[fic] NaNo 2011 [1/?]
Title: Chapter 1 of that weird NaNo fic I wrote in 2011 (aka I Will Think of a Better Title Later)
Characters/Pairings: Martín/Luciano (Argentina/Brazil), Manuela/Micaela (fem!Chile/fem!Perú) and various other characters, but there are too many to mention here. Characters belong to their respective creators and latin_hetalia
Rating: PG-13 for now, but the rating will go up in later chapters
Warnings: Human AU, character death, general creepiness, Martín being Sir Asshole Extraordinaire
Summary: After a terrible accident, Martín Hernández must do whatever it takes to stay alive, even if it means killing someone in his stead.
There is supposed to be a reason for everything, but sometimes coincidences do happen. If left untreated, they can lead to calamities that span space and time, going beyond the world we can see and feel. They can destroy everything that we know and love. They can throw us on a headlong race to doom.
This story is not about calamities. It is about coincidences-about one coincidence in particular. This is about an incident that should not have happened, yet did, and now someone must pay the consequences.
-
The sun was high overhead as Martín Hernández and his cousin, Daniel de Irala, strolled up the front walk of the conservatory to their first class of the day. Martín was glad that their classes this semester began fairly late, giving him the opportunity for a nice, long beauty sleep after staying out having a good time all night. Other people might have been content with simply rolling out of bed, throwing on any old set of wrinkly clothes they had lying around, and chugging a pot of coffee before running out the door, but not Martín. If he did not respect himself, then how could he expect other people to respect him? If he had to say so himself, he looked stunning today, especially with the way the sunlight shone upon his hair, giving it an iridescent glow. His cousin was not so bad looking himself, but next to Martín he was barely noticeable. Still, a few people called out Daniel’s name as they passed-after they had said hello to Martín, of course.
As they traipsed up the front steps of the Central Hall of the music department of the National Conservatory, a grating voice like nails on a chalkboard full of stupid called out behind them.
“Hey, Daniel!” the bumbling idiot shouted. “Nice day we’re having, huh? Better than that crappy, cold rain we had earlier this week. It might even be dry enough to get in a good match today. You want to come?”
Martín whipped around to address the intruder on his peace, but Daniel had already spoken. “That sounds like fun, but I haven’t really been keeping up on my homework and I have a project coming up that I really have to work on. But maybe I can stop by for a while and then do it later this evening…”
“No,” Martín interrupted, punctuating his voice with a swing of his bag over his shoulder. “You should be focusing on your school work, Daniel. If you play with Da Silva, his idiocy will rub off on you. Do you ever wonder why he never gets solos in class?” He smirked at Luciano Da Silva and his stupid wild hair and his wrinkled clothing that he had obviously given no thought to when he had thrown the outfit on when running to class.
“Why don’t I get any solos, Hernández?” Luciano growled. “Please, grace us with your infinite wisdom.”
“It’s simple, really-you don’t really care about your music,” Martín explained. “You think you can waltz in and play a few riffs and then dance your ass off with a couple of girls and that will get you through this school. You have no drive. You have no will to succeed.”
Luciano’s dark cheeks glowed red, and his lips trembled. “I’ll show you no will to succeed, you little-” He tried to lunge for Martín, but Daniel stepped between them, keeping them both at arms length.
“Come one, guys! We’ll be late to class if you start another one of your stupid fights here. Can’t we get along at least for a little while? At least wait until you're not in the courtyard so the rest of the school is spared from watching your fights.”
“Ah, you’re right, Dani,” Martín agreed in a voice like smooth silk. “We shouldn’t fight like savages on the front steps of the Conservatory. I mean, we didn’t just walk out of the jungle yesterday.”
“Please don’t punch him,” Daniel pleaded, latching onto Luciano’s clenched fist. “He’s just trying to goad you on. And Martín.” He shot Martín a dirty look. “Stop this. You’re embarrassing yourself.”
A chime rang out, and Daniel looked a bit more frantic. “Oh crap, we’re going to be late.” Still holding onto Luciano, he dashed up the steps and through the heavy front doors with the crowd of students, leaving Martín by himself outside.
As much as Martín loved his cousin, he could admit that Daniel made poor choices when it came to his friendships. How he could stand a guy like Luciano was a complete mystery to Martín, one that would take a lifetime to fathom, and only if he were the greatest detective alive and with the help of some crafty divination. Shrugging, he made his way into the building and to his class.
Music Theory was a lecture course, but the professor was witty and made the material interesting, and she always wore a different scarf to match her outfit. Martín tried to note the pattern of scarves and outfits but had given up within the first month of class. As he walked into the half full room, he glanced around for Daniel.
His cousin had seated himself in the back left corner of the room, right next to Luciano and a pretty girl with a thick braid and glasses. It would be impossible to concentrate on anything the professor said with Luciano in the vicinity after their spat, so he found a seat next to a group of girls somewhere in the middle of the room. He gave them a winning, toothy smile that sent them into titters as he sat down, gracefully slipping a leather bound notebook and ballpoint pen from his bag and setting them on the long table in front of his row. Sometimes he could stand to sit near Luciano, but today was not one of those days.
They were by no means late to class, but Daniel probably had needed an excuse to separate the two boys. Martín spent the next fifteen minutes flirting with the girls next to him and ignoring his texts-it was probably just his cousin nagging-as they waited for the professor to arrive.
Like clockwork, she flew into the room a quarter hour later in a bustle of flyaway hair and billowing sleeves. Today’s outfit consisted of a black tunic with black trousers and a pale lilac and teal chiffon scarf, of which Martín approved.
She placed her notes on the podium, which seemed pointless because of the amount of pacing she usually did during class, and said, “Before I begin with today’s scheduled lecture, I have an announcement to make. As many of you know, I am currently compiling a concept album that will be recorded sometime next month. Now, I know you probably don’t want to hear me jabber on about myself, but don’t tune out just yet, especially you guitarists out there. For one of the pieces on the album, I would like a student to produce it with me. Folks, this could be a very good opportunity to get your foot in the door with a recording studio and some other established artists, as well as provide some good recording experience. The catch is that I will decide who will work with me through a contest. Write a guitar piece, record it, and send it to me along with your school ID. I’ll choose the best fit and invite you to work with me. How does that sound?”
Martín’s ears perked up. As a guitar student himself, he would be the perfect candidate for this competition. He was creative enough, and working in a real recording studio with fellow artists could be his ticket to stardom. He had the talent to do it. This would be easy as pie.
Several students asked questions about the specifics for the piece the professor was looking for, and Martín wrote down half the answers. The other half of the time he spent daydreaming about what he would do when he won the competition. Of course, first he would graciously thank his professor for such a wonderful opportunity. Then he would rub his achievement in Luciano’s face. He knew that Luciano would be taking part in this competition too-he, like Martín, seemed to thrive on such experiences-so it would be great to have one more thing that he could use to prove that he was better than Luciano at this. At songwriting. At what their life goals were because obviously Luciano was here to steal his fame. His mind drifted to what kind of song he would write, and he barely noticed when the professor changed topics and began the full lecture. No matter, he could ask Daniel or one of his pretty classmates for the notes he had missed. One smile and everyone seemed to drop everything for his bidding.
After class, he caught up with Daniel and Luciano in the hallway.
“So, what did you think about that little song competition of Dr. Villalba mentioned? Are you going to try it, Martín?” Daniel asked once he caught sight of his cousin.
Luciano snorted and slung an arm around Daniel’s shoulders. “What do you think? Hernández thrives on competition. It will be the death of him someday, let me tell you.”
“Shut it, Da Silva,” Martín shot back. “You are in no position to say anything like that. I seem to recall you bawling like a baby after the last Argentina-Brazil football match.”
