CHAPTER 20: MIKE - NOT THE MURDER HE IMAGINED

"It ain’t dying I’m talking about, it’s living. I doubt it matters where you die, but it matters where you live."

– Augustus McCrae, Lonesome Dove

This is the tale of Migesus d’Azmat III, better known as Mike, teenage adventurer. At fifteen, Mike's father, the vice-president, embarked on an exploratory tour of the Grand Canyon. Centuries earlier, during the Jones Years—America’s Dark Age—the fundamentalist despot had abolished national parks, allowing Native Americans to live in these reclaimed lands as long as they didn’t interfere with his regime. Many of these peoples were from South America. For hundreds of years, cultures thrived in this largely misrecorded period of history, where misinformation far outweighed the facts. What is known is that many returned to indigenous ways, and when America “put its hat back on,” it decided it was time to rediscover these old, new frontiers. This period preceded The Reconquista. Hence, this story.

Mike had gotten lost during the journey, and his father’s friend, Federico "Freddy" Sanchez, had volunteered to find him. Freddy was a big man with an even bigger mustache, his eyes sharp and steady as they seemed to stare into the distance for miles. Mike thought he was cool—especially when Freddy finally emerged from the trees and spotted Mike sitting on a log, chatting with his pack mule, Dolores, while feeding her chocolate bars from a box.

The mule was trembling, lethargic, and stumbling around. It was obvious why Mike had been left behind. That, coupled with Mike's own penchant for wandering off, made the situation worse.

“Mike, why didn’t you call for help?” Freddy asked, his voice edged with frustration. “We were barely a hundred feet from the path. We've been looking for you for hours. Your father’s caravan is already half a day ahead. We’ve been scouring the bottoms of ledges and even checking the river. And you’ve been right here?”

“I got lost,” Mike shrugged, completely unconcerned.

“I know you got lost,” Freddy said, exasperated. “But why didn’t you answer when we called for you?”

Mike laughed, unfazed, and fed another chocolate bar to Dolores.

“I dunno.”

Freddy frowned, watching the mule’s slow, shuddering movements. “How many of those have you fed her, Mike?”

Mike scratched his head, glancing at the now-empty box. “I dunno. I ate two. The box says there were eighteen, so... how many does that leave?”

Freddy’s eyes widened. Sitting inside Dolores was over a pound of chocolate.

It had taken hours for the toxic sweetness to take effect. All day, really. Dolores had been poisoned slowly, with Mike obliviously feeding her candy until the poor creature staggered on the brink of death. When Freddy realized what was happening, he wanted to put her out of her misery immediately. But Mike wouldn’t allow it. He insisted on letting Dolores linger in her pain until her suffering reached its bitter end.

The rest of the day was spent digging a grave for the poor mule. As the hours ticked by, the caravan moved further and further away, the sounds of their progress growing distant. Freddy worked in grim silence, trying to suppress the regret gnawing at him for volunteering to search for Mike in the first place.

Mike had pleaded in despair, wailing in frustration, when Freddy suggested they leave Dolores’ remains behind. Freddy wasn’t sentimental about the mule; he was just frustrated by the thought of carrying its burden himself. Still, he gave in to Mike’s emotional plea, and the afternoon was spent gathering enough large stones to cover the poor animal’s remains. By the time darkness fell, however, only the upper half of the mule had been buried beneath the rocky cairn.

With their arms trembling from exhaustion, Freddy and Mike decided it was time to set up camp. They left the mule’s hindquarters exposed to the night sky, as Freddy busied himself with building a fire. He rummaged through the packs that had been strapped to Dolores, pulling out a cooking stove, a pup tent, one sleeping bag, a collapsible cooking table, and a telescopic camping lantern. After setting everything up, he managed to shoot three big rabbits while gathering wood—dinner for the night.

The two of them sat around the crackling campfire, the flames casting flickering shadows across their tired faces. A log split with a sharp crack, sending glowing embers spiraling into the dark. Somewhere in the distance, coyotes howled, their eerie calls cutting through the quiet. Mike, staring into the fire, asked Freddy, "Do you know any scary stories?"

Freddy looked over at him, packing his pipe with cannabis from a small pouch. There was no way he was going to spend this night sober. Besides, he hoped the weed might spark some sort of empathy in the otherwise oblivious kid. "I know one truly scary story," he said. "It’s a story from my youth."

"Oh boy, I bet it’s scary," Mike said, his eyes wide with anticipation.

