2 days later…

Reforma, Cuauhtémoc Borough, Mexico City

Sam’s silhouette cut across the Mexican sun, wings folding in a graceful spiral as he landed with a metallic thud on the sidewalk. Bystanders gasped, phones raised. He glanced up at the apartment complex across the boulevard—Edificio Antonio Solá—vines crawling across brutalist concrete, its edges softened by sunlight and agave plants. He waited.

From above, Cuauhtémoc descended like a jade meteor, landing hard enough to rattle the curb. “Mi amigo del norte cielo!” he called out, arms wide.

Sam barely had time to brace before Cuauhtémoc pulled him into a tight embrace. Something in Sam’s servo-core fluttered. For once, it was familiarity instead of discomfort.

Selena stepped from the truck, arms crossed, eyes already glassy. “Mijo…”

Sam turned, hesitated. Then he knelt—not military stiff, but gentle—and wrapped her in a cautious hug, wings folding protectively around her.

“I thought I’d never see you again,” he whispered.

“Looks like we both got lucky.” She kissed his forehead. 

Cuauhtémoc and Sam took turns ferrying their belongings to the fifth floor, while Delgato and Selena were bringing the heavier furniture up the stairs. Delgato led the way with his feline grace, making his way up the stairs before placing the furniture in their designated locations.  

A courtyard alive with warmth: kinetic tiles powering grills, hologlyphs flickering over a flame-shaped fountain. Neighbors leaned from balconies. Tía Rosa’s drone streamed live: #JadeEagleHome. Xóchitl’s synth-beats rolled from the rooftop as Mateo, the teenager, fiddled with a drone shaped like a jaguar cub. 

Its hums encrypted his signals and broadcasts as he filmed Cuauhtémoc’s arrival. On the roof, Xóchitl’s holo-deck pulsed Náhuatl-techno, their synth-jaguar tail flicking as they grilled esquites with Luz, whose neural-linked rebozo glowed. Their holo-avatar, a jaguar knight, projected welcome emojis, cheering Cuauhtémoc’s landing. “¡Pollito, bienvenido!” she called, bio-synthetic knees creaking. 

Landing on the 15-meter balcony, talons grazing moss-kissed concrete, Cuauhtémoc felt not the barracks’ chrome chill, but the warmth of home. His jade feathers caught the solar vines’ glow as Selena adjusted potted chiles under a glitching holo-tint. Luz leaned from her balcony, rebozo humming, “Centinela, you’re home!” Xóchitl shouted, “Jade wings, Reforma’s star!”

Above the Reforma’s skylines of towering skyscrapers, a gold eagle circled above, its eyes gleaming with intent as it monitored a moving truck parking in front of the Edificio and the jade robot avian that was out to move the furniture and personal belongings. Zooming from one perch point to another, the eagle perched on a tree branch and observed Cuauhtémoc moving in. 

Delgato purred, “Stealing my lines.” 

Two hours passed, and they were unpacking and plugging in appliances. Sam, habitually, began to inspect the place for microphones and hidden cameras. Cuauhtémoc and Delgato took notice and grew concerned as Sam’s beak poked at every corner, nook, and cranny. “Oye, hermano, you alright?” Delgato asked, visibly disturbed with his ears perked.

“Nothing…” Sam denied, “...Just old habits.” The bald eagle sighed out, relaxing his nervous servo motors for the first time in ages as he carefully sat down on the sofa. He saw Selena return after waving off the logistics crew that helped her prepare the move.        

“Es tu hogar ahora, Pollito.” Selena spoke in her motherly tone, hugging Cuauhtémoc’s torso with both hands. 

“Gracias, M’ma.” He leaned forward just enough to touch his beak to her temple, tender, feather-light. “The barracks were getting to me.” He whispered. 

“Don’t worry, mijo. Colonia Cuauhtémoc got you now.” Selena assured him, prompting him to caress her temple with his beak. She went over and shook Sam’s talon hand, prompting him to return her gesture, carefully. Jerky and unnatural, his stiff movement radiated the dullness of an eagle forced to be in its cage for too long. “Muchas gracias, Sam. If you ever need anything, let me know. The colonia is your home just as it is Cuauhtémoc’s.” Said Selena. 

