mangled mess of tattered flesh and denim jeans with patches of bright, white bone was all I could see, and I was right, seeing it made it hurt a helluva lot more.

Then I looked at Isabella, whose eyes were wide with fear. I could see it in those hazel eyes, that she wanted to turn away. She should have. She didn’t need to see what was about to happen.

I mouthed the words, “Lo siento.”

BANG!

You want to know what being shot is like? It fucking sucks.

The impact of the bullet struck me so hard I fell backwards, my head and back slamming into the concrete. It was as though my entire torso was on fire, as though every organ had been torn to shreds, which, quite frankly, I’m sure they had. If the shot itself hadn’t done it, then the ricochet from the shrapnel bouncing off the concrete was sure to have added the extra force to finish the job.

The only thing worse than the initial shot was every single breath that came after. Struggling to use lungs that were littered with holes and tears; fighting to have my heart pump blood throughout my body when there were so many gaps between veins and arteries that the majority of the blood was gushing out of my body.

Everything was either damaged beyond repair or simply no longer there.

I tried to turn my head, so that I could see her again, but the pain was unbearable. Or maybe it was the fact that my spinal cord had been so gnawed by the shotgun shell that I couldn’t use any part of it anymore.

I remember the sound of my car alarm being shut off, I remember catching a glimpse of Isabella being picked up and carted off. She reached out for me, and though I wanted desperately to do the same, my body wouldn’t allow it.

Then I saw him, the man who shot me, standing over me, smiling underneath his mask.

“Just had to be the hero, huh?” he laughed dryly, “all the good it got you.”

He then walked away.

The sound of tires screeching and the smell of burning rubber soon followed.

They were gone.

And I was there, alone.

Admiring the stars to keep my mind off my impending death.

Trying not to think of everything that went wrong.

Everything I did wrong.

What were they going to do with her? Do to her? The thoughts that ran through my mind pained me more than the bullet wounds.

I have to save her.

I can’t save her.

“But what if you could?” a voice says.

It startled me. My eyes bounced around their sockets, searching for someone, trying desperately to see where the voice had come from.

I looked up, and that’s when I saw his upside down face.

He was a pale man, who seemed to be in his early thirties. His hair was jet black, and slicked back and his eyes seemed to switch between black and red as he flashed a Cheshire grin.

“What if you could?” he repeated.

A hallucination?

He frowned, “Hardly,” I noticed his accent; British, it seemed, “though I could see why you might think that.

“But, no, not a hallucination. I’m quite real.” He walked around and stood beside me. I could see that he was wearing a black suit and jacket, with a very bright, red tie, “as real as this precarious situation you seemed to have found yourself in.”

I opened my mouth to speak but, instead of words, blood came gurgling out of my mouth.

Why isn’t he calling for help?

“Well, I am the help, my boy.”

I stared at him for a moment, trying to make sense of the situation. It wasn’t the fact that he said he was there to help that had me stunned, it was the fact that he was, seemingly, reading my thoughts.

I tried to push the idea from my head. It had to have been the loss of blood. No one could read minds.

I’m really losing it here.

“I can assure you that you’re not, ‘losing it,” he replied, “unless you’re referring to your life, which, well, yes. I would have to agree that you are about to lose that.”

How the hell are you doing that?

“Doing what?” he asked in response.

Reading my thoughts!

“Ah, yes,” he flashed another grin, “that.”

What is going on?

“A lot more than you’re able to comprehend right now,” his smile faded, “but know that I am here to help you. If you’re willing to accept it, that is.”

Why wouldn’t I?

“Well,” he paused, as if thinking on how he wanted to phrase it. He dug into his suit jacket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He took one out and placed it against his lip. As he put the pack back into his jacket, a flame appeared on the end of his cigarette and then, just as quickly, dissipated, leaving the cigarette lit. The man then took a deep breathe, pulled the cigarette from his mouth and blew it into the air, “my brand of help doesn’t come cheap.”

What. The. Fuck.

He smiled again, “Yes. I get that a lot.”

Are you.. God?

He let out a thunderous laugh and his eyes flickered red again, “not quite, my boy.”

Then that means you’re.. the other guy.

“The other guy?” he replied, bemused, “I do have a name, you know.”

Lucifer.

He smiled dryly, “Yes. But, my friends call me the Devil.”

I’ll stick with Lucifer, thank-you.

He continued to smile as he took another drag of his cigarette.

So, is this it? You’re here to drag me to hell? ‘Cause I gotta say, I think that’s pretty unfair.

“Are you trying to plead your case?” he asked inquisitively.

Not really. I just. Well I know I’ve done bad, but I’ve tried to do good as well. Tried to make up for the mistakes I’ve made.. so for me to still go to hell after all the effort I’ve put forth. It just seems unfair to me.

“Hmm, perhaps. But I’m not here to take you to Hell. Well, that’s not the plan anyway. But, it’s odd that you would say it’s ‘unfair.’ Life is unfair,” he cocked his head to the side, “do you honestly believe Death will be any different?”

I didn’t know what to say. Or think. Just as I was about to start I coughed up more blood.