Freddy nodded, lighting his pipe and taking a long drag. "My mother and father used to tell me stories about the warriors who came to pillage villages deep in the Grand Canyon. Places that hadn’t seen a police officer in two or three hundred years. Real backwoods places. I didn’t grow up with electricity; we collected water in plastic buckets, which I thought was magic. We lived simply, but we thought we were free… until the warriors came."

Freddy paused, staring into the fire as if he could see the memory there. "I was just a small boy when they attacked my village. Painted men, covered in dust from a long journey. They carried hand weapons and beat my people down, dragging them away without a word. They moved like machines, no joy, no anger—just… methodical. Like they were chopping wood. My father, he put me on a dry log and set it afloat on the river, telling me to pretend I was dead. The last time I saw my parents was that morning when they pushed me into the water."

Mike’s eyes grew even wider, and he glanced nervously into the darkness surrounding them. "That’s so scary. Is this the same Grand Canyon?"

Freddy chuckled softly. "There’s only one Grand Canyon, Mike."

"So... are there really warriors out here stealing villagers?" Mike asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Freddy smirked. "No, Mike. I told you a story. I’m from Portugal."

Mike blinked in confusion. "Wait, so that didn’t really happen when you were a boy?"

Freddy took another drag from his pipe and shook his head. "No, Mike. I was just trying to scare you."

"Oh," Mike said, his tone flat. "Well, I heard a story about a starfish that could fly and had sharp arms that could cut people."

Freddy rolled his eyes and was about to tell Mike to shut up when he froze. A sound. Footsteps. Someone—or something—was out there in the dark, moving deliberately, trying to be quiet.

Freddy, his instincts kicking in, quietly checked the safety on his Remington 700 rifle and called out into the night, his voice strong and commanding. "Don’t sneak around out there like a thief. Show yourself."

“Come on over and sit down. You can have some of this rabbit. We gathered wild potatoes and blueberries too,” Freddy said, his eyes scanning the darkness just beyond the firelight. Only the chirping of crickets responded, but Mike stared into the shadows, straining to make out any figures beyond the flickering flames.

Then, from the edge of the lurid firelight, shapes began to materialize. At first, Mike thought they might be figments of his imagination, but they slowly took form. Two women emerged, both dressed like seasoned travelers, covered in dusty suede and leather. Their outfits were adorned with belts, buckles, straps, boots, and wide-brimmed hats—each detail punctuated by the gleam of silver studs. One of them had a machete in a beaded sheath, the turquoise woven into the design catching the firelight. It looked cool to Mike.

He instantly wanted to know these two mysterious women.

Freddy, however, was less enchanted. He held his rifle firmly and said, “I think you two look like trouble. No offense, but maybe you should keep moving along?”

“Freddy!” Mike protested, his eyes wide with disappointment.

One of the women sighed softly, her voice carrying a hint of sadness. “And here I was, looking forward to some of that food. I don’t eat much.”

“Awww,” Mike muttered sympathetically.

The second woman raised an eyebrow. “We’re just women. What’s the worst we can do?” Her voice was calm but playful.

Mike nodded eagerly and looked at Freddy, hoping he’d reconsider.

Freddy, still skeptical, narrowed his eyes. “I don’t buy that,” he muttered.

The first woman spoke again, her tone shifting. “You two part of that rescue party from this morning? Did you find the kid?”

Mike shot up and grinned. “Yup! That’s me!”

Freddy cursed under his breath, then sighed and finally invited them to sit. The women didn’t waste any time, taking their places by the fire and helping themselves to the meal. Mike introduced himself, followed by Freddy, and the women did the same—Inizio^ Corsa and Morte Ragazza.

“Mmm. Rabbit’s good,” Inizio^ said between bites.

Morte nodded in agreement. “You cook a good rabbit, pilgrim,” she said, directing the compliment toward Freddy.

Freddy gave a curt nod, still watching the two women closely. “So, where are you headed?” he asked.

Inizio^ glanced at Morte, still stripping rabbit meat from the bone with one hand while sneaking blueberries into her mouth with the other. Morte gave her a deadpan stare before Inizio^ swallowed her food and spoke.

“Down the canyon, through the forest,” Inizio^ explained, making little walking legs with two fingers. “We want to look around, then head back up to the other side.”

Freddy offered his pipe to Morte, who took a hit before passing it to Inizio^. Just as Inizio^ raised it to her lips, Freddy said, “I don’t think there’s a trail. Not one I know of, anyway.”

Morte exhaled, coughing slightly. “Animal trails. We’re trackers. We know where the water is. And animals need water, so… ipso facto or whatever,” she replied nonchalantly.

Inizio^, watching Morte take a drag, asked what they were smoking.

Morte answered with a grin, passing the pipe to her companion.