“Yeah? Well maybe it was because I had to watch your fat ass do a victory dance on the bar. They were tears of pained laughter. I was embarrassed for you.”
“You’ll be crying more tears of pain at the end of the month when I win this damn competition,” Martín informed him.
“Oh, so you’ll be writing something, too? I know we have have an entire month till the deadline, but I need to start brainstorming ideas,” Daniel mused. “We should probably incorporate some of the stuff we’ve discussed in class. Like augmented intervals; Dr. Villalba seems to like them.”
Both Martín and Luciano ignored him.
“You have got to be kidding me, Hernández. You? Win? Your music has no soul. I’ve heard the shit you write-you just write whatever you think people want to hear, and it ends up being garbage.” Luciano shook his head in disbelief and shouldered his bag, giving Daniel a squeeze on the shoulder before sauntering away. “Good luck, Dani. Don’t forget to work on that project later. And let me know if you can stop by the pitch.”
“I have soul in my music,” Martín sputtered as Luciano walked away. “Who the fuck does he think he is telling me my music doesn’t have soul?”
Daniel shrugged and grabbed Martín’s arm, dragging him to the stairwell against the flow of students who had also just gotten out of their classes. “Hey, let’s grab a bite to eat while we’re here before we head home. My project shouldn’t take too long; maybe I’ll have time to play with Luciano after all.”
Martín knew what Daniel was trying to do, but he played oblivious and let himself be lead to the top floor of the building without complaint, letting Luciano’s insults stew in his mind. He would definitely show Da Silva.
-
After lunch, Martín sent Daniel home after his cousin promised to work on his project-not that Martín believed he would do it, but hey, he was just doing his part to be a good older cousin. He needed to watch out for Daniel and make sure he did not associate with such social ingrates as Luciano Da Silva. God. What a way to start his day.
Checking his watch, he decided that he had enough time to stop in at a friends house before heading back to start working on his guitar piece. Hey, he and Daniel might be related, but that did not mean that he put off his projects and papers until the last minute, too.
Ok, so he did procrastinate quite a bit, but he had just turned in a comparative essay complete with his own sound clips last week, and he did not have anything pending soon, so he felt entitled to enjoy his time free while he still had it. That meant that unlike Daniel, he was allowed to spend time with friends.
Taking a left instead of a right by the bank, he walked down to the seedier part of town. At least Martín considered it seedy, what with the weird consignment shops and the psychic palm reader who advertised free food with each session, but his friend, who lived in an old apartment complex on a quiet side street, did not seem to mind. He could never understand why she had chosen to live here of all places when there were perfectly nice, modern flats less than fifteen minutes away by foot, but she seemed to think that this neighborhood was cheaper and more conducive to letting her creative juices flow.
He scoffed. Creative writing majors. What could you do with them?
Inside the front door of the building was a set of buzzers for each flat. Martín pressed the third from the bottom, which had a name next to it that was too scratched out to read, and waited for an answer. A minute later, a crackling voice came over the loud speakers above him, too distorted to identify who the speaker was, besides that it belonged to a female.
“Yes?”
Martín leaned an arm against the wall and leaned in closer to the slots of the microphone. “It’s me; you want to buzz me in?”
“I don’t know anyone called ‘me’.”
“Oh, come on, Manu. It’s Martín.”
There was a pause, and Martín tried the handle to the door but found it was still locked. “Manuela, just let me in!”
“Have some patience. I had to check something on the stove. Or did you want me to let the whole building burn down?”
Two seconds later, an obnoxiously loud buzz sounded through the loud speakers, and the handle gave way when Martín turned it this time. Taking the crooked stairs two at a time with his long legs, Martín cursed the fact that the building had no elevator. When he reached the door he was looking for, 403, he tried the handle.
“Just a minute,” a delicate, low voice called from behind the door. Martín tapped his foot against the grimy, cracked tiles of the landing until the lock finally clacked away and the door swung open to reveal a petite, thin girl with short chestnut hair that flipped out around her ears. Her face was scrunched up like she had just tasted something bitter-maybe she had, if she was in the middle of cooking like she had mentioned.
“About time,” Martín said as he entered her apartment. “I thought I’d never get to see your lovely face.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t drop everything and let my world revolve around you,” she shot back as she led the way to the kitchen. “Why didn’t you call beforehand?”
“It was a last minute decision.”
“So you had absolutely no time while walking all the way from school?”
“It would have ruined the surprise and spontaneity of the moment,” Martín answered with a shrug and a warm smile. “You sound like you’re not happy to see me.”
“What? Oh no, of course I am happy to see you,” Manuela deadpanned. “Feel free to drop in and mess up my day whenever you feel like it.”
“How I have missed your delicate sensibilities completely devoid of all sarcasm. You are truly a lady.”
Manuela smacked him on the shoulder with a wooden spoon, then looked at it thoughtfully before throwing it in the sink. “Contaminated,” she muttered, reaching over the counter next to the stove for the other wooden spoon in a jar. Then she stirred what looked like a small pot of foul smelling sludge before lifting up a spoonful in front of Martín’s face.
“Try some,” she ordered. “I feel like there’s something missing, but I can’t quite put my finger on what.”
Martín backed away from the offending mixture and eyed the spoon suspiciously. “What is that supposed to be?”
“Dal,” Manuela answered in exasperation. “It’s Indian. One of my neighbors let me borrow her cookbook after I brought over some empanadas.”
Martín had seen dal before, and it did not look or smell anything like this offensive concoction. Still, Manuela looked a little more dejected the longer he waited to try it, so he decided to throw caution to the wind and take a bite. A sip. Whatever it took to get the slop into his mouth.
“It’s…a little salty,” he grimaced around a mouthful. A little salty was an understatement. Martín was sure that just a few more bites would dry him out so much that he might turn into a mummy or have a heart attack-whichever came first.
“Hmm, I didn’t have some of the right ingredients, so I just replaced them with salt. At least it’s not bland, I guess,” Manuela mused before tasting it herself. “Oh God, that is disgusting.” She dropped the spoon back into the pot and leaned against the counter. “Oh, who am I kidding. I should just stick to what I cook best.”
“You brew a good cup of tea,” Martín pointed out helpfully.
“That’s not cooking. You are terrible at trying to cheer me up,” Manuela groaned, then opened the pantry and pulled out a square package. “Looks like it’s ramen again.” She tossed the package of noodles on the counter and pulled the pot off the burner and put it in the sink, turning on the water to let the sludge soak. Then she pulled a smaller pot out of one of the cabinets and filled it with water before putting it on the stove. All the while she kept looking over her shoulder into space, as if she had something on her mind but could not quite put her finger on what it was.
“Would you like something to drink?” she finally asked as she started chopping scallions to add to the soup.
Martín was too busy eyeing the back burner, which she had never turned off. “I’m good. Don’t forget you left the other burner on,” he told her. “I mean, I guess it’s fine now, but you might forget when you’re finished, too.”
“Oh, shit.” Manuela turned the dial until the flames flickered out. “I’m usually pretty good about that. I must have been distracted by…uh…something.”
“By my charming looks?”
“By your annoying presence.” She dumped the ingredients into the pot. “So why are you here, anyway?”
“I can’t just stop in to see a friend because I wanted to?” Martín gasped. “I am offended.”
“Ah, so you’re avoiding schoolwork.”
“What? Who said anything about schoolwork? I don’t have any projects due for a while.”
“You are a terrible student,” Manuela told him with a shake of her head. She stirred the pot. “Don’t you like playing the guitar?”
“I do. I love the guitar. I just don’t like writing essays about playing the guitar. It’s same with you, isn’t it?” He leaned against the counter, his tall frame hunched over so he would not hit anything in her cramped kitchen. “You like to write poetry and stories, but do you like to do, oh I don’t know, literary analysis?”