“It seems your time is running out, my boy.”

No shit.

“Rude. But, I’ll chalk it up to your current state. Now, tell me, do you want my help or not?”

I’m going to have to decline.

He seemed shocked, “Interesting. You seemed so adamant about wanting to save your little girlfriend earlier.”

You were watching?

“I’m always watching, my boy.”

And you didn’t do anything!

“I’m the Devil. Why would I interfere in something such as that?” I remained silent, “In fact, the only reason I’m here now is because I feel that you and I can help one another.”

I’m not helping you with anything.

“Even if it means letting young Isabella die? Because that’s what’s going to happen to her. They’ll take her and have their fun, and when they’re spent and she’s all worn out, they’ll discard her with about as much decency as they have you,” he took another long hit of his cigarette, “is that what you want for her? If so then you can die and we’ll be done with it. I just imagined since you had something worth living for..”

What do I need to do? I ask. The thought of them doing anything to her should be worth any cost; I’ve already given my life for her, why not my soul?

“I don’t want your soul, per say,” he said, “not in the way you’re thinking anyway. It’s more along the lines of, well, I want you to work for me.”

Work for you? I paused for a moment as I stared into his ever changing red-black eyes. Doing what?

“You’d be my Spirit of Vengeance.”

Spirit of what?

“Hmm,” he paused to think, “I suppose that’s not the best way of explain it. Umm, to put it simply you’d be an equestrian of sorts.”

Try again.

“Seriously?” he let out an exaggerated sigh, “in the colloquial sense? I suppose you’d be something like a Rider.”

A Rider?

“Yes. You would complete tasks for me when I beckon you. These tasks may vary in complexity and difficulty, but you will do them.. whether you want to, or not.”

And what kind of tasks are you talking about?

Just as he was about to answer I began coughing up more blood. It was then that I noticed that the pain I was in before was starting to subside. I wanted to think that it might have been because of him, but I realized that it was more than likely a sign that I was nearing the end. If I was going to make a decision, it needed to happen now.

“I don’t believe we have time to get into the nitty-gritty of the job. Just know you’ll be my Equestrian when I need you. And as far as what you’ll be doing, well, you’ll be working for the Devil, I think that comes with a certain understanding that you won’t be going on simple coffee runs. But just know that by taking this job, you’ll be given the power to protect not only Isabella, but anyone else you care about.” He took one last puff of his cigarette and then flicked it away. “So, what do you say? Do we have a deal?”

What was I supposed to say? It wasn’t my life’s dream to snag a job as the Devil’s “Equestrian.” To jump into action at his beck and call, to do whatever he wanted me to do, whenever he wanted me to do it.. “whether I wanted to or not.”

Thoughts raced through my mind on the type of things that he might make me do. But I couldn’t get too far. I could feel myself wane. The pain was now completely gone, and my vision was starting to go with it.

“Tick-tock,” I heard him say.

I wish I’d had more time to think about it; to consider the true consequences of making a deal with the Devil. Of becoming his Sprit of Vengeance.. His Equestrian.. His Rider. What will happen to me? What will I become? Will I truly become some sort of Spirit, or a Phantom, or a Ghost..?

Will I still be me at the end of it all? Or will I be someone else? Something else? What does it really mean to become this.. this Ghost Rider he needs?

I wished I had more time, but if I did have more time, would it really have made a difference? Would I have chosen differently? Would I have made the decision to die? To have Isabella die? To leave my mother and my little brother on their own? No. I wouldn’t have. So that’s why, with complete confidence I spoke.

“Deal.”

He flashed that grin again, “Well then. It was a pleasure doing business with you.”

And just like that, he disappeared.

[segadores-y-soldados]

Listen y’all

Because I’m this Petty and Extra™

Have this. 1. Amelie Lacroix used to be a ballerina.

Old Habits: 

Reaper sneers beneath the mask.  “I will not work under Talon.”

“Oh no, we are aware of your...peculiarities,” the agent says, a little more cautiously.  “We’ve heard the stories of your...abilities and were interested in seeing how you feel about a...partnership.”

Reaper glances towards him, then back towards Widowmaker.  His thoughts are unraveling, struggling to jam puzzle pieces together.  Why the fuck won’t his thoughts settle down -

“I’m not interested in any sort of deal - ” his words and thoughts die in his throat.

Widowmaker has shifted slightly in the moonlight and, fuck, he’s not really sure why - maybe it’s his stronger senses post-meal, or maybe he’s just so fucking keyed up from the events of the night - but something finally fucking clicks and it’s like he can see it as clear as day.

Amélie.

The name rushes through him like fire consuming dry tinder and he feels something inside him explode with energy.  Now that he’s seen it, he doesn’t know how he’s missed it - the tall figure, as graceful and powerful as a ballerina, her long hair pulled back tight, pale skin and dark sneers.  But there’s something missing from her - some characteristic that he’s not really entirely sure what it is.  He stares at her with a loss for words, his thoughts shoving each other to get to the forefront of his mind.