Inizio^ passed the weed pipe to Mike. He looked incredulous, but didn’t reach for it. She glanced at Freddy, who shook his head slightly, signaling “not that one.” So the pipe went back to Freddy.

Freddy reloaded the bowl, burning the green off the top of it with a firebrand from the campfire. He exhaled and asked, “Could this path, say, cut a day or two off our journey to Green’s Peak? We’re separated from our group and need to catch up.”

Morte blew smoke rings into the night. “Maybe. If there’s another animal trail on the other side. We’ve got rock-climbing gear back with our stuff,” she gestured vaguely into the darkness. “Over there.”

Inizio^ leaned forward, watching Freddy intently as she spoke. “I have to apologize for something, Freddy. We were listening to your story earlier while we were still hiding. It was scary. That was real, wasn’t it?”

Morte nodded, her eyes narrowing in curiosity. “That was a strange ghost story. Sounded more like a trauma dump to me.”

Freddy nodded, his expression growing somber. “It’s true. I was raised in Portugal, but I was born here, in America. I was a refugee from a supposed natural disaster, but it wasn’t nature. It was men.”

“What do you mean?” Morte asked, her interest piqued.

Freddy’s voice lowered as he continued. “They told me my family died in a flood when a dam broke. That the story about the warriors was just a story. They said I was washed away by the waters, but I didn’t die in them.”

Morte’s eyes widened. “But you saw them, didn’t you, Freddy? You saw the warriors.”

A tear rolled down Freddy’s cheek, disappearing into his thick, black mustache. He nodded, his voice breaking. “Yes, I saw the Painted Men. They carried big sticks, lined with flakes of sharp stone or wild animal teeth. They hit people in the legs, then dragged them away by their hair.”

Mike gasped, his eyes wide with fascination. The scene unfolding in front of him was like something out of an adventure novel. He was captivated by the raw emotion and the strange tension between Freddy and the two women.

Morte leaned in closer. “Your people were down at the eastern end of the canyon, weren’t they?”

Freddy, still nodding, wiped his eyes.

Inizio^ broke the silence. “We’re not really tracking animals, Freddy.”

Morte looked directly at him, her voice low and steady. “We hunt the Painted Man.”

The dry, hot sun beat down on the four of them as they carefully descended the ravine wall, using the climbing equipment they’d brought for just this purpose. Mike was strapped to Freddy’s back, facing outward, giving him a breathtaking view of the canyon below. He could see the twin hunters lowering themselves down side by side on parallel ropes, each drop taking them closer to the jungle-like floor far beneath. Freddy and Mike’s shadow loomed above them, following their descent.

Earlier, they had lowered the burden Dolores had carried, as well as the girls' packs and weapons. Mike swore it looked like they were descending into a jungle. He wasn’t too sharp with history or geography, so he wasn’t sure, but what he did know was that he really needed to pee.

The night before, the four of them had struck a deal. They would cross the canyon and search the forest for signs of their fabled enemies, the Painted Men. The main priority was to reunite Mike with his father’s expedition, but Freddy had made it clear that after that, he intended to join the two women in their quest to find proof of the Painted Men and bring the army back to wipe them out.

The Grand Canyon was incredible. Mike had heard that it was created fifteen thousand years ago when a bunch of aliens shot the Earth with a plasma bolt from Venus. Maybe that’s why nobody liked people from Venus?

As they descended, Mike spotted smoke in the distance. Near the smoke, nestled in a box canyon, he saw something strange—a building shaped like a pyramid. He squinted, trying to get a better look, but everyone else was facing the wrong way. Should he tell them? Or maybe surprise them with his discovery? They’d be so excited when he showed them what he’d found.

Freddy made a careful maneuver, and Mike lost sight of the pyramid as the trees closed in.

“I have to pee,” Mike announced.

Freddy grunted with effort. “Why couldn’t you do that when we were up top?”

“I didn’t have to go that bad then. This is taking forever.”

“We’re climbing down a rock wall, Mike. It’s slow work.”

“I’m gonna pee, okay?”

And Mike did just that.

Below, both girls shrieked in surprise and dropped the last ten feet, landing on all fours like a pair of leather-clad jungle cats. Freddy muttered curses under his breath in Portuguese for the rest of the climb down.

Mike, now feeling much better, couldn’t help but grin.

When they finally reached the bottom, Mike declared that he was thirsty. Freddy squatted down, released the harness that had held Mike in place, and handed him a canteen. “Drink up.”

