#howmever

“I was only trying to keep them safe! I couldn’t see them culled, all of those sweet little faces—“

The protest that she made no effort in swallowing back down bubbled up from somewhere deep within her, but a click of the tongue against the roof of his mouth forced it back down to where it came from.

“I understand. I sympathize, even. The only way to keep them safe, though, is to help me find them.”

There are very few places where mutated trolls are allowed to exist within the Empire, and it looked like all of those places were ones where the only path to follow were fleet-bound. Those sanctuaries, the ones like the Provider’s own Thorezille, seemed more like a prison sentence in that regard.

“Gracious, sir, I think they are plenty safe where they are. What are you going to do? Rip them from their new lives?”

Redivi paused, head cocked to the side. The indignation that she spoke with clearly was not sitting well with him, and for a brief moment he was as still as a statue. 

“They are happy and safe – Please, I will not do it again, but let them be.”

“Who are they with? Who did you hand them off to?”

He said each word slowly, moving to stand from his seated position to loom over her. It was always so easy to forget how tall he was until he was right in someone’s face. She took a half step back for breathing room.

As for who they were handed off to. A rebel that one of the jades of her – now disbanded – cloister recommended. She didn’t get a chance to meet him, he spoke through a delegate that she couldn’t describe if the barrel she was staring down belonged to an actual gun. Any memories she had of their interactions were like the static feeling that prickles through the skin of a limb long asleep.

They made trolls disappear, and then they disappeared themselves. No traces. Even if the want was there, she couldn’t give him anything.

“Darion,” he urged softly, but it was hard not to see what was building up behind his eyes when he stood so close. “Give me a name.”

In an ostentatious blur of gold and fuchsia, the two mutants hatched in the cavern were gone. It was all so fast, neither static nor blur stopped to exchange pleasantries, let alone a name.

“Darion.”

Those rebels were just his crew, and he was just the man recommended. Word of mouth was the shadow they operated under, as hypersurveilled as Alternia was. She shook her head and took another step back.

The patron exhaled before he spoke again, a clear attempt to dispel the vitriol that would no doubt poison the next thing that came out of his mouth.

“Were you in contact with The Ferryman?”

The title came out in a hiss that swept all of the air out of the room. The Ferryman. Anyone that might know what he looks like was either part of his network or someone saved, and thus disappeared, by him.

She felt her face drop in the same second that something vicious and bloodthirsty flashed across Redivi’s. There was a history between Ferryman and Gracious. History that saw the youngest of his children swept out of his home, and she was starting to see why.

“If yes,” he was looming again and in an instant she became that small troll lost in caverns. “Then you’ve made a very dangerous mistake. I will not ask again.”

His words hung between them for a brief second, a coldness wafted between them.

“I didn’t know what else to do–”

A monster broke through his facade in that same instant, a furious monster with fangs bared in a snarl. It was all the warning she had before the floor beneath her feet disappeared and she was falling. Falling forever into nothingness.

— — —

When Darion awoke, it took time for eyes to adjust to the darkness. In the meantime, she lay against the hard surface of somewhere that, though she could not see very well, felt familiar. There was a nausea that clung to her, almost as sticky as whatever substance caked to her skin was.

Something moved in the darkness, something massive that passed with impossible quickness from one stalagmite to the next. She watched as the hulking shadow disappeared through a passageway that led deeper into the cavern. Her skin went aglow immediately, the imminent threat gripping at her throat in a razor sharp grip.

What had she done?

In the same instant, flashes of the different shades a jade blood could come in replaced the darkness, flooding her vision. It covered every inch of the cavern she called home. The cavern that she was responsible for taking care of.

A fresh wave of nausea swept in with the sight, choking her with white hot fury when realized what lay at her feet; slain jades as far as the eye could see. Each of them with a face twisted by horror, betrayal, anger, staring back at Darion with wide, vacant eyes.

Then she was running, skipping over the bodies of her fallen brethren in the direction that the impossible shadow went. Abruptly, there was more variation to the blood that painted the walls. Now there were reds and blues, yellows and… pinks. Fuchsia, to be exact. She didn’t need the confirmation of the source, couldn’t bear to look down at the massacre that no doubt joined the party of her fallen comrades, casting judgement that burned through the failed matron like the pit in her stomach did.

