“The situation is grave, as you well know Professor Costello. I do apologize for your treatment, but surely you realize that the lives of billions could be at stake. This is a code white, and you are aware of the procedures that have been okayed in this circumstance.” Castillo looked up, not quite into the General’s eyes, but up far enough to show that his own had become dull husks, as if they no longer carried a human soul.

“No mi importa perro.” He spat. Spanish had certainly become a common enough language in the States by then that the General needed no translation. He turned to Mr. Bogart.

“Looks like you didn’t break his spirit after all.” Bogart slapped the back of the mans head and brought out a pain stick from his black jacket, clicking it on. Costello ignored him, saying to the General instead,

“You speak of spirit, white man. But what do you know of it?” The General didn’t answer, his eyes darting back and forth, as if he didn’t know what t make of Costellos questioning. Costello pressed on, still in the grip of Bogart. “We, the azteca, were once the most powerful of all the native peoples of this land, and we could tell you much of spirit. It took more spirit and soul and power than you could ever muster to build an empire from the stinking swamps where we found ourselves.” With each word his natural Mexican accent became stronger and he set straighter in the chair, forcing Bogart to hold his neck aquardly . The two men set still, listening, watching the transformation. “Even as I speak the language of the Conquistadors, I remember the noble language of my ancestors.” Dawn seemed to rise on the General’s face, as if some fact that he’d wanted to suppress could be stayed from his awareness no longer.

“I know what your meaning to do.” He crocked, his voice dry, his words coming in short torrents as understanding shoved it’s way in. “If you do this, you’ll die too. Everything you are, everything you know of yourself-” The old man waved the comment away.

“You know nothing of spirit, and even less of Temporal Mechanics.” And then he refused to say anymore.

Amel landed in a thick stand of tall ceders, slamming his back into the nearest. He could hear the crude Spanish soldiers talking loudly to one another, with his thermal he could see their orange outlines as they set around a dozen fires. Bolt felt hot in his hand as if it had been waiting for this discharge for all of it’s existence.