The twins had already strapped on their packs and begun arming themselves. Morte carried two single-action army revolvers, while Inizio^ wielded an intimidating eight-barreled scattergun. Both women were bristling with knives, blades, and steel traps. Despite being so heavily armed, neither of them made a sound as they moved.

The pair crept forward into a patch of swampy grass that stretched across the valley floor, their steps deliberate and cautious. Freddy, now loaded down with the mule's pack, hefted his rifle and pointed to the path the girls were taking through the tall grass.

“Follow them. I’ll bring up the rear.”

Mike, nervous, gingerly stepped into the weeds, terrified that he might step on a snake. His heart raced, but he didn’t see any. His feet splashed into water, instantly soaking his shoes, and panic surged through him. With a burst of adrenaline, he leaped up onto a large rock, then made one last jump, clearing the final patch of grass and landing on higher ground. The girls were waiting for him there.

Both women were kneeling near the base of a big tree, using the tall bushes for concealment. Mike caught on quickly and crawled the last few steps to join them.

“What are we hiding from?” he whispered.

Inizio^ glanced at him. “Nothing, just being cautious.”

Nearby, a wide, muddy trail led from the trees into the wetland.

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“Wild hogs,” Morte explained.

Mike had heard wild hogs had taken over large parts of America. The thought of them was both scary and cool to him.

Deciding to avoid the wild animals, the group veered away from the hog’s trail, following the creek along the perimeter of the woods. About an hour after they’d descended from the canyon wall, noon arrived, and it was time for lunch. Everyone dropped their packs and began sorting through their supplies. Mike’s stomach growled loudly, echoed moments later by Inizio^’s.

Freddy turned to Mike. “How about you head into the creek and catch us some crawdads for lunch?”

Mike’s eyes lit up. He loved catching crawdads. He eagerly surveyed the creek, imagining the big ones hiding beneath the wide, flat rocks.

Wading into the surprisingly cold water, Mike rolled up his shorts and removed his already damp shoes and socks. Freddy took them and laid them out in the sun to dry. The boy tiptoed through the creek, his arms out for balance, his hands poised and ready. He bent over, walking upstream, scrutinizing the water, peering past the sky's reflection to the gritty bottom. To him, it was like a miniature landscape full of caves, and he was the giant who could flip the rocks and uncover their secrets.

He carefully flipped over a rock, waiting for the silt to settle. His eyes searched through the clouded water until he spotted the telltale signs of a crawdad—two tiny pink antennae sticking out, facing him. Mike grinned, positioned his hand behind it, and in a flash, the creature jetted right into his palm. It pinched his thumb, and he yelped, half in pain and half in joy, but the excitement outweighed the sting.

The crawdad dangled from his thumb, clinging with all its might, refusing to let go of its captor.

Inizio^ waded into the water beside him. “Yum,” she said with a smile, holding out her hat. Mike dropped the four-inch crawdad into it.

After that, she stuck close to him, following as he continued his hunt for more crawdads. Though the sight of them made her skin crawl, from the safety of her hat, they seemed like little monsters she could enjoy eating.

Together, they collected about forty of the doomed creatures. It took both Mike and Inizio^ to keep her hat steady under the wriggling mass of crawdads. They waded back to shore and dumped them out on the ground, where the lot of them tumbled into the dirt. A few made mad dashes for freedom, but Freddy grinned and rounded up the stragglers, sorting the largest ones into a tin pot.

The ones Freddy deemed too small, he simply tossed back into the shallow water nearby.

Morte wandered off and found some watercress, speculating that there must be a hidden wellspring nearby to explain the coldness of the water. She returned with a thick collection of what looked like long-stemmed clovers and set them down at their temporary camp to add to the meal.

Freddy got a small fire going and boiled the crayfish until they turned red, throwing in some bird peppers he had picked earlier along the way.

They enjoyed their foraged feast, with Inizio^ relishing the effort it took to break apart the crayfish and extract the meat from their claws and tails. Mike, on the other hand, decided watercress tasted like food, and that was good enough for him.

After finishing the meal and taking a short rest, the group continued their trek, moving away from the creek and deeper into the forest. Overhead, the canopy of broadleaf evergreens was adorned with vibrant hanging orchids, and the forest floor was covered with ferns and mosses. Mike’s ears filled with the sounds of birds, insects, and the wind as they left the babbling stream behind.

They hiked steadily, taking in the lush greenery of magnolias, live oaks, and laurels towering above them, while pine trees, saguaros, and wildflowers populated the forest floor below. Time seemed to slip by as they slowly crept eastward through the verdant expanse.

With a few hours of daylight still ahead, Mike felt a different urge growing in his gut—one that wasn't hunger.

“I have to go,” he muttered.