A desperate sprint brought her to the end of the cavern, the slurry pond, where the Mother Grub lived, the heads of the three jades tasked with guarding her stuck to stalagmites as if pikes, mouths agape. She felt their gazes trail after her as she entered.

Darion had no idea what Ferryman looked like. No one did. And yet, there was no doubt in her mind that the hulking figure with a face she couldn’t see was him. The Mother Grub was dead at his feet.

There was something spiked and round in his hand, that he used Darion’s glow to admire better.

“Thank you for the invitation to your home. Your efforts to the cause are appreciated.”

A scream died in her throat. The ground fell away.

– – – 

Darion was standing, rigid, in the same spot in Thorezille, in Redivi’s dining room. The patron, however, was already back in his seat, any trace of the fury that was there, gone. Her heart beat in her ears, almost loud enough to deafen.

There was a cup in front of him and on the side of the table nearest to her. She stared at it.

“Come now, sit. You must be starved, standing there like that for so long.” His smile was softer as he spoke, lifting the cup to his lips.

How much time passed?

“Gracious, I–”

He waved a hand in the air. “Do not worry about it, I am aware of how hard it can be to get a hold of your friend. Trust me, I’ve tried.” There was a glint in his eye that she couldn’t place.

She sat, dropped her gaze to the cup to keep herself from attempting to navigate his feelings. Heart heavy.

So.

Watched the show Yellowjackets for the first time maybe 2(ish) weeks ago.

While watching, to my delight, Portishead’s song Glory Box plays at the end of the 2nd episode (also everyone go fucking watch Yellowjackets if you haven’t seen it).

Now, i used to be OBsessed with Portishead in high school and this song was prob an important facet of my BIsexual awakening.

Around the time i started watching the show, my boyfriend and i ended our 5 year long relationship ….. well the first of technically 3 breakups in quick succession …

Long story short, we had, on-the-whole, a wonderful, harmonious relationship like 95% of the time and still love each other. But we got together really young (like 21-22yrs young)

And bc we were stupid young, there are a lot of gendered dynamics and bullshit that we were both subconsciously conditioned to believe about sex and relationships, and in turn that fed some seriously dysfunctional relationship patterns all of which are complicated and boring. HOWMever

In this whole break-up process (sweet fuck has it been a process bc when you live together, basically is like breaking up in slow motion…), i learned that one of the fucked up, sociocultural things that i internalized was that as a sexually liberated woman, i had to be sexually adventurous in the same way and at the same time as my (mostly male) partners.

Otherwise, I wasn’t a “true” feminist, and in fact, would be prudish, immature, slut-shamey, to be any other way, regardless of what I wanted as a person.

And this manifested in sideways, fucked dynamics - namely, him not respecting my boundaries bc i never actually established them bc i didn’t even really know i could, not even bc of him but just bc of ppl generally? but then making me emotionally responsible for his feelings about my boundaries in a way that was lyke uncool.

There were also a lot of internalized misogynistic norms on his end around showing/processing emotions (i.e. i’m a dude, so i shouldn’t feel or express them externally unless it’s anger. but not too angry bc i don’t want to scare ppl -> that kit n kaboodle)

We broke up for more reasons but these were the 2 main areas of conflict.

SO, when i heard this song that i loved in high school, but older and the tiniest (teensiest, tiniest) bit wiser, i had this epiphany …

See, the song gets a lot of flac for being anti-feminist or reinforcing traditional gender norms and taken at face value, a line like “give me a reason to be a woman,” could be interpreted that way, i suppose.

BUT ACTUALLY the entire song is about wanting to be treated like a three-dimensional, sexual autonomous being.

She’s obv pleading with a partner, but she’s also appealing to the world to respect her human desires and especially sexual agency, whether that be wanting to do the sexing all the time or not at all

Instead of viewing her as an object for gratification or an emotional caretaker, instead of viewing her as a woman in this one, very rigid, specific way (exhibit: “for I’ve been a temptress too long”), she’s asking for the world to respect and validate her sexual/intimate boundaries and her personhood.