How in the fucking FUCK I thought she was dead we all thought she was dead I fucking TOLD JACK to do a rescue mission but no he thought it was TOO FUCKING DANGEROUS WHAT THE FUCKING HELL IS SHE DOING HERE didn’t Talon fucking kidnap her why is she working with them

He attempts to steer his thoughts back on some sort of course, but it’s like the world has fucking shifted beneath him and he can’t get his footing back.  A god damn mental paradigm shift had broken into his thoughts and scrambled them like eggs on hot pavement, and he is left reeling until a thought stampedes its way to his brain.

Brainwashing.

 2. The Reyes shrug

76 + 127: How We Were Made (SEP-era Reaper76):

Even now, Jack knows Gabriel has already found a way out of his cell.

Jack just has no idea what he did.

Think outside the box, he can practically hear Gabriel whisper incessantly to him in his rattling, loose brain.

I can’t, Gabe - I’m fucking trapped inside the box.

You just gotta assess the situation critically.  You have advantages, Jack - you just gotta find them.

Advantages.

Sure.

Being locked in a cell has zero advantages over a guard in light body armor and a rubber-bullet gun.

The haze of sleepiness and exhaustion and pent-up frustration and roiling, thunderous energy in his veins is killing every idea in his head.

Look at your situation, think of what you have that 16 or 14 doesn’t.

“...So you are you gonna suck 16’s dick or nah?” 83 asks him vaguely from across the hall.

Sucking dicks is thinking outside the box, right? Jack half-wonders to himself, half to whatever sliver of Gabriel exists in his exhausted mind.  He can practically see Gabriel’s shrug - Gabriel would understand if Jack sucked a dick to get out of jail.  Gabriel would probably do that himself.

Had Gabriel sucked his guard’s dick for the key?

The thought alone makes his head pound harder.

3. I’m not the one with the statue.

Segador: It Is Not Him:

“Uh -” Reaper says unhelpfully as Sombra snaps out a hand to 76, pulling him over to the holoprojector, saying eagerly, “Oye, oye, Jack - is this Gabe??”

Jack takes a second to process the image and then -

In the stiff, awkward, uncomfortable, deadass silence -

He fucking laughs.

The years and the stress and the explosion and his myriad of problems have tempered the sound, made it harsh and gravelly, filled it with the ashes of what they had once been, but there’s a light there, a brightness, as if someone is pulling the sun out of the depths of the oceans -

And then Sombra is laughing again too, and snapping a picture with her biosystem as Jack wheezes, “Can I get a copy?” and Gabriel growls, “Listen assholes -”

“What the shit is going on over here?” Ana asks as she joins them from her rounds about the museum hall and both Jack and Sombra pull her to the projector and suddenly all three of them are laughing and Gabriel -

“Fuck this shit, I’m gonna rejoin Talon,” Gabriel huffs but suddenly there’s a warm, gentle pressure of a hand on his arm and Jack is there, smiling brightly at him from underneath scars and a silver-white five-o’clock shadow.

“Don’t be mad, Gabe,” the ex-commander chuckles to him and Gabriel softens a little at the words.  Jack jerks a thumb to the statue of himself a little ways off to the side, asking playfully, “Wanna help me knock the head off that jackass?”

“Fuck yeah, let’s do it.”

4. “Gabe, anything else you’re not telling me?”

Old Habits (preview - Pre-SEP meeting):

Reyes looks at him with a little bit of embarrassment until Jack sticks out his hand.

“What?” the cadet asks in surprise and Jack just grins, “Name’s John, but I fucking hate it, so call me Jack.”

“Are you fucking serious -” Reyes breathes, “A goddamn handshake?”

“Aww, after all we went through, and you won’t even shake my hand?” Jack mocks at him and Reyes glares at him fiercely before smirking wickedly, “I can see why people want to punch you, jackass.”

“I mean, it is my kink - ”

“I am going to regret saying that to you,” Reyes sighs before taking Jack’s hand.

His hand is rough around the knuckles and joints from years of boxing, but it’s warm too.

“Gabriel,” he mutters.

“Encantado, Gabríel,” Jack beams at him and he sees Gabriel’s left eyebrow quirk a twitch at the Spanish, but Jack rolls on, “This is the part where you tell me you hate the name ‘Gabriel,’ so I can call you ‘Gabi,’ right?”

“Oh, holy fuck, now I really see why people want to hit you, pendejo.”

5. Strike Team “Blue as Blue Can Be” Uniforms

Segador: It Is Not Him:

With pounding frustration and an increasing headache (or was it increasing frustration and a pounding headache?), Gabriel steps out from behind the little partition where they had given him room to get changed.  He squares up before the small group of people in the room - his four closest companions, Ana’s seven-year-old daughter Fareeha (who’s looking rather bored as she smashes some buttons on her gamepad), and a bunch of the new recruits who are milling about awkwardly.

“I look ridiculous,” he growls.