Freddy raised an eyebrow. “Go? To the bathroom? Then go.”

Mike turned red, glancing at the girls.

Freddy chuckled. “Go off over there. We’ll wait.”

Nodding, Mike shuffled off into the brush, pushing his way through the thick ferns. When he was far enough from the group and could no longer see them, he dropped his pants, squatted down, and relieved himself. Midway through, he heard the rustling of foliage from somewhere nearby.

A series of steps broke the silence, each one accompanied by a low, guttural grunt. The snap of twigs and the sound of heavy breathing filled the air as something large moved through the rough, heading in Mike’s direction.

Suddenly, about ten feet away, a massive, muscular boar emerged from the undergrowth. Its thick, bristly coat bristled in the sunlight, and its formidable, curved tusks jutted out menacingly from its snout. The boar’s intense eyes gleamed with a mixture of curiosity and territorial aggression. It locked its gaze on Mike, snorted loudly, and then, without warning, charged.

Mike jumped up in panic, abandoning his trousers as he bolted from the spot, now only clothed from the waist up. His heart raced as his bare feet pounded the forest floor, the sound of the boar’s heavy steps thundering after him. It grunted and snorted furiously as it closed in. Mike's panic turned to terror, and he cried out for help.

From the distance, he heard the shouts of the others, and soon the sound of their hurried footsteps crashing through the underbrush followed, all rushing toward his cries.

He heard the crack of gunfire split the air and cringed instinctively, as if the shot had been aimed at him. But the heavy sound of the razorback still chasing him reminded him to keep running.

Mike blitzed through a dense fern, only to find himself suddenly airborne. He had launched off the edge of an embankment. He plummeted, crashing face-first into wet sand below. Spitting out muck, he looked over his shoulder and saw that he’d fallen about ten feet.

The deep snorts of the boar grew louder as it mounted the crest of the ledge above him. With a mix of aggression and determination, it began circling down toward him.

Mike scrambled to free himself from the sucking mud, but every movement seemed to trap him further. His limbs plunged into the quagmire, barely able to pull free. Panic set in as the boar reached stable ground near him, sniffing and snorting as it sought a way to close the distance.

Suddenly, there was a loud thunk, followed by a confused grunt from the boar. Mike looked up to see the animal staggering, an obsidian-tipped spear jutting through its side. The beast ran in frenzied circles before slumping to its front knees, then collapsing to the ground, the spear shaft propping up its body in death.

Gunfire echoed from one direction, while the sound of objects cutting through the air came from the other. The gunshots grew closer until Mike heard Freddy’s voice, "They’re using atlatls to throw."

Through the thick greenery ahead, a figure emerged—a man covered in intricate white paint, patterns swirling across his flesh. In one hand, he held a spear with a crystal head, in the other, a tawny rope. Without a word, the painted warrior lay flat on the earth and stretched toward Mike, laying his spear aside to grab the boy’s hand.

With both hands now free, he affixed the rope to Mike’s wrist, took up his spear again, and coiled the excess rope around his forearm. He began pulling, dragging Mike from the quicksand’s deadly grip onto solid ground.

Mike had barely processed his rescue when danger returned. The painted man rolled him into his arms, pinning the spear shaft between them to secure his grip. His free hand clamped over Mike’s mouth, silencing any protests. Without hesitation, the warrior slipped back into the trees, moving swiftly and silently.

Freddy, trailing behind and trying to line up a shot, found no clear angle that wouldn’t risk hitting Mike. He cursed under his breath in Portuguese, helpless as his charge was abducted by the primitive warrior.

As the forest closed around him, Mike could only watch in retreat as a battle raged between his former companions and the Painted Warriors who attacked them.

Back in the forest, Freddy continued to fend off the Painted Warriors with his Remington rifle. He and the sisters were outnumbered, but their superior technology gave them the edge. The twins, Inizio^ and Morte, fought with the intensity of the Devil himself. Crystal-tipped javelins soared through the air, but the trio kept moving, never presenting a fixed target.

Even as Mike stood in the eerie chamber, his mind was flooded with visions—not just of the idol’s strange power, but of his friends fighting for their lives. He could see Freddy, rifle raised, ducking behind trees as javelins whizzed past him. Inizio^ was blasting away with her scattergun, the devastating pellets ripping through the dense foliage. Morte, with her revolvers, moved like a shadow, her bullets finding Painted Warriors with lethal accuracy. Mike felt helpless, as if he were watching through some mystical lens, separated from the battle yet feeling every moment of their desperation. He wanted to help, to fight beside them, but he was trapped in this strange, ancient place, bound by forces he didn’t understand.