So, when she says “give me a reason to love you / give me a reason to be a woman,” she’s asking N O T to be relegated to the narrow definition we associate with femininity/being a woman (both born&trans bc this definition is applied to both just in different, albeit comparably fucked, ways) …….. and trans women are fucking women - not even gonna acknowledge attempts at discussion on that shit. nothing. no, no hay nada. Fine if you don’t agree - nottttt the arena for it, not gonna do it. Srsly, i dare you to test my patience with that shit sksksks cause i’m a deranged, emotional wreck rn. So, shut tf up and enjoy the rants&gifs k thx

She’s actually saying, “hey, it’d be cool if you saw me as a person, as the woman i am, allow me to be a full human, respect my boundaries. u do dat….then maybe, my mans, juuuust fucking maybe ………. you can Get. It.”

Because what’s hotter than someone n o t making you a vessel for their own backwards ass, fucked up, emotional & sexual baggage and instead, recognizing and honoring your individual wants, needs, and boundaries, sexual or otherwise, as a person, in a tangible and meaningful way…?

…………………………….. wait for it

…………………………….. wait for it

…………………………….. waaaaait foooooor it

-

FUCKING NOTHING ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

-

Which brings me to the whole point of my post…. Our sweet, respectful dilfest Dilf that ever dilfed, honorary DILF of the century, yes, yes that Dilf, así es Benjamín Arellano Félix

Many a headcannon and fanfic has been written about this sweet yung King, all of which i have enthusiastically consumed to the point of genuinely questioning my own sanity along with other Narcos fandom related content

And in so consuming, i noticed the majority of the OG Narcos/Nmx Tumblr fandom all 12 of us seems to have separately yet overwhelmingly concluded that Benjamín Arellano Félix fucks is aftercare king special, wait wut very likely will go down on you for hours not even a single syllable uttered asking you to return the favor… whoops, nope sorry the most generous partner/lover in the entire Narcos universe.

I have a number of primary & secondary sources to which i can refer to, lest any of ye remain unconvinced… there’s this one, also this one, ope! can’t forget about that one, oh and where was that other one, oh here, yes i found it

I can’t begin to speculate what it actually is about the character, just based on what we see on the show, that gives us all this impression.

Yes, he’s a very Not!shit husband to his wife Ruth, a great dad, but it’s a show about the Mexican drug trade, so like, admittedly …the bar isn’t high.

Perhaps it’s Alfonso Dosal’s stunning jawline, cut like the limestone bricks used to construct the pyramids of Giz– do! did i get sidetracked again? so sorry, where was i… performance? I’m still not entirely sure why the consensus came to be. But gorl👏🏼did👏🏼it👏🏼ever👏🏼

So, when i heard the song, and because i’m in the midst of my own personal turmoil, the braincell went straight to Señor Dilf-for-the-Ages, Benjamín

Who’s really just a figurehead/symbol for the like healthy romantic/intimate partner relations that i will require and demand in my next relationship whenever that is particularly if it’s with another dude

I mean i can’t be the only one he represents that for though, right? Cause like, literally everyone who stans OGNarcos/Nmx, even if they’re not heart eyes for that character, have all agreed is the dude out of todos otros pinche morros😂that could and would give us a reason … Or at least, a “reason” in the spirit of what this song is all about

SO BASICALLY RIGHT? I’m like new into making gifs n shit and i hear this song in Yellowjackets, entirely unrelated to Narcos

AND GET THE IDEA TO MAKE A BENJAMIN TRIBUTE VIDEO WITH THIS EXACT SAME FUCKINGGGGG SONG

Like, literally in the middle of editing it …….. only to find out it already exists albeit not Mín exclusive but STILL

and it’s just- okay like, i was lowkey mad at the amount of time i spent when this is 100x better than whatever tf shit i was doing😂

but that is largely overshadowed by feelings of pure, unadulterated joy that this combo exists, just out in the world. Bc it needs to.

And now that i know i’m not the only one who sees that, just feel v seen and heard, which i need now more than ever . Cause aherm, i’m loike g o i n g t h r u a quarter-life crisis thing

When they finally sat down to eat, Connie kept making faces at her. Mika didn’t know what she was on about but she’d find out later it was related to why Javi was, as Connie said, “on his best behavior” or as Steve put it more colorfully in that homegrown Tennessee drawl, “all minding his Ps and Qs and shit.” But before that? The only thing out of the ordinary that Mika detected was an occasional, well-disguised but evident look of awe that came across Javi’s face whenever she glanced at him, like a kid trying to play it cool while meeting his favorite baseball player. That and the downright robotic way he shook her hand when he said goodbye. You would've thought they’d just closed a great deal on the sale of a condo. 

