The 8-seater Infusion Motors SUV plowed through Taguig’s narrow streets, dodging trikes, motorcyclists, and electric jeepneys. A capture drone lost interest in a mugging and turned its searching eye on us. It followed.

“Don’t rile up a hornet’s nest,” Uncle Nestor told the driver. “Taguig is full of them.”

The driver was a man shorter than even I was and could have been younger. I didn’t ask his name, and Uncle Nestor never said it. I could tell he was an experienced driver, perhaps even more than I was. He plowed so close to the adjacent cars in rush hour that, had I stuck my finger out of the window, it would have caught on something and snapped.

Uncle Nestor uttered no directions as we weaved along back streets and service roads, forcing walkers out of our way and passing the backs of condo buildings and 7-Elevens. A cargo truck honked just before the driver swerved away from a couple of kids playing basketball on a night street.

We drove on over the Pasig River, heading north on the Skyway above the squatter neighborhoods, where a sea of corrugated roofs made waves below us. Our speed exceeded the ambulance that took Papa to the hospital. I clutched his urn tight.

For the first time, I asked, “Where are we going?” No one answered, and I thought they didn’t hear me. Instead, I asked the driver, “How did you get driver access?”

The boy looked at me and shook his head.

“It’s ours,” said Ernesto, who I had determined was the bodyguard sitting in the shotgun seat. An indigenous tribal tattoo wrapped around his neck like a spotted snake before strangulation.

Uncle Nestor’s wad of bills came back to me. Infusion Motors wasn’t a cheap brand, even for self-driving trips. “Whose?” I asked.

Sitting beside me, Uncle Nestor placed an assuring hand on my shoulder. “You’ll see, Jayson. For now, be still.”

A fleet of capture drones swarmed the SUV, joining the buzzing congregation trailing us. They peered inwards as the eyes of a curious leviathan would.

The SUV slowed outside a gated community. A brick wall separated an otherwise quiet street. We were south of Metro Manila, probably in Cavite or Laguna. There were too many trees. I couldn’t remember the last time I saw this many.

Cement houses passed us by—not wood or plyboard. They were tall, modern, and had enough space between them to allow for large yards. This was a wealthier neighborhood than any I had ever set foot in.

I beamed at the prospect of seeing the extended family beyond what I had witnessed in their social media posts, but the dozens of people in the compound were unfamiliar. That there were even dozens occurred to me just now. Two men manned the gate. A woman on a balcony held a child in her arms. Two men with street brooms walked along this cloistered village’s sidewalks. Armed men with M16s and shotguns stood on the rooftops. They looked just like the security guards you’d see at malls, only not in uniform.

“That’s your Auntie Havannah,” said Uncle Nestor. He thrust his body out the window and waved.

I tried to roll my window down. It did require rolling—not automatic touch sensors like I was used to from the getaway vehicles the scrapers always found. I wondered where they were now and if they were still alive.

The village opened up into a long yard. We passed through its inner gate. Beyond it stood a mansion.

It could have been Malacañang Palace, with its white paint, red roofs, and arched windows curtained shut. Terrace railings carried more of those armed men. There was private security. There were clear skies.

Clear of everything. No bats, no birds. No capture drones. No surveilling swarms. There was a stark and noticeable absence of curious intruders. It was as if this compound had an uninterrupted funnel straight to the heavens and reigned down God’s solace.

The driver turned the SUV into the mansion’s roundabout and killed the engine. Ernesto opened my door, and I walked Papa out. Even his urn felt warm, as if he, too, beamed at the prospect of a new beginning for his son.

Two valets opened the mansion’s front door to admit a woman, and the first thing I noticed was her hair, the shade and color of obsidian, car tires, or panthers. She wore it past her shoulders, an affront to the country’s sweltering heat. She held herself strong, but she seemed to weaken after seeing us.

Familiarity drew me to her: the shape of her face, the deep set of her eyes. We had the same eyebrows, the kind that were overgrown but did not require plucking. Her smile showed white teeth. Her eyes watered.

She held her arms out, and I knew the impossible had conspired tonight.

She sniffed and said something I would never forget. “Welcome home, my son.”

----------------------------------------

Sometimes, you can tell who a person is and their impact on your life just by looking at them. A short evaluation can reveal eons.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

Esmeralda Lane Bernal was once an intangible name. Now, I could attribute meaning to it. My mother was alive. With this newfound knowledge came the questions and no answers.

“How?” That was all I could think of to ask.

“We have a lot to talk about, Jayson,” said my mother.

She ushered me into the mansion, the palace, and this analysis wasn’t too far off. We entered a long hallway, two chandeliers adorning almost half the vertical space. They were so large that I thought I’d have to duck underneath them. I counted at least five rooms on each side, two double doors leading into a larger hall opposite us.