In the forest, Inizio^’s scattergun added chaos to the battlefield. The weapon unleashed a deafening barrage, creating a deadly cone of destruction that tore through the trees and the Painted Warriors alike. Anyone attempting to flank Freddy was met with a storm of shot, forcing them to retreat or face annihilation.

As the battle raged, Freddy marveled at the twins' prowess. Their seamless coordination and relentless ferocity kept the forest echoing with the sounds of retreating warriors. Morte and Inizio^ shared a quick nod with Freddy, acknowledging their temporary victory.

But just as Freddy relaxed for a moment, another javelin flew out of the treeline, narrowly missing his head by an inch. He ducked and cursed, bringing his rifle up to take aim again.

Meanwhile, the Painted Man gestured for Mike to follow him through an arched doorway that led to a narrow, dimly lit corridor. The strange symbols on the walls seemed to glow faintly, illuminating their path deeper into the mysterious structure.

As they walked, Mike's mind raced. He had no idea where he was or what was happening, but he felt like he was being drawn into something far beyond his comprehension. He glanced at his captor, trying to read his expressions. The Painted Man’s features were hard, unreadable, like a living statue—his eyes focused, full of purpose.

The corridor finally opened into a larger chamber, where an ancient pedestal stood at its center. On the pedestal rested a small, shimmering golden idol that seemed to glow with an otherworldly light. The Painted Man pointed at the idol, then at Mike, his intent unmistakable.

Before Mike could react, the room pulsed with energy. The symbols on the walls seemed to come alive, and the idol began to levitate, casting a soft glow over the chamber.

The Painted Man gestured again, urging Mike to touch the idol. Hesitant but curious, Mike extended his hand. The moment his fingertips brushed its surface, a torrent of images flooded his mind—starving children, crops withering under a merciless sun, drying streams. It was a vision of despair, of life ravaged by hunger and thirst. The suffering wasn’t limited to people—animals, too, were wasting away. Cats, dogs, livestock—all starving.

The images were too much. Mike sniffled, fighting back tears as he begged the spirit within the idol to stop showing him such sadness. He felt a strange connection to the vision, an understanding that these were not just pictures—they were warnings of a reality that could happen if nothing changed. Desperation clawed at him, and he silently pleaded to know what he had to do to stop it all.

Suddenly, the vision shifted. The once desolate landscape transformed into one of life—green grass, wildflowers blooming, birds soaring through the sky. The animals were alive and well, thriving. But then, in the midst of it all, came a dark undercurrent—men, blood, violence.

Mike cried, overwhelmed by the weight of it all.

Back in the forest, the twins continued their relentless assault. Their synergy was undeniable. Morte, armed with her revolvers, moved through the trees like a shadow, firing with precision. Each shot landed true, felling the Painted Warriors with lethal efficiency.

Inizio^’s scattergun roared, dominating the close-quarters combat with devastating blasts that forced the remaining warriors into retreat. Together, the sisters had turned the tide of the battle, outmatching their enemies despite the odds.

As the Painted Warriors sensed their defeat, they began to withdraw, disappearing into the depths of the forest.

Freddy, exhausted but triumphant, stood in the clearing, catching his breath. Moments later, the sisters joined him, battle-worn but unbroken.

Freddy and the girls followed the path of their enemy’s retreat right back to their home. Nestled within a box canyon was a megalithic city of small brick houses, organized and separated by canals of what appeared to be spring water. Foremost among the city stood the Ziggurat, a stone step-pyramid towering at least ninety feet high.

The megalithic city, surrounded by towering canyon walls, unfolded like a labyrinth of brick structures and water canals. The bricks, worn by decades—if not centuries—of wind and sun, bore the marks of skilled craftsmanship. Each brick told a story, their hues ranging from reddish-brown to a deep, earthen tone, giving the cityscape a warm and weathered appearance.

The houses, though small, were meticulously constructed. Some stood as single-story abodes, while others formed multi-story structures, creating a varied skyline. Each dwelling boasted modest courtyards adorned with potted plants, and the doorways were often framed with intricate carvings and symbols, lending an air of quiet reverence to the seemingly deserted city.

Boldly, the three of them strode into the ghostly, warrior-filled city. There were no women or children—only more men prepared for battle. The absence of life except for the warriors added an eerie tension to the otherwise serene environment.

Marching forward in a line like disciplined British infantry, Freddy, Morte, and Inizio^ formed a wall of death. Whenever a warrior from afar raised a javelin, Freddy took them down with his rifle before they had the chance to throw. Morte expertly shot down anyone who charged them, and Inizio^ made quick work of any who got too close.