“Right. Ah, thanks for dinner.” He practically ran to his car. The only thing that could’ve made it more awkward was if he’d tacked on ‘ma’am’ at the end.

“Right. Ah, thanks for dinner.” He practically ran to his car. The only thing that could’ve made it more awkward was if he’d tacked on ‘ma’am’ at the end.

When they were clearing the table later, Connie finally told her why she was pulling faces all throughout dinner. She had been surprised at Javi’s newfound sense of propriety. 

“Look, I’m just shocked he didn’t make a pass at you. I think that says something,” Connie said, handing her a plate.

Mika noted wryly, dunking it into the soapy water, “I think what it says? Is he’s that guy."

“Oh, don’t get me wrong. Javi’s a good guy, he’s just the kind of— where— okay, you know how generally speaking, everyone’s prone to feeling a little lost in life?”

Mika nodded. She had no idea where Connie was going with this, but wherever it was she was intrigued.

“Right. It’s a transient thing. We've all been there, we get it." Her voice shot up half an octave, "Let's just say being lost is a permanent destination for Javi? And uh, like a kid looking for his mom in a supermarket, he grabs onto any woman’s skirt in the hopes it’ll help him find his way.”

Mika laughed at the way Connie threw up her hands, like she was giving up, stumped by the exceedingly complex math problem that was Javier Peña.

“I feel like that’s a really long-winded way of saying he's a lost cause.” 

Connie shook her head, “Mm, see that just doesn’t fully convey the true depth, the scope of 'lost' that I’m talking about here.”

“Huh. Well, since it seems like he is that guy,” Mika turned to look at her reflection in the microwave, “I don’t know what I did wrong. Shoot, I guess I styled my hair a little differently today. Or, I mean— I know I put on a couple pounds in the last couple of months - y'know too much arequipe - but damn, I didn’t know it was that bad.”

Connie’s laugh sounded more like a screech. She snapped the dish towel at Mika. “Oh, c’mon! You know that’s not what I mean.” 

Mika doubled down, chuckling, “Well sure, you’re my friend. That’s what you’re supposed to say.” 

“You’re just going to watch me dig this grave aren’t you.” 

“What? I’m right there with you, manita,” a sly grin spread across her face, “handing you the shovel.” 

Connie smiled and scrunched her nose, twisting the dish towel in her hands like she was going to snap it again.

“Let’s go, guera. I can take you,” Mika threw her hands up and cocked her head, channeling the teenage-wannabe, Calexico cholita she was back in the day. 

They both giggled. Connie bumped Mika’s hip with hers, “One of these days, cabrona.”

“Ey, there we go. You pick things up that quick, I’ll have you talking like a real chola in no time. Steve won’t know what to do with you.”

Connie murmured, “The better to scare him with,” a cheeky smile on her face.

“Yeah, show him who really wears the pants because he loves that so much.” 

“As if he could ever forget.” 

Mika wagged her eyebrows up and down knowingly, “True.” She turned off the faucet and wiped her hands on her jeans. 

Connie tossed the dish towel by the sink and hopped up to sit on the counter, “No, but seriously, I only bring it up because Javi— well, he fancies himself some kind of Casanova. I call it a bad substitute for therapy. And I’m sorry but you’re exactly his type. Brown-eyed, brunette knockout. A smart, resilient, kind-yet-uncompromising woman,” she suddenly lowered her voice like a she was narrating a movie trailer and leaned forward, “with a dark past and a deep well of sadness.” 

Mika threw her head back and laughed.

“No! But I’m serious!” 

Connie busted up too, both laughing so hard until they were gasping for air. Steve walked into the dining room tucking his shirt in, eyes squinting, cigarette planted firmly between his lips, wearing the look of a perpetually confused and disgruntled man. He leaned on the counter of the breakfast nook, waiting expectantly. Connie and Mika just stared at him, then looked at each other and cut up all over again.

"Is anyone gonna let me in on the joke here, or are we cracking up 'cause I'm the joke?"