“Yes.”
“What a weirdo.”
“That’s not much of an insult coming from you.”
“What? I’m just saying that I prefer the hands on aspect of guitar playing. The creative part. Oh, so my theory professor, the one with all the crazy scarves-”
“Dr. Villalba?”
“Yeah, her. So anyway, she’s making this album, and she’s going to choose one student to help her with one of the pieces. We have to create a song and submit it for her to choose, and if ours gets chosen, we get to record it on the album.”
“That sounds cool.” Manuela was staring at the corner of the kitchen where her toaster sat on the counter, and her voice sounded a bit far off, almost as if she had stopped listening to Martín.
“Say…” Martín sidled up behind Manuela and set his hands on her shoulders, bringing his face next to hers. “You could help me with the lyrics.”
Manuela jumped and looked at him, her eyes wide and dark. She fumbled for words for a bit before finally spitting out, “Aren’t you supposed to win the competition on your own?”
“She said we could collaborate. So what do you say?”
“I’ve never written a song before. I’d imagine it’s different from poetry.” She shrugged him off her back. “Why don’t you asked someone in your class for help? Like Dani or Lu?”
Martín scowled. “You’re asking me to work with Da Silva? That moron? He wouldn’t know a good song if it bit him in the ass.”
“Have you even heard any of his music? He’s pretty good.”
Martín groaned in disgust and swept a hand to his forehead. “Ugh, how can you even stand him?”
“You’re forgetting that I can stand you, too,” Manuela pointed out, using her wooden spoon for emphasis. “In fact, I can tolerate a lot of people.”
“Yeah, by thinking we’re all idiots.”
Manuela smirked and shrugged. “It’s a coping mechanism.” Ok, taste this.” She held out a spoonful of soup.
“It tastes like packaged ramen.”
“Good.” Manuela sighed in relief.
“Ok, but seriously, I need to win this competition.” Martín said. “I need to show Da Silva that I’m better at him technically and creatively once and for all. I need to make sure that he will never live this down.”
Manuela poured out a bowl of ramen as she said, “Maybe you should focus more on your own work than on rubbing that work in his face. You haven’t even won yet. Do you even have an idea?”
“I’ll think of something in time.”
Manuela rolled her eyes. “Just don’t procrastinate on this like with everything else you do. Oh, do you want some soup?”
“No thanks, I just ate. Ok, you know what? I’m going to go start on this. I’ll brainstorm. Let me know if you want in on the lyric writing part.”
“Sure. Good luck. And thanks for stopping by.”
“I thought I was invading your privacy,” Martín poked her back, jokingly.
“Well, it would have been nice if you could have called before you just showed up unannounced. But it’s not like I’m going to turn you away.”
“Sure thing.” Martín made his way to the front door. “See you later.”
Manuela waved from the kitchen as he left. He went down the stairs and out onto the sunny streets, thinking about what kind of song it would take to win the competition. As he passed the psychic’s shop, he took a whiff of the air. It smelled like…barbecue. He walked a few more steps before doubling back and heading inside.
A chime tinkled when he pushed open the door to the shop, and an invisible cloud of spices wafted toward him, peppers and cinnamon, nutmeg and cardamom, frankincense and thieves. And above all, charcoal and meat. Martín’s mouth watered at the thought of what delicious cuts might be awaiting him. The sign outside had said that free food was available to everyone who had their palm read-Martín might as well give it a shot, even if he did not believe in any of that hocus pocus. Let the psychic swindle him. At least he would be getting some food out of it, and if it tasted as delicious as it smelled, then it would be well worth it.
Near the door was a coat rack, which he stood next to and waited for someone to notice him. The bell had rung, had it not? The proprietor should be jumping out of his or her skin to wait on him. To pass the time, he looked around the room. The floor was covered in an array of fanciful rugs of burgundy and gold, and the walls were paneled with tacky looking wood sheets. A poster of the moon’s phases was tacked to one of the walls near a low table that held some books. Martín leaned over to read their titles.
Essential Oils and their Uses
Astrology and How It Can Help You
What Spirits Can Tell Us
Basically a bunch of crock, though there was a nice looking cookbook under the pile when he sifted through them. A stick of incense left a thin trail of smoke curling lazily through the air, brushing his skin as it slid past him. Beneath the table sat a CD player that was playing some old Peruvian folk tune that sounded vaguely familiar. It was not exactly soothing, but it somehow fit with the atmosphere of the shop. The lights were dim, and patches of sunlight streamed in through the drapes.
Not five seconds after the thought crossed Martín’s mind that maybe the food was not worth the wait (it was a silly thought), a short, stocky boy with wild, dark hair and hands that were obviously rough with callouses pushed a curtain out of the way on the opposite side of the room and walked toward him.
“Madame Prado will be down in just a moment. Please have a seat.” The boy’s voice was deep for his size, surprising Martín. He gestured to a pair of old, brown armchairs that had seen better days but still looked quite cushy.
Martín sank into the one closest the window and crossed an ankle over his knee. “What’s that I smell cooking?” he asked, taking a deep breath in through his nose and sighing. “It smells fantastic.”
“It’s just anticuchos,” the boy answered abruptly. Martín’s mouth watered even more. The boy disappeared into the back room again, only to reappear with a woman who could only be Madame Prado.
She was short, though still about a half head taller than the boy, and curvy in all the right places. Her dark, wavy hair framed her face and cascaded down her round shoulders. She wore a long, flowing, maroon tunic that fit more like a dress with a cord tied around her waist. On her feet were fuzzy black slippers.
Rising and extending a hand, Martín grasped her fingers and pulled them to his lips in a light kiss. Madame Prado giggled and flashed him a wide, unassuming grin. She was less mysterious than he would have imagined.
“I heard you were lured in by my cooking,” she told him, leading him toward the curtain in the back. She swept it aside for him to reveal a smaller, darker room, this one lit by flickering candles. A low table sat in the center, and on either side were two cushions. She indicated that he should sit on one, and then scurried to a bookshelf and gathered a few supplies.
“Are you sure I wasn’t lured in by some spirits?” Martín joked. He watched the boy scurry through another curtain up some stairs without a sound.
“No. It was definitely my cooking. I have a nice batch today. Anticuchos.”
“Your assistant told me. It smells delicious.”
“Why, thank you.” She turned back to him and settled on her own cushion. “Now how about we get started.”
“Wait. How much is this going to cost?” Martín suddenly realized that, while the meat might smell delicious, it would not be worth the fortune the ‘psychic’ might force him to shell out.
“Oh, however much you think the session is worth,” Madame Prado answered.
Martín thought for a while before asking, “How does ten sound?”
“Perfect.”
She handed him a deck of naipes to shuffle. They looked like regular playing cards to Martín, but he did not say anything.
“What are you here for?” she asked.
Martín winked at her. “Shouldn’t you be able to read my mind?”
“Ah, one of those types,” she giggled. “Tell me what’s bothering you.”
Martín hummed and lifted his eyes to the ceiling. “Just tell me my future. I’m curious.”
“Are you curious about your love life? Or your financial life? Or is there something you’re worried about?”
“Let’s go with something I’m worried about,” Martín answered. “I’m trying not to let a classmate get the best of me. I need to keep my cool.”
Madame Prado nodded and indicated that he should shuffled the cards. After he had shuffled the deck a few times, Madame Prado plucked them out of his grasp, brought them to her lips to whisper something, and then began laying nine of them in three rows on the table. Martín bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing out loud. He was thoroughly amused by this entire production-Madame Prado was truly an excellent actress.
“So, am I dying any time soon?” he asked, leaning across the table to look at the cards and then up into the woman’s deep brown eyes. She frowned at him.