“Our own little Malacañang,” said my mother. She fetched a valet. “Get my son some clothes.”

The valet opened a side closet door and removed from it a duffel bag. It was packed full.

“We get a lot of guests here,” said my mother.

I heard none of it. I couldn’t stop looking at her. “Where have you been?”

She led me to a table placed in the center of the hallway. The space was three times as wide as our house anyway, and the bodyguards and servants had no trouble walking around us. They opened doors with their backs, piercing me with their stares. I looked away each time.

My mother sat across from me at the long table. Uncle Nestor, Ernesto, and Quin were beside her. I looked to my sides, but no one joined me. It was me against the four of them.

“Jayson,” my mother began. “Whatever I tell you now, I need you to keep between us. Not even your sister should know.”

I had no idea where this was going, but I nodded. “Alright.” I placed Father’s urn on the table, keeping one hand on it as if for comfort. “Where have you been?”

“Here, Jayson. I've been in the city this whole time, with some trips to Mindanao.”

“Papa said you were dead.”

“Papa lied to you.” It was then I noticed her ring finger was bare.

“Lies?” I tried to reconcile this and place it against what I knew, but it didn’t fit. “Why would he lie?”

Mother leaned back and showed me the hall as if I were seeing it for the first time. “I, Jayson, am the one who brought this enterprise to the forefront. This is all Bernal wealth, not Vargas. Your father had nothing to with this. He kept you out because he was scared you would be caught up with the worst parts of your business.” My mother, both elbows on the table, leaned forward. “But I know you’re smarter than that, Jayson. I know you would have resisted every temptation. You could have helped this whole operation succeed sooner.”

That didn’t sound much like me, at least not the kind of person I had become after university. And father’s lies? What were those? My mother’s explanation returned to me. “What operation?” I asked.

She looked at Uncle Nestor before nodding. “Your word, Jayson. Promise me that, and I will explain everything.”

“Of course.” I just wanted her to get on with it. “Of course, I won’t tell anyone.”

She dipped her head as if this was explanation enough. “Have you heard of Black Fire, Jayson?”

I had, and I felt my stomach sink. “It’s a drug.”

“It’s only a drug because it’s illegal, but you should be happy it exists. After all, it has made your family rich.”

Mother clicked a button on her side of the table that I didn’t know was there. The double doors at the end of the hall swung open.

Mother remained sitting. Uncle Nestor, Ernesto, and Quin remained seated. I did not, and they did not stop me.

I walked through those doors and into a dimly lit room the size of a school gymnasium. Hundreds of couches filled the area, like the living room section of a furniture store. I turned to the closest and found a person sitting in one. Their arms were crossed, and their eyelids blinked. They could have been napping.

TV screens mounted to the walls showed images of television shows I didn’t recognize. There were battle scenes, swinging adventurers, romantic climaxes, and the downfall of heroes. I saw a superhero movie unfolding. I saw an apartment building toppling down. I saw places I recognized and others I did not.

I searched around and found more people on the couches. I felt like I had just interrupted a giant slumber party, but my mother’s feet clomped around without care. No one woke.

She pointed to one of the screens. “We don’t need to search so hard for fiction, Jayson. The city inspires us every day.”

I found the focus of my mother’s attention in a series of TV panels along the wall. In them, almost one after the other, various scenes played out. First was a house fire, where six firefighters rushed in, only to be smothered by planes. The second looked like a ritual suicide by six evil cultists in an urban fantasy flick. The third, however, looked real.

It was a Rappler news segment showing what I thought was an MRT station in Metro Manila. Maybe in Pasig somewhere, or Mandaluyong. Six drones hovered in an MRT car. At once, they rammed into six different people.

The Rappler segment looped. It didn’t take me long to match the similarities between the shots. I asked her, pointing to the other two screens, “Where are these playing?”

I expected her to mention a streaming giant’s network, but she shook her head. “They’re ours,” my mother said. But we need to make more—better ones.”

I put two and two together, tracking the flutter of eyelids to story beats and scene lighting, and saw they matched. I was peering into the windows of hundreds of engineered hallucinations.

“We need more, though,” my mother said. “Stories that will inspire and remind Manila that the city still belongs to them. We must tell the people the reality of their situation, that this is the fourth colonization, and if we surrender our stories, we are surrendering ourselves.”

It was as if Mother had peered into my thoughts of the nights spent at my father’s bedside. “I already have a story in mind.”

“How original?”

“One hundred percent.”

She looked at skeptical at first, but I had no reason to lie to her. I knew that what father had written would upset every originality engine belonging to the Giants. His story was unadapted, and it needed to be told.

“You’ll need a team as well,” said my mother.

That was the easy part. In my mind, I had already formed one.