Mike teased, "I don't know Steve, maybe if you'd stayed and helped us clean up, you'd be in on the joke. I thought they were all about manners in the South."

Connie composed herself with one of those long, drawn out laugh-sighs and leaned over, putting a consolatory hand on Steve's cheek, "Oooh, no it's not you. Not now, anyway. No, this time, the punchline is Javi." 

Steve's cigarette bobbed a bit as his tense jaw and pursed lips relaxed into a sly smirk. "Shoot, that's some of my favorite stand-up material. Guess I should've stayed and helped y'all after all. Lemme guess, y'all are discussing that school-boy crush he's desperately trying to squash."

"Actually, Connie seemed to be suggesting the opposite. He's the kind of guy who'd hit on a rock, but he didn't put the moves on me. So, it can only be concluded I am an unsightly, old wench."

"That is not what I was saying and you know it!" Connie play-smacked her in the arm.

Steve leaned back, eyes wide with mock shock, "Connie, how is that any way to treat your friend? And a widow at that?"

He looked at Mika, chuckling out a puff of smoke. Her nose scrunched as she giggled and high-fived him.

"You can't co-opt my friend with humor and Southern charm, Steve. I won't stand for it."

"Look baby, you set up such a perfect shot —can't expect me to let that one go."

Connie threw up her hands and swept them around in a semi-circle, "May I just remind everyone that I was the one who thought they should meet. I didn't expect Javi to suddenly grow a conscience and adopt the manners of a 1950s house-husband."

"He was a little uptight, wasn't he," Steve mused. "Poor little guy, just don't know what to do with himself."

That’s when Mika finally realized what Connie was trying to say. Javi was awkward, but he was on his best behavior for a reason. Despite the fact that he never knew Kiki and despite the fact that apparently anything with a pulse was fair game, it seemed Javi respected Kiki too much to let his playboy antics to get the best of him, almost like making a pass at Mika would’ve been an affront to his memory. It was naive but well-intentioned. It was also sweet in a way that made Mika want to lock herself in a closet and cry for days. 

The truth was, Javi didn’t need to shut anything down. The mainframe broke a long time ago. Because no matter who it was or how hard they tried, it just wasn't Kiki. It didn't matter what all those self-help books said about grief, how "it got better with time," how "the load would lighten, float away a little more each day," enough time had passed now that she knew she’d never stop missing him like he’d just left. 

Without him, no place on earth was ever going to feel like home. But Connie and Steve came close. They tethered her to reality the same way Jaime and Ana did back in Guadalajara. After Kiki was killed, Guadalajara of course wasn’t the same but Jaime and Ana took her in like she was family. So, when Jaime eventually got transferred after a couple of years, and they had to move to El Paso, the city felt downright alien. Nothing looked real and each mundane reminder of the empty space where Kiki used to be began to disassemble her, piece by piece: their favorite open-air market, favorite restaurant with the homemade, hand-pressed corn tortillas, favorite little, date-night, divey cantina, the route through the neighborhood they used to take Danny for walks in his stroller, the too-big, King-sized bed with that hideous palm-tree bedspread he hated, the one his mother gave them for their anniversary one year. Worse yet, the void of Kiki was starting to replace him, memories of precious moments going fuzzy at the edges more and more each day. 

At first, she thought maybe she’d go back to Calexico. Until she realized surely, there would be little echoes of him, them, in their hometown. It would’ve been just as bad. Probably worse. She never considered Colombia until Jaime brought it up. 

“Yeah, it’s a hotbed of cartel activity, fixin’ to be a war zone over there,” all pecan pie in that Southern drawl of his, “what with that Escobar at odds with the Colombian government on extradition and such.” 

“Jaime. Ugh—” Mika let out a huff as she struggled to untangle the telephone cord, “you’re not really selling me on this whole Colombia idea. Why the hell would I want to live in a war zone?” 

Jaime’s laugh always filled her with warmth and relief. “Look, I’m not saying it’s Sandals Resort in La Paz by any means, but you don’t want to come here to El Paso which—” he said with more than a hint of irreverence, “heck, understandable. You can’t go back to Calexico. You certainly can’t stay in Guadalajara. Maybe it could be a new adventure for you guys. With all the action, you’re bound to find some community there. ‘Sides,” he concluded dryly, “it’s not like Guadalajara has been a pacifist utopia these days.” 