“You have misfortune in your present and love in your future. I can’t tell…are you sure you’re not worried about anything else?”
“Hn. It must be the misfortune of having to deal with an idiotic classmate. See, there’s this competition that I would give anything to win, and-”
She lunged at him and pushed him back into this seat. “Don’t say that! Don’t admit to such things where the spirits can here you. Would you really give anything?”
Martín blinked and sank back. “Ok, ok, I won’t say that.” Damned crazy lady. “So, misfortune and then love? Maybe I save a pretty lady from a terrible accident. Or maybe I’ll have an accident and a pretty lady will nurse me back to health. That sounds good to me.”
The psychic was nodding distractedly and finally got up and went back to the bookshelf where she fumbled about for something. Then she looked at him and said, “Please wait just a minute, I’ll be right back.” And ran up the stairs behind the curtain.
Martín continued sitting in on his cushion and waited for her to come down. The anticuchos still smelled absolutely delicious, making his mouth water even more. About a minute later, Madame Prado came back down with a small plate of them still on their skewers. She handed him the platter.
“Here, have some,” she commanded. “Food always makes people feel better.”
“Oh, don’t worry, I feel fine, but thank you anyway.” He moaned around the first bite of meat. “This is amazing!”
“Thank you,” Madame Prado said, and then she thrust an uncorked flask of something pungent beneath his nose.
“Oh God, what is that?” Martín recoiled in horror.
“You probably don’t want to know. Breath deeply,” Madame Prado commanded. After holding the flask beneath Martín’s nose for a few moments, she whisked it away again and corked it, slipping it into a pouch attached to the cord around her waist. Then, out of that same pouch, she withdrew a flask on a leather cord, clear and filled with golden oil, various bits of leaves, flowers, and tree bark, and tiny crucifix. She grabbed Martín’s free hand and carefully placed the vial in the crease of his palm, closing his fingers over it with her own warm hand and squeezing. After murmuring something under her breath, she let go and stepped back. Martín opened his fingers and stared at the amulet in his hand.
“Keep that with you,” Madame Prado ordered. “It’s a charm vial. It should protect you from evil that might cross your path, as well as bring you luck in your future.”
“So will it help me win the competition?”
“It will help you win your heart’s desire,” she answered cryptically.
Martín shrugged. His heart’s desire was to rub Luciano Da Silva’s nose into the ground, and winning the competition was just the opportunity to do so. He took another bite of the anticuchos.
“My heart’s desire has already been met by you and your fantastic cooking.” He finished his meal and flirted with her a few minutes more before heading to the door.
“So, will it be more with this ‘charm vial’?” he asked, reaching into his bag for his wallet.
“Oh no, ten should still be fine,” Madame Prado waved his worries away. From the other side of the room, her stocky assistant groaned. “I’m just happy to have someone come in today. We tend to be rather slow, as you might imagine.”
Shooting her a beautiful smile, Martín said, “I have no idea why. People would be falling over each other to spend time with you and your magic psychic powers if they only knew who you were.”
Madame Prado barked on a laugh. “You are such a flirt!” She pinched his cheek. “Now, good luck. Try not to make any rash decisions for a few days, and be aware of your surroundings.”
“Of course I’ll take such a sweet lady’s advice,” he told her. On the way out the door, Martín dipped his head to Madame Prado one last time, and then headed outside with a skip in his step. Well, that had turned out to be more entertaining than he had expected, and the meat had been to die for. Pocketing the charm vial idly, he strolled down the street in high spirits, ready to take on the task of creating the best song ever to beat Luciano’s song, to beat any song that Luciano might ever create in his lifetime. He would be a world class, well loved guitarist with tons of followers, girls fainting at his feet, and Luciano would be stuck playing commercial jingles and standing on street corners in order to make ends meet.
The day was so nice that he decided t0 take the slightly longer route along the river to get home. Daniel was probably out with Luciano playing football, but right now Martín could not seem to care. He waltzed down the promenade, smiling at every girl that crossed his path. That food had put him in a good mood, and he felt confident that he could take on this competition, now. Maybe he could write an ode to the beautiful day, or to those delicious anticuchos. Maybe he could even write something about Madame Prado. She had been surprisingly convincing with her act, though Martín thought she had been a bit over the top with all that talk about death and destruction in his present, unless she had meant that her cooking would give him food poisoning, but so far he felt fine. But that talk about love in his future…maybe he should go on a date sometime soon? He hadn’t hung out one on one with any girls besides Manuela for quite a while; a date would be fun. It would get his mind off Luciano. It might even give him inspiration for the song. Everyone knew that love songs were always a classic, and Dr. Villalba would be no exception, he just knew it. Everyone loved Love.
He inhaled the scent of daisies and honeysuckles, perfume from the ladies walking past, the sweetness of a bakery on the corner. Things were going his way. He was almost feeling generous enough to talk to Da Silva without fighting. Maybe he could even give Luciano Da Silva tips on how to improve his technique. He had seen him struggling with one of the riffs in their practical applications seminar. Da Silva would surely be grateful to him for his generosity. He winked at a women across the street from him who was walking a dog, a little corgi, on a pink leash.
Just as he was rounding the corner to cross the bridge leading to his apartment, a shrill voice rang through the sky.
“Help! Help, I’m stuck!”
Martín whipped his head around frantically until he spotted a fair skinned, blond woman with her foot stuck in the grate of a sewer on the opposite side of the street. There was a lull in the traffic, but any cars barreling down the road would hit her if she did not escape in time. No one else seemed to notice her distress, so Martín dashed into the street to aide her. In the middle of the road, he made eye contact with her once, taking in the laughter and delight in her green irises, before his ears began ringing like he was right next to a freight train, and everything went black.
He was still conscious, that he was sure of, though he wished he were not. Everything hurt, like a vice grip was wrenching his bones apart, like he had just been hit by a bus. In his ears he could feel his heart pounding, its beats stuttering, and then, after what had only been half a second but felt like a lifetime, everything stopped.
And then.
Voices. Far off, like words spoken though water, shouted and screamed at him. He tried to make out what they were saying, but everything was too vague, a roaring in his ears, and he was on the sidewalk again. The opposite one, where the woman had once been stuck, except she was nowhere to be found. He was not quite sure how he had gotten there, but he must have blacked out or something. The accident must have affected his eyesight because everything looked like an old, vintage photograph with washed out colors and darkness around the edges, the corners eaten away by time. When he looked down at himself, his clothes and skin were bright like the world had been before, but everything around him was fuzzy, a halo of light glowing around his edges.
There was a crowd of people gathering around the front of the bus; several of them were wearing faces of anguish and distress. Martín craned his neck to see what they were looking at. The bus must have taken quite a bit of damage from him if they were more concerned with the vehicle than the fact that he had just been hit and walked away. In fact, no one was paying any attention to him.
Then he heard one of the voices cut through the fuzz.
“I saw it. I saw the whole thing. He just walked right out onto the street like he had a death wish. He had to have seen the bus coming, he had to have. Poor soul.”
And then Martín saw the red seeping out onto the ground in front of the bus and the barely recognizable mass of mangled flesh. His vision blurred, and he thought he might be sick, but when he bent over double to retch, nothing came up. The vision etched itself into his mind, burning scarlet into his retinas, and someone was chanting in his ears-no, it was Martín himself, no, no no, tumbling from his lips like rain. This could not be happening. His entire body trembled, and he choked on a cry. No. No no no no no no. Something cold was creeping up his legs, and he barely realized what it was, too busy with his own distress. He felt, rather than saw, everything fading, and he fumbled for something, anything to hold on to reality. His hands found the charm vial that Madame Prado had given him, and he clenched it in his fingers.
“Please,” he pleaded. “It’s not supposed to be this way.”