The four heroes - Jack, Ana, Reinhardt, and Torbjörn - are lounging around the main room of the base, all of them also wearing these fucking weird ultra-blue “Overwatch” armor sets.  Reinhardt looks especially uncomfortable and especially blue - Torbjörn had barely managed to whip out the cobalt armor for him last-minute when Adawe had told them about the “Overwatch global reveal” photoshoot to them last week.  The tiny engineer, meanwhile, looks completely out of place without his usual red armor, and he tugs at his beard nervously as he assesses the new recruits.  Jack and Ana seem to pull the look off well, as its basically the get up they’re already used to: Ana’s reading something on her datapad, adjusting the beret perched on her silky black hair.  Jack is leaning slack against the arm of a cheap couch, looking completely at ease with himself, tapping away at his datapad with a faint smirk as Fareeha next to him whines, “Jack, that’s not fair -”

“This is why I told you not to battle the Overwatch Pokemon Champion, Fareeha,” Jack grins to her before he and the others turn their attention to their commander -

There is stiff, awkward, uncomfortable, deadass silence in the room, broken only by the faint electronic chirping of some pocket monster passing the fuck out on Fareeha’s gamepad.

Torbjörn snorts as Fareeha’s tiny shoulders begin shaking.  Ana flashes a terrible, dry smile before covering her mouth and looking away.  Reinhardt squints at him with his good eye and Jack gives him the most awkward, fucking fake smile Gabriel has ever seen on him, muttering with some effort, “You - you look good, Gabe.”

“I look fucking ridiculous -” Gabriel starts with a scowl before Ana shouts, “LANGUAGE, GABRIEL.”  Her daughter doesn’t even seem to notice, however - Fareeha is giggling and chortling to herself as she shakes Jack’s arm with bubbling excitement and the blonde second-in-command is also starting to shiver with stifled laughter.

6. Push Ups

76 + 127: How We Were Made (SEP-era):

Jack sighs again, not sure if he loves or hates the pressure in his head and neck, before pushing his arms up off his elbows and onto his hands.

Upside-down push-ups suck.

Gabriel’s wide, smug, fucking charming grin flashes into his head.

Jack winces against another wave of nausea and sets into his first rep.  He’ll only do five at a time - before the mere act of being upside down makes him want to puke - then put himself back into a normal push up position on the floor, then repeat a few times until he actually throws up or gives himself a nosebleed.  He doesn’t know what the fuck is in the “enhancements,” but every other person in the group has had nosebleeds or mild seizures.

It had been fucking terrifying the first month.

After that, the fear slowly eased up when everyone started getting them.  Apparently that made it...more normal, though Gabriel loved to point out that even if 100% of all 150 of them got the nosebleeds and seizures, that statistically proves nothing except that the chemicals are fucking all of them up instead of a subset of them.  Jack loved to point out that Gabriel was not very good at math, and that would cause Gabriel to point out “Shut the fuck up, Jack, I passed three levels of statistics at West Point” which would cause Jack to point out “So did I, pendejo - I had to help you study for all three of them.”

Jack does his push ups and then slowly puts himself back down on the ground when 78 groans from his cot, “Dude, you gotta try to get some sleep.”

“Yeah, last time that happened the alarm went off,” Jack sighs, letting himself slump face-down on the cool, dull concrete floor.

Fuck, even that feels comfortable.

7. Gabriel, Jack, and NES video games

127 + 76: Trick to the Game:

“How are we gonna shoot ducks indoors?” Gabriel mutters as they reach Jack’s room, and Jack smiles mischievously as he punches the lock code into the keypad, saying with a playful threat, “Oh, you’ll see.”

“What the fuck did I say about scaring me -” Gabriel begins as door slides open, Jack pulling and tugging him inside until Gabriel can finally see the screen glowing on Jack’s side of the room, with a small white video game console actually hardwired to the tv’s only USB port because what the fuck kinda video game system runs on wires these days -

 “The fuck is that??” Gabriel asks as Jack bends down and grabs some sort of weird long white remote -

“It’s a Wii U!” Jack states happily and Gabriel just looks at him totally lost and rather distrustfully, before he sputters out, “The fuck is a Wee You?”

“It’s one of Nintendo’s worst-selling consoles ever,” Jack continues, pointing the remote to the infrared sensor bar that he’s taped to the wall because there’s no spot to put it on the holo-tv.  He flips to the main menu (the little plaza thing is empty because there’s no internet connection, and even if it were available, Nintendo’s had the servers down for decades now), and selects -

“Ay Dios mio,” Gabriel swears as the words [DUCK HUNT] load up in bright, bold, electric blue letters.  The older candidate rubs at his forehead with his hands, mumbling, “I cannot fucking believe you went through ALL THAT just for this joke.”

“YES,” Jack shouts, fist-pumping into the air, “The long con pays off!  I still got it.”

And then, after a pause of grumbling silence, Jack looks at him and asks, “...Do you really think that geese are ducks?”

Gabriel looks up and squints at him, saying dryly, “...Aren’t they?”

“...Dude.”

[michaelbartram]

Illusion (For previous chapters read below in reverse order starting with Prologue)

Chapter 5

 ‘Where am I?’