By community, Mika knew he meant DEA. An interesting point, given it was really the only one she’d known for several years. But Colombia? It made no sense. It sounded nuts. It was nuts. But Jaime was right, it was something different. She tried to dampen the budding hope that she might live in a place that wouldn’t haunt her. A place where maybe she could be closer to Kiki than the absence of him. And, Jaime was three for three because Guadalajara really wasn’t the ‘burbs. She’d stayed somewhat for practical reasons, to keep things like school consistent for the boys. But the other part of staying, Mika reasoned, was to raise them in a place where they’d stay connected to their heritage, their father, know where they came from. An environment with a diversity of people from all walks of life, so they could see that not everyone had what they had, so they could see and understand the harsh truths of the world before being stuck in it alone. Some of that could be achieved in a place like Colombia. So, she went nuts. She did it.

They’d only been there a few months when she happened to meet Connie at one of the colonia’s many farmer’s markets. Danny had been wandering around looking at all the exotic fruit and handmade wares when he saw a girl about his age, in denim overalls and a pageboy haircut, looking at the dream-catchers. He and Livvy made fast friends. He tugged on the hem of Mika’s jacket, “mama, venga a conocer mi nueva amiga,” pulling her closer and closer to Olivia and a no-nonsense blonde woman, swearing at one of the vendors in broken Spanish. From what Mika gathered, it seemed like they were haggling but the guy running the stand wasn’t being straight with her, trying to take advantage of who he thought was a clueless gringa. 

“Estas haciendo pasar un mal ratito a mí amiga?”  >*Are you giving my friend a hard time?*

The slimy little man and Connie were both startled. The man’s eyes darted to Mika and then down at the ground, as he adjusted the brim of his faded baseball cap and sputtered. “No señora, solo estaba—”

She cut him off, grabbing the dream-catcher they were haggling over. 

“Pues, a esto se debe todo el revuelo? Pinshe huevon, lo podría hacer por la mitad que estás cobrarle. Una gabacha y con su niña? En serio pues, guey?” She held up the trinket. “I’ll spell it out for you. We’re taking this, sin cargo alguno. Estamos pues?”  > *All the fuss over this? Fucking moron, I could make this for half the price you’re charging her. A foreigner, with her kid? Really, dude? I’ll spell it out for you. We’re taking this, free-of-charge. Got it?*

He jiggled his head up and down in agreement. 

She handed it to the blonde woman, who smiled smugly at the guy. Mika stifled a laugh when the guera offered him her fakest, “muchas gracias.” 

They walked out onto the pebbled street together, Danny and Livvy skipping ahead, playfully shoving one another. 

“Oh my god, thank you. You have no idea how long I’ve been arguing with that asshole. I’m Connie by the way.”

“Mika.” She shook Connie’s outstretched hand and smiled warmly. “Honestly, I’m just happy to see another expat from the States. Colombians aren’t especially welcoming to us Chicanos I’ve learned. The combination of gringo and Mexican is really not— tsk tsk." She cut the air with her hand the way film directors do.

“Oh no, so you're like Double Jeopardy. But wait— I mean, I know I stick out like a sore thumb with my half-assed Spanish. But how can they even tell you’re not Colombian when you’re not speaking English?” 

Mika chuckled sarcastically, “it’s the brand of Spanish that gives me away. Every country kind of has its own brand. One of the dead giveaways that I’m not Colombian is the lack of ‘vos’ but what really gives the Mexicana away are things like ‘chela’ and ‘chinga.'” 

Connie looked at her with blank curiosity. 

“Chela is like cerveza, just means beer, but a very Mexican thing. And I think I heard you say ‘puta madre’ back there? In Mexico, more often it’s ‘chingada madre.’”

Connie laughed, “wow, so your version of ‘motherfucker’ is as neon a sign as my gringo Spanish and Disney-princess blonde hair.”

“Ha, sorta yeah. Well, close. I mean, no matter what Mexican slang I throw around, they at least know they can’t get one over on me like that guy just tried to do with you. So, you’ve probably dealt with more bullshit. That’s is why I butted in —can’t stand crap like that.”