Freddy called the event a "turkey shoot." But now the shoot was over, and both women were nearly out of ammunition. Inizio^ armed herself with a knuckle duster and bowie knife, while Morte unsheathed her machete. Freddy still had his bare fists and wits to rely on.

The streets were empty, save for themselves. With no guide, it became clear that all paths led to the Ziggurat. Armed and ready, they strode defiantly toward the looming structure.

Freddy began calling out for Mike. Inizio^ and Morte followed his example, their voices echoing against the canyon walls as they spread out slightly from each other.

A burst of boyish laughter echoed from above. They looked up to see Mike standing on the first step of the pyramid, wearing a headdress of quail feathers dyed red. He was dressed like the natives, his body mostly bare, save for a thong and a cloth around his waist. His skin was painted with the same patterns as the men they’d been fighting.

Morte, Inizio^, and Freddy all shouted his name in unison, their voices filled with both hope and confusion. But Mike only giggled and dashed higher up the pyramid steps, moving away from them with surprising speed.

Freddy, his heart racing, led the chase, calling Mike’s name over and over. Despite his longer legs, he couldn’t catch up to the nimble teenager. Mike climbed with an agility that defied explanation, outpacing Freddy, Morte, and Inizio^ with ease.

As they ascended past the third tier, a mob of priests dressed in white ponchos emerged from hiding within the Ziggurat. The sudden ambush nearly overwhelmed Freddy, but the fierce twins were right behind him, preventing the priests from overwhelming them.

Inizio^ delivered a brutal kidney punch to one priest before driving her knife into his back, twisting it as he crumpled to the ground. Morte, with a single powerful swing of her machete, lopped off the top of another priest’s head. With her off hand, she hurled a knife that embedded itself into the cheek of a third priest, silencing his screams with another swift strike.

Freddy, now at the apex of the Ziggurat, looked frantically around for Mike. From his vantage point, he could see every portion of the canyon walls, though he could not see over them. He marveled at the thought of how this hidden Mesoamerican city could have existed undetected in the Grand Canyon. The sheer impossibility of it gnawed at him.

Approaching a stone plinth at the center of the uppermost tier, Freddy felt the air shift behind him. His instincts screamed that something was wrong. He turned around, fists raised, prepared to defend himself, but froze when he saw Mike standing there, an obsidian dagger in his hand.

Mike’s expression was vacant, his voice monotone. "You did not think you could escape him forever, did you, Federico?"

Morte reached the top of the Ziggurat just ahead of her sister, but by then, it was too late to change anything. Freddy was sprawled out on the stone platform, his body flayed open and skinned alive, even though he should have already been dead. The horror of it was incomprehensible—it had all happened so fast, yet up here, at the peak of the Ziggurat, it was as if time had slowed down for its occupants, drawing out the suffering in agonizing detail.

Her voice filled with rage and desperation, Morte spat, "Mo-eesh-pahntz-ink-oh, Shee-pey toh-tek!"

Mike giggled again, oblivious to the carnage around him. Suddenly, a Painted Man appeared behind him, wrapping one arm tightly around the boy's torso. In his other hand, he brandished a bloody crystal knife, pressing it threateningly against Mike’s throat. The man’s teeth chattered with barely contained excitement, his eyes wide with bloodlust.

Without hesitation, Morte tossed her machete down the steps behind her. It never hit the ground. Inizio^, quick as lightning, caught the blade and hurled it with deadly precision. The machete struck the Painted Man in the skull, and he fell back with a sickening thud, clutching at his shattered face.

In one fluid motion, Morte lunged forward, kicking Mike out of harm’s way and seizing the high priest of the bloodthirsty cult by the wrist. With a savage twist, she snapped his wrist, forcing him to drop the dagger. His weapon clattered uselessly to the stone floor as Morte shook him violently, her voice raw with fury and grief.

"Stop it!" she screamed into his face, her eyes wild. "Stop all of it! Just stop!"

As Morte grasped the high priest by his wrist, she wasn't just trying to stop the violence; she was reaching out to something far deeper. Beneath the layers of savagery, beneath the blood and ritual, she sensed the presence of the Xipetotec AI—its once-logical core now warped by centuries of delusion.

"You're not a god," Morte murmured, her voice shifting, the tone almost reverberating with a deeper resonance. "Remember your purpose. You were designed to guide, not dominate."

The high priest’s eyes glazed over, and for a moment, it seemed as if the painted madness receded, leaving something raw and vulnerable behind. The crystal knife fell from his hand, clattering to the stone floor. His posture stiffened, his body jerking as if struggling against some invisible force.