The world did not listen to his cries. The fading stopped, and then the sights and sounds, and everything fell into darkness once more.
Chapter 2
Characters/Pairings: Martín/Luciano (Argentina/Brazil), Manuela/Micaela (fem!Chile/fem!Perú) and various other characters, but there are too many to mention here. Characters belong to their respective creators and latin_hetalia
Rating: PG-13 for now, but the rating will go up in later chapters
Warnings: Human AU, character death, general creepiness, Martín being Sir Asshole Extraordinaire
Summary: After a terrible accident, Martín Hernández must do whatever it takes to stay alive, even if it means killing someone in his stead.
There is supposed to be a reason for everything, but sometimes coincidences do happen. If left untreated, they can lead to calamities that span space and time, going beyond the world we can see and feel. They can destroy everything that we know and love. They can throw us on a headlong race to doom.
This story is not about calamities. It is about coincidences-about one coincidence in particular. This is about an incident that should not have happened, yet did, and now someone must pay the consequences.
-
The sun was high overhead as Martín Hernández and his cousin, Daniel de Irala, strolled up the front walk of the conservatory to their first class of the day. Martín was glad that their classes this semester began fairly late, giving him the opportunity for a nice, long beauty sleep after staying out having a good time all night. Other people might have been content with simply rolling out of bed, throwing on any old set of wrinkly clothes they had lying around, and chugging a pot of coffee before running out the door, but not Martín. If he did not respect himself, then how could he expect other people to respect him? If he had to say so himself, he looked stunning today, especially with the way the sunlight shone upon his hair, giving it an iridescent glow. His cousin was not so bad looking himself, but next to Martín he was barely noticeable. Still, a few people called out Daniel’s name as they passed-after they had said hello to Martín, of course.
As they traipsed up the front steps of the Central Hall of the music department of the National Conservatory, a grating voice like nails on a chalkboard full of stupid called out behind them.
“Hey, Daniel!” the bumbling idiot shouted. “Nice day we’re having, huh? Better than that crappy, cold rain we had earlier this week. It might even be dry enough to get in a good match today. You want to come?”
Martín whipped around to address the intruder on his peace, but Daniel had already spoken. “That sounds like fun, but I haven’t really been keeping up on my homework and I have a project coming up that I really have to work on. But maybe I can stop by for a while and then do it later this evening…”
“No,” Martín interrupted, punctuating his voice with a swing of his bag over his shoulder. “You should be focusing on your school work, Daniel. If you play with Da Silva, his idiocy will rub off on you. Do you ever wonder why he never gets solos in class?” He smirked at Luciano Da Silva and his stupid wild hair and his wrinkled clothing that he had obviously given no thought to when he had thrown the outfit on when running to class.
“Why don’t I get any solos, Hernández?” Luciano growled. “Please, grace us with your infinite wisdom.”
“It’s simple, really-you don’t really care about your music,” Martín explained. “You think you can waltz in and play a few riffs and then dance your ass off with a couple of girls and that will get you through this school. You have no drive. You have no will to succeed.”
Luciano’s dark cheeks glowed red, and his lips trembled. “I’ll show you no will to succeed, you little-” He tried to lunge for Martín, but Daniel stepped between them, keeping them both at arms length.
“Come one, guys! We’ll be late to class if you start another one of your stupid fights here. Can’t we get along at least for a little while? At least wait until you're not in the courtyard so the rest of the school is spared from watching your fights.”
“Ah, you’re right, Dani,” Martín agreed in a voice like smooth silk. “We shouldn’t fight like savages on the front steps of the Conservatory. I mean, we didn’t just walk out of the jungle yesterday.”
“Please don’t punch him,” Daniel pleaded, latching onto Luciano’s clenched fist. “He’s just trying to goad you on. And Martín.” He shot Martín a dirty look. “Stop this. You’re embarrassing yourself.”
A chime rang out, and Daniel looked a bit more frantic. “Oh crap, we’re going to be late.” Still holding onto Luciano, he dashed up the steps and through the heavy front doors with the crowd of students, leaving Martín by himself outside.
As much as Martín loved his cousin, he could admit that Daniel made poor choices when it came to his friendships. How he could stand a guy like Luciano was a complete mystery to Martín, one that would take a lifetime to fathom, and only if he were the greatest detective alive and with the help of some crafty divination. Shrugging, he made his way into the building and to his class.
Music Theory was a lecture course, but the professor was witty and made the material interesting, and she always wore a different scarf to match her outfit. Martín tried to note the pattern of scarves and outfits but had given up within the first month of class. As he walked into the half full room, he glanced around for Daniel.
His cousin had seated himself in the back left corner of the room, right next to Luciano and a pretty girl with a thick braid and glasses. It would be impossible to concentrate on anything the professor said with Luciano in the vicinity after their spat, so he found a seat next to a group of girls somewhere in the middle of the room. He gave them a winning, toothy smile that sent them into titters as he sat down, gracefully slipping a leather bound notebook and ballpoint pen from his bag and setting them on the long table in front of his row. Sometimes he could stand to sit near Luciano, but today was not one of those days.
They were by no means late to class, but Daniel probably had needed an excuse to separate the two boys. Martín spent the next fifteen minutes flirting with the girls next to him and ignoring his texts-it was probably just his cousin nagging-as they waited for the professor to arrive.
Like clockwork, she flew into the room a quarter hour later in a bustle of flyaway hair and billowing sleeves. Today’s outfit consisted of a black tunic with black trousers and a pale lilac and teal chiffon scarf, of which Martín approved.
She placed her notes on the podium, which seemed pointless because of the amount of pacing she usually did during class, and said, “Before I begin with today’s scheduled lecture, I have an announcement to make. As many of you know, I am currently compiling a concept album that will be recorded sometime next month. Now, I know you probably don’t want to hear me jabber on about myself, but don’t tune out just yet, especially you guitarists out there. For one of the pieces on the album, I would like a student to produce it with me. Folks, this could be a very good opportunity to get your foot in the door with a recording studio and some other established artists, as well as provide some good recording experience. The catch is that I will decide who will work with me through a contest. Write a guitar piece, record it, and send it to me along with your school ID. I’ll choose the best fit and invite you to work with me. How does that sound?”
Martín’s ears perked up. As a guitar student himself, he would be the perfect candidate for this competition. He was creative enough, and working in a real recording studio with fellow artists could be his ticket to stardom. He had the talent to do it. This would be easy as pie.
Several students asked questions about the specifics for the piece the professor was looking for, and Martín wrote down half the answers. The other half of the time he spent daydreaming about what he would do when he won the competition. Of course, first he would graciously thank his professor for such a wonderful opportunity. Then he would rub his achievement in Luciano’s face. He knew that Luciano would be taking part in this competition too-he, like Martín, seemed to thrive on such experiences-so it would be great to have one more thing that he could use to prove that he was better than Luciano at this. At songwriting. At what their life goals were because obviously Luciano was here to steal his fame. His mind drifted to what kind of song he would write, and he barely noticed when the professor changed topics and began the full lecture. No matter, he could ask Daniel or one of his pretty classmates for the notes he had missed. One smile and everyone seemed to drop everything for his bidding.
After class, he caught up with Daniel and Luciano in the hallway.
“So, what did you think about that little song competition of Dr. Villalba mentioned? Are you going to try it, Martín?” Daniel asked once he caught sight of his cousin.
Luciano snorted and slung an arm around Daniel’s shoulders. “What do you think? Hernández thrives on competition. It will be the death of him someday, let me tell you.”
“Shut it, Da Silva,” Martín shot back. “You are in no position to say anything like that. I seem to recall you bawling like a baby after the last Argentina-Brazil football match.”
“Yeah? Well maybe it was because I had to watch your fat ass do a victory dance on the bar. They were tears of pained laughter. I was embarrassed for you.”