“My husband’s partn— mm— one of my husband’s coworkers speaks English and Spanish. I’ve asked him to teach me but trying to get that guy to do anything you want him— well, or don’t want him to do,” Connie whistled, “phew, in one ear and out the other.” 

“Classic. Sounds like a keeper.” When Connie didn’t say anything, Mika clarified nervously, “Sorry, the coworker. Not your husband.”

Connie laughed, “Oh no, I wasn’t— sorry, I just stuck a piece of gum in my mouth. No, trust me,” she spoke quietly now, like she was revealing trade secrets on the stock exchange floor, “I love Steve, don’t get me wrong. But I am well acquainted with what a grade-A ass he can be.”

“Oh, no kidding! Glad to know I’m not the only one who knows what it’s like to be married to a lovable grade-A ass.”

“Oh yes,” Connie swept her hand out next to her in a presentation-like gesture, “welcome to the support group. So far it’s just me, but uh— Hey! It reeks of stale liquor and cigarettes and the coffee’s barely drinkable, so I’m sure there’ll be more butts in these seats soon.” 

That lit both of them up. Before they knew it, they were wheezing those noiseless laughs with no air left. Danny looked back at them, “What’s so funny?” 

“Aw mijo, it’s too hard to explain. Don’t worry about it.” 

When they settled down, Connie noticed Mika’s left hand. “You said 'be married to a lovable, grade-A ass.' Was that past-tense?” 

Mika nodded gravely. 

“Can I ask what happened?"

Mika looked down at the ground, watching her feet stepping on the cracks of the pebbled street as if they weren't her own

Connie ventured nervously, "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to pry. You have full license to tell me to fuck off, if you don’t want to talk about it.”

Mika smiled softly, without joy, “He died.”

She worried her impassiveness made Connie uncomfortable, but she figured out years ago that if she allowed herself to really feel every time she answered the question, she’d never stop screaming.

“Oh gosh, forgive— I didn’t mean— Fuck. I’m just ... I'm so sorry.”

They walked in silence for a bit, watching Livvy and Danny dodging between the crowds of shoppers ahead, playing some kind of make-believe game about pirates it sounded like. Mika gave a small, sad smile and a nod to reassure Connie she’d done nothing wrong. If anything, she was grateful that Connie didn’t ask how Kiki died. She wasn’t ready to be Mika Camarena, Kiki Camarena’s widow just yet. Eventually, she’d have to give up the ghost and put that mourning veil on again, but she was relieved Connie didn’t force it on her. For now, she was simply Mika. 

In some ways, that was the first sign of an almost innate mutual understanding between them. When Connie eventually discovered who Mika really was after spotting a stray bill left out on the kitchen table, she was able to finally tell the truth about Steve. That no, he was not in fact a “janitorial services professional” for the US embassy building, but a DEA agent. And the infamous janitor “coworker” who wouldn’t teach her Spanish was actually his partner, Javier Peña. That revelation only expanded their mutual understanding into a kind of easy shorthand, so that, despite the fact they hadn’t known each other long, Mika and Connie knew each other.

That’s why it felt like such a knife to the gut, when Kikito rushed in with the phone in his hand. “Mom, mom, mom,” she could tell he was scared. “It’s Connie. I can’t understand what she’s saying, she’s crying.”

Mika took the phone, trying her best not to look alarmed. She didn’t want to frighten Kikito more than he was already. 

She kept her voice, low and calm, “Connie? What happened?”

Connie was lucid but hysterical, “Steve’s gone. I don’t know where he is. No one’s seen him anyw— anywhere for several hours. Javi just left. He didn’t tell me—” She trailed off, choked by the force of her own panicked sobs.

No. Not again. This was not was happening again. Not after Kiki. She couldn’t abide a world that would put someone else through everything she went through. What he went through. The memory of his mangled body on that cold metal slab hit her again; all caked in mud, riddled with cuts and burns, pieces of rebar still stuck in the wounds on his head, his swollen, bruised face barely recognizable yet still her Kiki all the same. Sometimes, she felt it would’ve been easier if he’d been completely unrecognizable.

Mika squeezed her temples - think - then covered the receiver. “Mijo, go get your brother dressed, pack a bag, and call Laura, her phone number's on the fridge. Tell her there’s an emergency and ask if you guys can stay there. Livvy too. I'll explain the rest in the car.” Kikito skittered off down the hallway. “And hey! Don’t forget your toothbrushes. The overnight bag is in my closet on the top shelf. Just use my office chair if you can’t reach it.”