He opened his eyes. For a second... These walls, the shutter… Where? Of course. Slowly he breathed out. Morning. Linen lavender-fresh, heaven-smooth against the skin. Silence. Peace. A noise from outside. Tsk,tsk,tsk. Prodding, pushing. Tsk,tsk,tsk.

‘A garden hoe,’ he murmured. Brisk, workman-like intrusions into Mother Earth from just beneath his window.

Peace indeed.

He glanced at Felicia, asleep on her front. Hair falling wantonly across her cheek. Lips open. The restless sleeper had wrenched the sheet all night and in the last throes bared her buttocks.

He considered Felicia’s gorgeous culo. If he touched it now – could he without her muttering ‘Get off, pendejo’? – his fingertips would feel… Ah, the perfect curve and smoothness of it.

He advanced his outstretched hand.

From outside, a call, questioning, sharp. His homing hand stopped.  Playfully slapping it with the other hand, he fell back.

‘Peacocks.’

He smiled to himself, remembering a conversation with an elderly literary friend. They had been discussing Sanskrit love poems. The old man had said, ‘That showy bird, who when marooned in Europe, wanders the lawns of country houses without purpose, was in the East born to a task.’

‘Which was?’

‘He was the mount of the Hindu god of love. In arcane lore the peacock stood for impatient desire.’ The man of letters smiled mischievously. ‘Like yours, Claudio.’

‘Mine?’

‘Book-lover though you are, my friend, I believe you’re more interested in women than literature.’

‘Does one or the other have to come first?’

‘Assuredly.’

The friend’s stare conveyed a blend of guile and innocence. ‘All in all,’ he added, ‘women are probably a safer choice.’

Delightfully paradoxical, but how wrong. Women were far more dangerous to Claudio than any book.

Impatient desire. He glanced back at Felicia’s bare rump and was stabbed with both lust and annoyance that she, not he, would determine when he might next satisfy it.

The cry, sounding again, mocked him.

Best to get up. He reached for his dressing-gown, opened the shutters and with a flourish stepped out onto the balcony. His jaw fell. ‘Buenos cielos! Now that is something.’

The sun was rising over snowy peaks. Distant crags fell away to a wide patchwork of field and forest. In the middle distance, off-centre, was the lake. And just as Lazar had promised, there too was the summerhouse. The exquisite structure acted as the focal point of the panorama.

The view was dramatic, yet superbly balanced: ‘classical’ in fact. To complete the effect, the foreground was peopled, as if painted by Claude or Poussin. Gardeners were hard at work with pitchforks and barrows amidst clusters of shrubs and colourful borders. Animating the pattern of paths, lawns and ponds, these early risers scythed and swept, watered and clipped.

Claudio’s eye was drawn back again to the summerhouse, its chinoiserie reflected in the placid waters.

Leaning on the balcony rail, he daydreamed.

‘I am a Chinese poet. The lake waters lap. The morning sun pierces the traceries. Under the pagoda roof I am penning verses. I write of the joys of wine, my mistress’s culo, the passing of all things.’

He lifted his hand to his neck. That scratch. Still it hurt to the touch.

He sensed Felicia stirring behind him. ‘Are you awake?’ he called. ‘Felicia, you must see this.’

Her grunting response hinted at a certain readiness. He moved swiftly through and perched on the bed. ‘Felicia. It’s incredible.’

She levered herself up. She seemed to force a smile. ‘You’re a happy boy then, Claudio.’

‘The v… view. Th… this… silence,’ he stuttered, ‘this… is how it must have been once. They did everything in this silence. Someone hoed and peacocks called across a lawn and nothing, nothing ever ruptured the pre-mechanical quiet.’

‘Mm...’ she said, knitting her brows.

‘You don’t like the idea, maybe, but don’t you see, there was still noise. They got drunk, shouted, brawled. People slammed doors. Then there was the tumult of war, cannons going off, muskets. Just no machines.’

‘Exactly what Lazar said, Claudio. Machines are shit. Oh well, we’ll soon see. I’ll miss my electric toothbrush.’

He reached for her hand. ‘Come outside and see the view. You’ve got to do that.’

She sighed. ‘Ok, but don’t rush me. I’ll be sick of the view by the end.’

He went back outside and gazed, again awestruck. ‘Young people, impressed by trash, utterly unable to recognise the stupendous. What a waste.’

When finally he went back in, he found Felicia, at last vertical, examining their en suite. She opened the chest of drawers releasing aromas of sandalwood and perfume. She ambled through to the bathroom, turned on the gleaming brass taps and watched the water gurgle away.

‘Claudio,’ she called, retrieving two pairs of shining shoes from the corridor. ‘Look.’

‘Just as I hoped,’ he said. ‘I can see my face in the toe caps. Superb service to add to the blissful surroundings.’

‘I thought that would please you.’

There was a knock at the door. A smiling woman in a starched pinafore came in.

‘Where will you be taking your breakfast? I can suggest the veranda. It’s nice and quiet. No cars, no motorbikes, juggernauts. No electric mowers or concrete mixers. No drills, no hedge-cutters, electric mowers, no motorboats.’