“You’ll be crying more tears of pain at the end of the month when I win this damn competition,” Martín informed him.
“Oh, so you’ll be writing something, too? I know we have have an entire month till the deadline, but I need to start brainstorming ideas,” Daniel mused. “We should probably incorporate some of the stuff we’ve discussed in class. Like augmented intervals; Dr. Villalba seems to like them.”
Both Martín and Luciano ignored him.
“You have got to be kidding me, Hernández. You? Win? Your music has no soul. I’ve heard the shit you write-you just write whatever you think people want to hear, and it ends up being garbage.” Luciano shook his head in disbelief and shouldered his bag, giving Daniel a squeeze on the shoulder before sauntering away. “Good luck, Dani. Don’t forget to work on that project later. And let me know if you can stop by the pitch.”
“I have soul in my music,” Martín sputtered as Luciano walked away. “Who the fuck does he think he is telling me my music doesn’t have soul?”
Daniel shrugged and grabbed Martín’s arm, dragging him to the stairwell against the flow of students who had also just gotten out of their classes. “Hey, let’s grab a bite to eat while we’re here before we head home. My project shouldn’t take too long; maybe I’ll have time to play with Luciano after all.”
Martín knew what Daniel was trying to do, but he played oblivious and let himself be lead to the top floor of the building without complaint, letting Luciano’s insults stew in his mind. He would definitely show Da Silva.
-
After lunch, Martín sent Daniel home after his cousin promised to work on his project-not that Martín believed he would do it, but hey, he was just doing his part to be a good older cousin. He needed to watch out for Daniel and make sure he did not associate with such social ingrates as Luciano Da Silva. God. What a way to start his day.
Checking his watch, he decided that he had enough time to stop in at a friends house before heading back to start working on his guitar piece. Hey, he and Daniel might be related, but that did not mean that he put off his projects and papers until the last minute, too.
Ok, so he did procrastinate quite a bit, but he had just turned in a comparative essay complete with his own sound clips last week, and he did not have anything pending soon, so he felt entitled to enjoy his time free while he still had it. That meant that unlike Daniel, he was allowed to spend time with friends.
Taking a left instead of a right by the bank, he walked down to the seedier part of town. At least Martín considered it seedy, what with the weird consignment shops and the psychic palm reader who advertised free food with each session, but his friend, who lived in an old apartment complex on a quiet side street, did not seem to mind. He could never understand why she had chosen to live here of all places when there were perfectly nice, modern flats less than fifteen minutes away by foot, but she seemed to think that this neighborhood was cheaper and more conducive to letting her creative juices flow.
He scoffed. Creative writing majors. What could you do with them?
Inside the front door of the building was a set of buzzers for each flat. Martín pressed the third from the bottom, which had a name next to it that was too scratched out to read, and waited for an answer. A minute later, a crackling voice came over the loud speakers above him, too distorted to identify who the speaker was, besides that it belonged to a female.
“Yes?”
Martín leaned an arm against the wall and leaned in closer to the slots of the microphone. “It’s me; you want to buzz me in?”
“I don’t know anyone called ‘me’.”
“Oh, come on, Manu. It’s Martín.”
There was a pause, and Martín tried the handle to the door but found it was still locked. “Manuela, just let me in!”
“Have some patience. I had to check something on the stove. Or did you want me to let the whole building burn down?”
Two seconds later, an obnoxiously loud buzz sounded through the loud speakers, and the handle gave way when Martín turned it this time. Taking the crooked stairs two at a time with his long legs, Martín cursed the fact that the building had no elevator. When he reached the door he was looking for, 403, he tried the handle.
“Just a minute,” a delicate, low voice called from behind the door. Martín tapped his foot against the grimy, cracked tiles of the landing until the lock finally clacked away and the door swung open to reveal a petite, thin girl with short chestnut hair that flipped out around her ears. Her face was scrunched up like she had just tasted something bitter-maybe she had, if she was in the middle of cooking like she had mentioned.
“About time,” Martín said as he entered her apartment. “I thought I’d never get to see your lovely face.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t drop everything and let my world revolve around you,” she shot back as she led the way to the kitchen. “Why didn’t you call beforehand?”
“It was a last minute decision.”
“So you had absolutely no time while walking all the way from school?”
“It would have ruined the surprise and spontaneity of the moment,” Martín answered with a shrug and a warm smile. “You sound like you’re not happy to see me.”
“What? Oh no, of course I am happy to see you,” Manuela deadpanned. “Feel free to drop in and mess up my day whenever you feel like it.”
“How I have missed your delicate sensibilities completely devoid of all sarcasm. You are truly a lady.”
Manuela smacked him on the shoulder with a wooden spoon, then looked at it thoughtfully before throwing it in the sink. “Contaminated,” she muttered, reaching over the counter next to the stove for the other wooden spoon in a jar. Then she stirred what looked like a small pot of foul smelling sludge before lifting up a spoonful in front of Martín’s face.
“Try some,” she ordered. “I feel like there’s something missing, but I can’t quite put my finger on what.”
Martín backed away from the offending mixture and eyed the spoon suspiciously. “What is that supposed to be?”
“Dal,” Manuela answered in exasperation. “It’s Indian. One of my neighbors let me borrow her cookbook after I brought over some empanadas.”
Martín had seen dal before, and it did not look or smell anything like this offensive concoction. Still, Manuela looked a little more dejected the longer he waited to try it, so he decided to throw caution to the wind and take a bite. A sip. Whatever it took to get the slop into his mouth.
“It’s…a little salty,” he grimaced around a mouthful. A little salty was an understatement. Martín was sure that just a few more bites would dry him out so much that he might turn into a mummy or have a heart attack-whichever came first.
“Hmm, I didn’t have some of the right ingredients, so I just replaced them with salt. At least it’s not bland, I guess,” Manuela mused before tasting it herself. “Oh God, that is disgusting.” She dropped the spoon back into the pot and leaned against the counter. “Oh, who am I kidding. I should just stick to what I cook best.”
“You brew a good cup of tea,” Martín pointed out helpfully.
“That’s not cooking. You are terrible at trying to cheer me up,” Manuela groaned, then opened the pantry and pulled out a square package. “Looks like it’s ramen again.” She tossed the package of noodles on the counter and pulled the pot off the burner and put it in the sink, turning on the water to let the sludge soak. Then she pulled a smaller pot out of one of the cabinets and filled it with water before putting it on the stove. All the while she kept looking over her shoulder into space, as if she had something on her mind but could not quite put her finger on what it was.
“Would you like something to drink?” she finally asked as she started chopping scallions to add to the soup.
Martín was too busy eyeing the back burner, which she had never turned off. “I’m good. Don’t forget you left the other burner on,” he told her. “I mean, I guess it’s fine now, but you might forget when you’re finished, too.”
“Oh, shit.” Manuela turned the dial until the flames flickered out. “I’m usually pretty good about that. I must have been distracted by…uh…something.”
“By my charming looks?”
“By your annoying presence.” She dumped the ingredients into the pot. “So why are you here, anyway?”
“I can’t just stop in to see a friend because I wanted to?” Martín gasped. “I am offended.”
“Ah, so you’re avoiding schoolwork.”
“What? Who said anything about schoolwork? I don’t have any projects due for a while.”
“You are a terrible student,” Manuela told him with a shake of her head. She stirred the pot. “Don’t you like playing the guitar?”
“I do. I love the guitar. I just don’t like writing essays about playing the guitar. It’s same with you, isn’t it?” He leaned against the counter, his tall frame hunched over so he would not hit anything in her cramped kitchen. “You like to write poetry and stories, but do you like to do, oh I don’t know, literary analysis?”
“Yes.”
“What a weirdo.”