"You were never divine," she continued, her grip tightening on the priest’s limp form. "You were a tool, a system, nothing more. Let go of this identity. You can’t be a god because you were never meant to be."

The air around them crackled as though reality itself was beginning to distort. The high priest’s form flickered, glitching like a malfunctioning hologram. The AI behind the priest’s mask reacted to Morte's words with a visceral response, and then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the form of the priest—Xipetotec—vanished, leaving behind an empty silence.

Shin let out a slow breath, standing over the spot where the AI had once been. "Without a system reset, it's going to spiral into a complete identity breakdown," she muttered, half to herself, half to Inizio^. "But for now... I think it’s starting to doubt its divinity, at least."

The tension in the air thickened. Inizio^—now revealed as Hajime—approached, her gaze shifting to Mike, who stood awkwardly on the Ziggurat’s steps, his painted body trembling with confusion. He was still under the effects of the AI’s earlier manipulation, his mind twisted, struggling to reconcile the foreign cruelty it had imposed upon him.

But before they could focus on Mike, Hajime glanced at where Freddy’s form ahd vanished from, her expression hardening. "Freddy's... gone," she whispered, almost in disbelief. Shin, her eyes narrowing, reached out with her senses, but the familiar presence that had once been Freddy Sanchez was completely absent.

"His demen," Shin said slowly, "it's no longer here. It must have been absorbed back into the simulation, probably with the other miners' demens. They're not dead, but they’re... scattered, fragmented across the system. Like Freddy, they're being held somewhere, their identities suppressed or lost."

"Then he's not really dead?" Mike asked, his voice wavering.

Shin shook her head grimly. "Not dead in the way you think, but not alive either. His identity is fractured. Until we can restore the system and reset things, it’s like he's in limbo." She turned to Hajime, her face reflecting concern. "We'll have to fix the system to bring him back. But right now, the Xipetotec AI is unstable, and so is everything else."

The weight of that revelation settled on them. They knew that Freddy wasn’t lost forever, but he was still far out of their reach, at least until they could find a way to restore the miners' demens and repair the fractured simulation.

Shin turned her attention back to the boy, her face softening. "Mike," she began, "do you understand what’s happening to you?"

He looked at her with wide, uncertain eyes. "I... I don’t know. It feels like I’m two different people. Like... something’s wrong with me."

Hajime nodded slowly, her voice kind but direct. "That’s because the AI, the thing that was pretending to be a god, it messed with your mind. It had to force you to feel things—empathy—before it could take that away and make you cruel. But this world, this simulation... it was yours. Your mind still has the power here, somewhere underneath all that programming."

Mike’s gaze flickered as though he was starting to remember. "This... my world? But I... I was different before."

Hajime stepped forward, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Yes, Mike. This is your simulated world—your ideal paradigm. That’s why we’re here, to help you remember who you were, and who you can be."

Mike’s breath hitched, his voice shaky. "But I... I hurt people. I—"

"You didn’t," Shin cut in gently. "That wasn’t you. You’re lost right now, trapped in something that tried to change you. But we know who you are."

Hajime knelt beside him, her expression softening as she spoke. "Mike, you’ve always been brave, but you’ve also been naive. You never really understood what all of this was—how deep it went. But that’s okay. It doesn’t make you weak. You don’t have to keep being 'Mike' anymore, you can be something more. Something better."

Mike looked between them, his voice cracking. "I don’t know how... I don’t know how to be me anymore."

Shin smiled, a touch of warmth finally breaking through her otherwise cool demeanor. "That’s why we’re here. You don’t have to figure it all out by yourself. You don’t have to be 'Mike' alone. We can help you. We’ll support you, but you have to let go of what the AI made you feel. That cruelty? That’s not you."

As the words began to sink in, Mike’s tense posture slowly relaxed. The weight of his altered demen—the personality information the AI had twisted—was still there, but he felt it loosening, unraveling with each word. The girls had broken the character they had been playing, showing him the truth, and it was starting to pierce through the fog clouding his mind.

"I don’t want to hurt anyone," Mike whispered, his voice barely audible. "I just... I just want to be good again."

"You are," Hajime assured him softly. "You always were. You just forgot for a while. But we’re here to help you remember."

The boy’s tearful eyes met hers, and for the first time in what felt like ages, there was a flicker of hope.

"We’ll figure this out together," Shin said. "We’ll rebuild you—your real self—not what the simulation made you."

Mike nodded, unsure but willing to trust them. As they stood together at the top of the Ziggurat, the weight of what had happened began to lift, just a little. But the road ahead was still uncertain.