‘Just what I was saying,’ said Claudio ‘The silence out there is beyond belief. And indoors, I don’t doubt, a superb absence of radios, TVs, piped music.’

‘You may be sure of that. It’s heaven on earth here, but not,’ she went on, glancing at Felicia, ‘if you want to party. I’ll put the tray out.’

‘Bitch,’ muttered Felicia, as she closed the door. ‘She thinks I’m an airhead.’

Over breakfast, savouring the coffee and rolls, Claudio watched the gardeners come and go and the birds winging over the lake. Felicia had merely humphed when she saw the view but now she allowed her eye to wander and appeared appreciative.

‘Well, that cow brought us nice warm rolls, I’ll say that,’

Claudio touched her leg with his slippered foot. ‘You’re enjoying yourself, eh?’

‘I’m not complaining. I just don’t want to be patronised by a lot of snobs. I get enough of that from you.’

Claudio sighed. ‘Felicia… please… let’s not bicker… Let’s just allow the peaceful spirit of this place to spread balm.’

‘That’s up to you,’ she said, looking away.

‘Anyway,’ said Claudio, ‘that bitch, as you call her, has stepped right out of the Paris Ritz of the 1930s. She has pageboy hair like Garbo’s in certain studio shots. I would like to photograph her in black and white. For a moment I can regret we were not allowed cameras.’

Felicia shrugged. ‘I don’t know why you’d want to photo a snotty cow like that.’

Without rush they finished breakfast. Once dressed, they headed out. The staff were everywhere, tidying and polishing, gliding through with trays, easing trivial anxieties, answering queries.

‘It’s going to be lovely today, we can be sure of that.’

‘Did you have a good night?’

‘We can recommend…’

Claudio saw people he recognised from the journey. Paulus fixed them both with a graveyard stare. Claudio pulled Felicia quickly past. He had no wish to expose her to that lecher all the more since he believed the attraction was mutual.

Next, they came across Elena reading in an alcove. She wore a gown of crushed green velvet. The sunlight played on her long golden hair. As they walked on he murmured to Felicia, ‘A bit posed don’t you think? Look at me, the reader.’

‘She’s a phony,’ Felicia agreed.

Sabatini was in full flood on the front steps.

‘Let’s steer clear of him,’ said Claudio.

Hand in hand, they stepped out. The air was deliciously moist and scent-laden. Tangy smells drew Claudio to the herb garden secluded behind an old brick wall. Felicia picked some aromatic eaves and crushed them between her fingers, which she held up to Claudio’s nostrils.

‘There you are, Claudio, try that.’

He sniffed, then reeled back. ‘It’s disgusting!’

‘Valerian. It smells of tomcats. I grew up with it in our garden at home. That’ll teach you to be such a romantic.’

He eyed her breasts, full under her pale cotton shirt. Beads of sweat glistened in her cleavage.

‘Kiss me, Felicia.’

‘If you promise to stop ogling my tits.’

‘You like it.’

‘Do I?’

He moved towards her. She closed her eyes. She seemed ready after all.

Footsteps sounded on the gravel. Claudio cursed. They moved apart. It was Paulus, still wearing his dark suit, carrying two wicker baskets.

‘Good morning,’ he said, without smiling. ‘You missed the announcement. We are to wander at will through the orchards. Mulberry, pear, peach, apple and cherry. The real taste of uncontaminated fruit. It’s all here for us to enjoy. We are to pick what we want. They even handed out these baskets.’ He handed one to Felicia.

Paulus began picking and placing fruit in his basket. Felicia did likewise, too obediently, it seemed to Claudio, who hovered grumpily.

They moved on in this fashion, Claudio semi-detached, strolling a few paces then stopping and admiring the view, the other two stooping or reaching up to pick from overhanging branches. Paulus would say, ‘That’s a nice one, Felicia.’ Felicia would ask, ‘Can you reach that one for me, Paulus.’

Further up the hill, Felicia, mouth full of ripe peach suddenly cried, ‘Look, windmills.’

Vast white sails joined to clapboard circled grandly against the blue sky, about a dozen in all.

Paulus put his basket down. ‘That’s how windmills used to be. I hear they got a Dutchman here, not an engineer but a historian of science. He knew how it used to be done in old Holland.’

Claudio was damned if he was going to express any interest though in point of fact the windmills intrigued him. Not only did they remind him of Dutch landscape painting, but with his poet’s eye he saw the windmills taking off into the sky, sails cracking, pennants flying, riding the clouds like magical airships.

‘There’s hardly any wind today,’ Paulus continued, ‘but still they turn. It’s like navigation. Adapting the windmills to make electricity, they have to make the most of every breath out here. And store what they get.’

‘Like the Egyptians,’ said Claudio testily.

Paulus turned to him. ‘Eh?’

‘Like the Egyptians in the Seven Years of Plenty, they have to hoard for the lean years. Sometimes, I daresay, there is no wind. They’ve hoarded. They survive.’

‘I’m going down now,’ Paulus said suddenly. ‘I guess our paths will cross again.’