“That’s not much of an insult coming from you.”
“What? I’m just saying that I prefer the hands on aspect of guitar playing. The creative part. Oh, so my theory professor, the one with all the crazy scarves-”
“Dr. Villalba?”
“Yeah, her. So anyway, she’s making this album, and she’s going to choose one student to help her with one of the pieces. We have to create a song and submit it for her to choose, and if ours gets chosen, we get to record it on the album.”
“That sounds cool.” Manuela was staring at the corner of the kitchen where her toaster sat on the counter, and her voice sounded a bit far off, almost as if she had stopped listening to Martín.
“Say…” Martín sidled up behind Manuela and set his hands on her shoulders, bringing his face next to hers. “You could help me with the lyrics.”
Manuela jumped and looked at him, her eyes wide and dark. She fumbled for words for a bit before finally spitting out, “Aren’t you supposed to win the competition on your own?”
“She said we could collaborate. So what do you say?”
“I’ve never written a song before. I’d imagine it’s different from poetry.” She shrugged him off her back. “Why don’t you asked someone in your class for help? Like Dani or Lu?”
Martín scowled. “You’re asking me to work with Da Silva? That moron? He wouldn’t know a good song if it bit him in the ass.”
“Have you even heard any of his music? He’s pretty good.”
Martín groaned in disgust and swept a hand to his forehead. “Ugh, how can you even stand him?”
“You’re forgetting that I can stand you, too,” Manuela pointed out, using her wooden spoon for emphasis. “In fact, I can tolerate a lot of people.”
“Yeah, by thinking we’re all idiots.”
Manuela smirked and shrugged. “It’s a coping mechanism.” Ok, taste this.” She held out a spoonful of soup.
“It tastes like packaged ramen.”
“Good.” Manuela sighed in relief.
“Ok, but seriously, I need to win this competition.” Martín said. “I need to show Da Silva that I’m better at him technically and creatively once and for all. I need to make sure that he will never live this down.”
Manuela poured out a bowl of ramen as she said, “Maybe you should focus more on your own work than on rubbing that work in his face. You haven’t even won yet. Do you even have an idea?”
“I’ll think of something in time.”
Manuela rolled her eyes. “Just don’t procrastinate on this like with everything else you do. Oh, do you want some soup?”
“No thanks, I just ate. Ok, you know what? I’m going to go start on this. I’ll brainstorm. Let me know if you want in on the lyric writing part.”
“Sure. Good luck. And thanks for stopping by.”
“I thought I was invading your privacy,” Martín poked her back, jokingly.
“Well, it would have been nice if you could have called before you just showed up unannounced. But it’s not like I’m going to turn you away.”
“Sure thing.” Martín made his way to the front door. “See you later.”
Manuela waved from the kitchen as he left. He went down the stairs and out onto the sunny streets, thinking about what kind of song it would take to win the competition. As he passed the psychic’s shop, he took a whiff of the air. It smelled like…barbecue. He walked a few more steps before doubling back and heading inside.
A chime tinkled when he pushed open the door to the shop, and an invisible cloud of spices wafted toward him, peppers and cinnamon, nutmeg and cardamom, frankincense and thieves. And above all, charcoal and meat. Martín’s mouth watered at the thought of what delicious cuts might be awaiting him. The sign outside had said that free food was available to everyone who had their palm read-Martín might as well give it a shot, even if he did not believe in any of that hocus pocus. Let the psychic swindle him. At least he would be getting some food out of it, and if it tasted as delicious as it smelled, then it would be well worth it.
Near the door was a coat rack, which he stood next to and waited for someone to notice him. The bell had rung, had it not? The proprietor should be jumping out of his or her skin to wait on him. To pass the time, he looked around the room. The floor was covered in an array of fanciful rugs of burgundy and gold, and the walls were paneled with tacky looking wood sheets. A poster of the moon’s phases was tacked to one of the walls near a low table that held some books. Martín leaned over to read their titles.
Essential Oils and their Uses
Astrology and How It Can Help You
What Spirits Can Tell Us
Basically a bunch of crock, though there was a nice looking cookbook under the pile when he sifted through them. A stick of incense left a thin trail of smoke curling lazily through the air, brushing his skin as it slid past him. Beneath the table sat a CD player that was playing some old Peruvian folk tune that sounded vaguely familiar. It was not exactly soothing, but it somehow fit with the atmosphere of the shop. The lights were dim, and patches of sunlight streamed in through the drapes.
Not five seconds after the thought crossed Martín’s mind that maybe the food was not worth the wait (it was a silly thought), a short, stocky boy with wild, dark hair and hands that were obviously rough with callouses pushed a curtain out of the way on the opposite side of the room and walked toward him.
“Madame Prado will be down in just a moment. Please have a seat.” The boy’s voice was deep for his size, surprising Martín. He gestured to a pair of old, brown armchairs that had seen better days but still looked quite cushy.
Martín sank into the one closest the window and crossed an ankle over his knee. “What’s that I smell cooking?” he asked, taking a deep breath in through his nose and sighing. “It smells fantastic.”
“It’s just anticuchos,” the boy answered abruptly. Martín’s mouth watered even more. The boy disappeared into the back room again, only to reappear with a woman who could only be Madame Prado.
She was short, though still about a half head taller than the boy, and curvy in all the right places. Her dark, wavy hair framed her face and cascaded down her round shoulders. She wore a long, flowing, maroon tunic that fit more like a dress with a cord tied around her waist. On her feet were fuzzy black slippers.
Rising and extending a hand, Martín grasped her fingers and pulled them to his lips in a light kiss. Madame Prado giggled and flashed him a wide, unassuming grin. She was less mysterious than he would have imagined.
“I heard you were lured in by my cooking,” she told him, leading him toward the curtain in the back. She swept it aside for him to reveal a smaller, darker room, this one lit by flickering candles. A low table sat in the center, and on either side were two cushions. She indicated that he should sit on one, and then scurried to a bookshelf and gathered a few supplies.
“Are you sure I wasn’t lured in by some spirits?” Martín joked. He watched the boy scurry through another curtain up some stairs without a sound.
“No. It was definitely my cooking. I have a nice batch today. Anticuchos.”
“Your assistant told me. It smells delicious.”
“Why, thank you.” She turned back to him and settled on her own cushion. “Now how about we get started.”
“Wait. How much is this going to cost?” Martín suddenly realized that, while the meat might smell delicious, it would not be worth the fortune the ‘psychic’ might force him to shell out.
“Oh, however much you think the session is worth,” Madame Prado answered.
Martín thought for a while before asking, “How does ten sound?”
“Perfect.”
She handed him a deck of naipes to shuffle. They looked like regular playing cards to Martín, but he did not say anything.
“What are you here for?” she asked.
Martín winked at her. “Shouldn’t you be able to read my mind?”
“Ah, one of those types,” she giggled. “Tell me what’s bothering you.”
Martín hummed and lifted his eyes to the ceiling. “Just tell me my future. I’m curious.”
“Are you curious about your love life? Or your financial life? Or is there something you’re worried about?”
“Let’s go with something I’m worried about,” Martín answered. “I’m trying not to let a classmate get the best of me. I need to keep my cool.”
Madame Prado nodded and indicated that he should shuffled the cards. After he had shuffled the deck a few times, Madame Prado plucked them out of his grasp, brought them to her lips to whisper something, and then began laying nine of them in three rows on the table. Martín bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing out loud. He was thoroughly amused by this entire production-Madame Prado was truly an excellent actress.
“So, am I dying any time soon?” he asked, leaning across the table to look at the cards and then up into the woman’s deep brown eyes. She frowned at him.
“You have misfortune in your present and love in your future. I can’t tell…are you sure you’re not worried about anything else?”