She took her hand off the receiver. “Okay Connie, how long as he been missing?"

"I— I don't even know. You know how it is on the job. It's— " she sniffled, voice growing thick again with tears, "It's not a regular nine to five."

"Do you know who the last person to see him was?"

"We think it was the Agent in Charge at the embassy. The older lady who wears the Miss Piggy make-up. But— I do—" she broke down again, sobbing into the receiver, "I don't even know for sure."

"Hmm." Mika chewed on the inside of her cheek, "Before he left, did Javi tell you where he looked so far? I'm sure he checked all of Steve’s normal, routine stops, but did he check places they go to meet their C.I.s, has he talked to any of the informants? Did he check the hospitals? Churches? Shelters? Morgues?” 

Connie sucked in a huge breath and exhaled slowly. A few heartbreaking stray whimpers escaped the back of her throat.

“No, he didn’t say much and he left before I could ask him anything. All he said was that he thinks Steve’s alive, but … all that really means,” her voice broke again, “is he’s not certain he’s dead yet.” 

“Listen to me. I need you to breathe. You have every right to be upset, and unlike those smug, patronizing assholes that you’re gonna inevitably have to talk to at the embassy or the DEA, I mean it with every fiber of my being. But right now, you need to have your wits about you.”

“Okay?” The sound of Connie’s voice, hoarse and confused, nearly broke Mika. It took everything not to burst into tears herself. 

“We’re going to have to deal with this on our own. No federales, no Search Bloc, no DEA, no Martinez, no Javi.” 

“What? Even no Javi? Why?” 

“Because as much as they all mean well,” Mika chuckled with an apocalyptic edge and punctuated each word, “All they’ll do is lie.” 

Connie said nothing.

“They’ll lie to save face. They’ll lie because they think it’ll protect Steve. And they’ll lie to protect you because they think you can’t take it. And because they don’t want to deal with the ‘hassle’ of your tears, your sadness, your rage.” Mika sighed the whole weight of the world, “All they’ll do is lie. And that? What they project as compassion or strength that’s really a pretense for apathy? That’s a death sentence.” 

Mika waited for Connie to speak. She didn’t. Praying she wasn’t catatonic, Mika continued, “But it doesn’t have to be. No one’s contacted you, the embassy, or the DEA for ransom, so whoever it is doesn't want money. And anyone in the game who wanted him dead, no matter which side of the law, would’ve shot him walking to his car and left him somewhere. He’d be gone,” Mika snapped her fingers, “like that. So, Steve is probably alive. For now.” 

Neither of them said his name. The silence was already heavy with it. But Connie knew what they did to Kiki, every gory detail. She was probably picturing Steve right now, battered and bloody, tied to a chair in some dank shed in the middle of the jungle. The irony that Steve was probably alive, and that it wasn’t much more consolation than knowing he was dead, struck Mika painfully. 

"Okay." Connie blew her nose and took another breath, this one more even, chilled by determination. “What do we do.” 

“I need you to get a piece of paper and something to write with.” She waited patiently through scuffling sounds as Connie fiddled with the receiver. 

“Okay, got it.”

“Ready?” 

“Ready.” 

Mika recited the number. 

“Who’s this for?” 

“It’s the number for the DEA field office in El Paso. Now, you need to wake up Livvy and get ready to leave. Kikito’s calling my neighbor Laura. She and her mom can take the kids. Wait for me outside your place. Listen to me very carefully. If I’m not there within a half an hour and you can’t get ahold of me? Call that number and ask for Special Agent in Charge Jaime Kuykendall or Agent Walt Breslin. Do not let them pass you off to receptionist or another agent. You have to talk to one of them.”

Connie asked breathlessly, “Wait, Mika. Who are they? And where would you— Why wouldn’t I be able to get ahol—” 

“They’re people who’ll know what to do.” Mika stared at the spine of Kikito’s battered copy of Charlotte’s Web on the living-room bookshelf. “But more importantly, they’ll tell you the truth. Now c’mon manita, we don’t have any time to waste. Every second counts. I’ll see you soon.”