They watched him retreat down the slope, ever incongruous with his suit and fruit basket.

Claudio removed Felicia’s basket from her hand and pulled her to him. Running his hand up between her thighs and breathing heavily he managed at the same time to edge her towards a clump of bushes which in his impatience with Paulus he had already identified as a possible site for outdoor sex. How fortunate that that creepy predator had left them.

‘Hey Claudio, steady on.’

‘Felicia… I want you…’

‘No… Claudio…’

‘Yes, yes…’

She began to remove his hands. He clung on. ‘Dear girl… You don’t know what you do to me…’

‘No, Claudio.’

‘Yes.’

‘No.’  

Finally he pulled away and turned a sharp eye on her.

‘It’s him, isn’t it?’

‘What?’

‘Paulus.’

‘What about Paulus?’

‘You can’t get him out of your mind.’

‘What?’

‘There is attraction between you,’ said Claudio, ‘unlikely though it seems. He has this sexual allure to do with his seediness. He probably lives for the next polvo. Some women sense that in a man and it turns them on even when he’s not good-looking. All they want is a polvo with that man who thinks about a polvo so much.’

She shook her head, a picture of disbelief and scorn.

He went on. ‘I’ve met it before. It’s sick but true. You lie in bed dreaming of a polvo with that gangster. You might as well admit it, Felicia.’ He took her hand. ‘I will forgive you. If you confess, it might even turn me on in. We can incorporate it.’

She rounded on him. ‘Jesus, Claudio you’re crazy. I don’t know if I can deal with this. I’m serious. The deal might have to be off.’

‘Deal? What deal?’

‘Oh hell, Claudio. Just stop questioning me. Questions, questions. What deal? What this? What that? Who are you on the phone to? Who did you see? Do you fancy him? How much did you drink? What drugs did you take? You are not my father. If this holiday is to have any chance of success, just lay off me, do you understand?’

Her lips quivered. She was trembling. Her eye went to the windmill sails, turning and creaking. She seemed to be weighing things up. Grasshoppers and birds made merry.

He was contrite. ‘Felicia, you’re right.’

‘I am right. You’re an idiot.’

‘All will be well, my dear, I promise.’

She looked past Claudio, down at Arcadia, then beyond to the snow-capped mountain peaks.

‘Ok,’ she said, ‘I forgive you. Just don’t ruin it.’

[achtung-attitude]

A second passes, and the owner of the voice steps into the light. From the other side, Moya watches her. Dressed in a heavy, studded dark coat, she brushes her wavy black hair out of the way from her face. In doing so, she reveals the curved scar just below her right eye; a scar shaped uncannily like a fish-hook. “It’s balance, right? Brother?” A hint of venom hisses from that last word, as she eyes the black preacher.

Brother Dust smiles. “Exactly right, Sister T'onga. It was balance, or rather the lack of it, that brought an end to these great empires. Thank you very much.”

T’onga scowls minutely and returns to her seat. Moya watches her recede into the shadows, knowing what all the others don’t: this is the very woman Shizuka is searching for.

Dust continues his lecture. “The Romans over-extended themselves, taking more than what they needed and losing what they did control. That is how the unwashed, disorganized barbarian tribes managed to learn from their mistakes and depose the once-mighty Roman forces.

“Genghis Khan had a different problem. He shouldered the success of his empire solely on his achievements and charisma, so that when he was gone, there was none that could ever take his place. And so, his empire was a posthumous failure.”

The old man sits back in his chair and spreads his arms wide. ”Balance is the key. We Three do what no other gang in this city has truly done before.

“We share our power. Freely, amongst ourselves. In this way, we achieve balance, in a city that has teetered upon the edge of the Black Pit since the earliest days of its existence. For in what other city could those like us ever achieve power?”

Saying this, Dust takes a deep breath, solemn in nature, almost as if he’s holding back some great anger. “Therefore… it is most distressing, when events conspire to disrupt this delicate balance.”

The masked woman pulls a cigar from her jacket and speaks. Her voice is strong, her accent understated. “Perhaps I am the wrong person to say this, but theatricality has its limits, Dust. Can you please get to your point already?”

Dust smiles, good-naturedly. “I wish only to bring enlightenment to our people, Sister, as much as you do. But how can I achieve this when our endeavors are thwarted, our property stolen, our people caught by enforcers of the law?” The preacher’s smile slowly hides away, as a far more serious expression plasters across his face. “But worse even than that, when utter strangers come into our midst and take one of our own?”

“If you are referring to the scumbag who got lucky,” Phantasma retorts, with a new edge in her tone, “then I can assure you, the situation is being dealt with.”

“Lucky, you say?” Dust questions. “Forgive me, Sister, but I loath to imagine that one of your top lieutenants could not only be dispatched by a common creep through mere luck, but also for his gift to be stolen by the very same despicable creature. The power that grants us all the way to Paradise!!”