“Hn. It must be the misfortune of having to deal with an idiotic classmate. See, there’s this competition that I would give anything to win, and-”
She lunged at him and pushed him back into this seat. “Don’t say that! Don’t admit to such things where the spirits can here you. Would you really give anything?”
Martín blinked and sank back. “Ok, ok, I won’t say that.” Damned crazy lady. “So, misfortune and then love? Maybe I save a pretty lady from a terrible accident. Or maybe I’ll have an accident and a pretty lady will nurse me back to health. That sounds good to me.”
The psychic was nodding distractedly and finally got up and went back to the bookshelf where she fumbled about for something. Then she looked at him and said, “Please wait just a minute, I’ll be right back.” And ran up the stairs behind the curtain.
Martín continued sitting in on his cushion and waited for her to come down. The anticuchos still smelled absolutely delicious, making his mouth water even more. About a minute later, Madame Prado came back down with a small plate of them still on their skewers. She handed him the platter.
“Here, have some,” she commanded. “Food always makes people feel better.”
“Oh, don’t worry, I feel fine, but thank you anyway.” He moaned around the first bite of meat. “This is amazing!”
“Thank you,” Madame Prado said, and then she thrust an uncorked flask of something pungent beneath his nose.
“Oh God, what is that?” Martín recoiled in horror.
“You probably don’t want to know. Breath deeply,” Madame Prado commanded. After holding the flask beneath Martín’s nose for a few moments, she whisked it away again and corked it, slipping it into a pouch attached to the cord around her waist. Then, out of that same pouch, she withdrew a flask on a leather cord, clear and filled with golden oil, various bits of leaves, flowers, and tree bark, and tiny crucifix. She grabbed Martín’s free hand and carefully placed the vial in the crease of his palm, closing his fingers over it with her own warm hand and squeezing. After murmuring something under her breath, she let go and stepped back. Martín opened his fingers and stared at the amulet in his hand.
“Keep that with you,” Madame Prado ordered. “It’s a charm vial. It should protect you from evil that might cross your path, as well as bring you luck in your future.”
“So will it help me win the competition?”
“It will help you win your heart’s desire,” she answered cryptically.
Martín shrugged. His heart’s desire was to rub Luciano Da Silva’s nose into the ground, and winning the competition was just the opportunity to do so. He took another bite of the anticuchos.
“My heart’s desire has already been met by you and your fantastic cooking.” He finished his meal and flirted with her a few minutes more before heading to the door.
“So, will it be more with this ‘charm vial’?” he asked, reaching into his bag for his wallet.
“Oh no, ten should still be fine,” Madame Prado waved his worries away. From the other side of the room, her stocky assistant groaned. “I’m just happy to have someone come in today. We tend to be rather slow, as you might imagine.”
Shooting her a beautiful smile, Martín said, “I have no idea why. People would be falling over each other to spend time with you and your magic psychic powers if they only knew who you were.”
Madame Prado barked on a laugh. “You are such a flirt!” She pinched his cheek. “Now, good luck. Try not to make any rash decisions for a few days, and be aware of your surroundings.”
“Of course I’ll take such a sweet lady’s advice,” he told her. On the way out the door, Martín dipped his head to Madame Prado one last time, and then headed outside with a skip in his step. Well, that had turned out to be more entertaining than he had expected, and the meat had been to die for. Pocketing the charm vial idly, he strolled down the street in high spirits, ready to take on the task of creating the best song ever to beat Luciano’s song, to beat any song that Luciano might ever create in his lifetime. He would be a world class, well loved guitarist with tons of followers, girls fainting at his feet, and Luciano would be stuck playing commercial jingles and standing on street corners in order to make ends meet.
The day was so nice that he decided t0 take the slightly longer route along the river to get home. Daniel was probably out with Luciano playing football, but right now Martín could not seem to care. He waltzed down the promenade, smiling at every girl that crossed his path. That food had put him in a good mood, and he felt confident that he could take on this competition, now. Maybe he could write an ode to the beautiful day, or to those delicious anticuchos. Maybe he could even write something about Madame Prado. She had been surprisingly convincing with her act, though Martín thought she had been a bit over the top with all that talk about death and destruction in his present, unless she had meant that her cooking would give him food poisoning, but so far he felt fine. But that talk about love in his future…maybe he should go on a date sometime soon? He hadn’t hung out one on one with any girls besides Manuela for quite a while; a date would be fun. It would get his mind off Luciano. It might even give him inspiration for the song. Everyone knew that love songs were always a classic, and Dr. Villalba would be no exception, he just knew it. Everyone loved Love.
He inhaled the scent of daisies and honeysuckles, perfume from the ladies walking past, the sweetness of a bakery on the corner. Things were going his way. He was almost feeling generous enough to talk to Da Silva without fighting. Maybe he could even give Luciano Da Silva tips on how to improve his technique. He had seen him struggling with one of the riffs in their practical applications seminar. Da Silva would surely be grateful to him for his generosity. He winked at a women across the street from him who was walking a dog, a little corgi, on a pink leash.
Just as he was rounding the corner to cross the bridge leading to his apartment, a shrill voice rang through the sky.
“Help! Help, I’m stuck!”
Martín whipped his head around frantically until he spotted a fair skinned, blond woman with her foot stuck in the grate of a sewer on the opposite side of the street. There was a lull in the traffic, but any cars barreling down the road would hit her if she did not escape in time. No one else seemed to notice her distress, so Martín dashed into the street to aide her. In the middle of the road, he made eye contact with her once, taking in the laughter and delight in her green irises, before his ears began ringing like he was right next to a freight train, and everything went black.
He was still conscious, that he was sure of, though he wished he were not. Everything hurt, like a vice grip was wrenching his bones apart, like he had just been hit by a bus. In his ears he could feel his heart pounding, its beats stuttering, and then, after what had only been half a second but felt like a lifetime, everything stopped.
And then.
Voices. Far off, like words spoken though water, shouted and screamed at him. He tried to make out what they were saying, but everything was too vague, a roaring in his ears, and he was on the sidewalk again. The opposite one, where the woman had once been stuck, except she was nowhere to be found. He was not quite sure how he had gotten there, but he must have blacked out or something. The accident must have affected his eyesight because everything looked like an old, vintage photograph with washed out colors and darkness around the edges, the corners eaten away by time. When he looked down at himself, his clothes and skin were bright like the world had been before, but everything around him was fuzzy, a halo of light glowing around his edges.
There was a crowd of people gathering around the front of the bus; several of them were wearing faces of anguish and distress. Martín craned his neck to see what they were looking at. The bus must have taken quite a bit of damage from him if they were more concerned with the vehicle than the fact that he had just been hit and walked away. In fact, no one was paying any attention to him.
Then he heard one of the voices cut through the fuzz.
“I saw it. I saw the whole thing. He just walked right out onto the street like he had a death wish. He had to have seen the bus coming, he had to have. Poor soul.”
And then Martín saw the red seeping out onto the ground in front of the bus and the barely recognizable mass of mangled flesh. His vision blurred, and he thought he might be sick, but when he bent over double to retch, nothing came up. The vision etched itself into his mind, burning scarlet into his retinas, and someone was chanting in his ears-no, it was Martín himself, no, no no, tumbling from his lips like rain. This could not be happening. His entire body trembled, and he choked on a cry. No. No no no no no no. Something cold was creeping up his legs, and he barely realized what it was, too busy with his own distress. He felt, rather than saw, everything fading, and he fumbled for something, anything to hold on to reality. His hands found the charm vial that Madame Prado had given him, and he clenched it in his fingers.
“Please,” he pleaded. “It’s not supposed to be this way.”
The world did not listen to his cries. The fading stopped, and then the sights and sounds, and everything fell into darkness once more.
Chapter 2