At this, Dust reaches into his cloak and pulls out a pair of compact discs, which draw the eyes of everyone present. They are no ordinary discs, for in their metallic sheen, bizarre silhouettes can be seen, appearing human, but not exactly. These discs are not the creations of Brother Dust, but of another. A man who, years prior, came close to destroying the world with the help with those very discs: Enrico Pucci and his Stand, Whitesnake.

“Do not mistake me,” continues Brother Dust, “we all grieve for the loss of Brother Tito, but no further blunders can be made: the re-acquisition of Tito's disc takes precedence over all mourning. This, I am sure you can understand, my dear Sister.”

“Por supuesto. As I said, it is being dealt with.”

“How?” All Kill says, involving himself for the first time.

After a pause, Phantasma gestures again. “Moya.”

Dutifully, the undercover Officer Moya Pezzente steps back into the light, flipping open a notebook. “The guy’s name is Ricardo Cone,” she begins, impassive, as if reading data on a computer screen. “A drifter by all accounts, originally from San Diego. He's been wandering California for the past few years, before finally settling down in our town, for now. He's an extreme anti-social, has been involved in several violent incidents since pre-school. Assaults, attempted murder, attempted rape.”

“How does a guy like that get the drop on one of us?” All Kill asks.

“Actually, it started 3 months ago. Our eyes in the area say this Cone pendejo happened to start some shit with Tito in a bar over in East LA. Obviously, Hermano Tito bashed his brains in, but left him alive.”

“Big mistake,” says the figure on the other side of Phantasma, in a harsh whisper. Even in the low light, Moya sees his teeth gleaming at her.

Unphased by the comment, Moya continues, “Cone started watching him. For three months, he watched everything he did, learning his routine. From what he had for breakfast, to who he met during the day, how often he used the bathroom. Nothing was sacred to this guy.

“Once he learned his routine inside and out, he attacked Tito outside his home, drugged him, brought him out to the train tracks and tied him up with his head on the tracks.”

The gruesome news sinks in, and there is silence for a moment. Then, All Kill speaks up again. “So after killing him, this Cone guy managed to take Tito’s Stand disc from his body?”

“That’s correct,” Moya replies.

“So there’s a possibility that this guy has a Stand now?”

“It’s possible. Judging from what we know of him, Tito’s Stand probably suits Cone better than Tito himself.”

“His body was discovered by a group of kids,” Phantasma states, her voice resonating, “The morgue had to identify him on his fingerprints. His face was completely gone. This man, Cone, did this to one of my people.” Across the room, everyone feels Phantasma’s resolve solidify within the air.

“Dust; I appreciate your concerned over the discs. But I ask, respectfully, that you and your crew stay out of this. This man has murdered one of my people. Not only did he kill Tito, but he has also desecrated his memory by sullying his corpse. This disrespect to me and mine cannot stand. It will not stand.”

The old man nods. “Of course, Sister. This was my intention all along. I entrust you with settling this matter.”

“Then we are done for the day, I suppose,” she says, rising from her chair. Moya drapes a large coat over her boss’s shoulders and lights the cigar she still holds between her fingers. She puffs on it as she leaves with her subordinates. As Moya follows her boss, she passes next to where T’onga sits.

“Hey, Moya...” calls out the dark haired woman, reclining sideways across her chair. She is smirking at her, rather cockily.

“What do you want, T’onga?” she replies, betraying no emotion.

“Oh, nothing. I just noticed you seem to have fucked up that pretty face of yours, and I got curious. What happened, did your last guy get a little too passionate? Or maybe it was a girl? Not that it matters…”

Moya sighs, speaking through gritted teeth. “I appreciate your concern, but I’m-”

“You know it’s not especially ladylike to go around with blemishes like that, right?”

“Well, you’d know, wouldn’t you?” Moya quips, then turns to leave.

“Hold up!” T’onga says, her voice raised. Moya stops, hearing her get up from the chair. “Hold up, you were mumbling. I don’t like it when people mumble around me. We should all be more honest with each other, don’t you think? So come on.” She marches towards her Hispanic counterpart. “I didn’t hear what you said, so please run that by me again?”

Scowling, Moya turns back to face her. She is at least a foot taller than T’onga, but the Asian woman is not the least bit intimidated. “I said, ‘You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?’ Facial blemishes, I mean. Considering, you and that hook there. Mine are temporary, of course, but…”

“Why are you acting like such a cunt?” T’onga asks bluntly. “I didn’t say it was bad, I just said un-ladylike! Though, now that I think about it, I’m sure you don’t mind coming across like that, do you? It’s probably a good look for you, at certain bars...” She starts stepping closer. Moya balls her hands into fists, “You know, I could give you something more permanent, if you wanted… Broaden your appeal-”

“T’onga,” the women freeze in place at the sound of All Kill’s voice. “Play nice.”

T’onga pulls a scowl across her face, then looks back. “ Don’t be so stiff, boss! We’re just trading beauty tips. You know… girl talk?” she sulks away from Moya, over to her boss’s side. “Later.”

The three of them, All Kill and his two attendants, leave through a different door. Moya’s gaze holds on T’onga for a while longer, before Phantasma’s voice beckons her away. She spares one last look, and thinks of Shizuka.