“Thanks, Selena. I didn’t ask… but this is something I chipped in.” Sam stated. 

“No se preocupe señora López. I’ll protect our aguilas, no matter what.” Delgato smoothly chimed in with a purr directed at Cuauhtémoc. The eagle offered a flustered smirk, his feathers shifting slightly like someone adjusting their collar.

“Mucho gracias. Eight years we’ve spent together, and never once have you let us down.” Delgato nodded with solemn pride. Selena clapped her hands softly. “Now then, you two should unpack in your room. You’re always welcome here, Sam, maybe I’ll help you to your room as well.” Said Selena, to which Sam smiled and took her up on the offer, looking at one of the vacant single rooms.  

The apartment was minimalist. Concrete walls, cedar floors, an air-scrubber humming low, pulsing in Cuauhtémoc’s optics. “Oye, jefe, más pozole?” chirped Compa Tono, the AI assistant, playing a ranchera. Posters of Itzcoatl, Ahuitzotl, Montezuma, and his namesake, emperor Cuauhtémoc, lined the room. 

Below were the taped photos: grainy training stills, a churro-fueled laugh, a 2029 prototype test with Delgato’s gleam mid-pounce. But the most important of them all, Cuauhtémoc’s photo of him, Selena, Delgato, and Sam framed in a pink plastic heart, was placed on a desk next to their bed. Luz’s gift to them was a rebozo that they hung near the door, giving the place the feel of home.

From the balcony, Cuauhtémoc traced his optics to the Monumento a Cuauhtémoc further down the avenue. Its bronze spear gleamed, a holo-light pulsing at its crown—resistance, dignity, sacrifice—visible through the corridor of Reforma’s icons: the Ángel de la Independencia, Diana Cazadora, a straight path to his namesake. The sun shone from the top of the monument like a serpentine tower of bronze towards their home, like a calling from the ancient titan. An invitation from his past life, calling the modern incarnation over.  

Delgato unpacked his uniforms in drawers, a lucha holo-figurine on the shelf as Cuauhtémoc placed his Condecoración al Valor Heroico on the table, just behind the heart-shaped photo frame. A moment of serenity set in, allowing him to check on the neighbors, starting with Xochitl on the rooftop with Sam. 

Following the synth beats, the eagles came to the rooftop and found the synthetic jaguar was already waiting. Mateo was there, helping him mod a dragonfly drone whilst his miniature jaguar drone perched on the teenager’s shoulder. “Oye hermano. Eres el DJ aquí?” Cuauhtémoc asked, to which Xochitl gave him a firm handshake, flexing their synthetic muscles before doing the same with Sam. 

“You want sick beats? I’m your cat.” Said Xochitl.

“Sam Spades, I’m Cuauhtémoc’s… uh…” He trailed off and shyly fumbled through his words. “...his friend. Yeah.” Sam settled. 

“Suuuure.” Xochitl left a crooked smile on their face, seeing that Sam and Cuauhtémoc were holding one another’s hands. 

“Oye Centinela, cómo te trata el Edificio Sola?” Mateo asked, trading eager high-fives with Cuauhtémoc. 

“Hogar dulce hogar.” Cuauhtémoc uttered. 

“Bueno, Gatito. Suena como si fueras uno de los favoritos en raves y discotecas?” Cuauhtémoc replied, looking at the equipment on hand, the disc mixers and audio mixers were all in digital formats with neon holograms. Xochitl had a helmet with an LED display on the heavily tinted glass for eye expressions and audio bars. 

Much to his surprise, Xochitl shared striking similarities in design to Delgato. The work resume on their table had various pay checks from three major nightclubs in Zona Rosa. Xochitl even had tell-tale slide segments on their thigh compartment for sidearms, leading to Cuauhtémoc having an impressed coo. “I could use a DJ for an upcoming event. Maybe you can help?” 

“Si, what’s the game plan, maestro?” Xochitl lounged back against their chair and saw Cuauhtémoc handing them the same venue pamphlet as Sam. They took interest in the pamphlet, whistling and examining the invitation to the Zona Rosa venue. “High soiree crawling all over that event. You want me there?” They saw Cuauhtémoc nod with a wink.

“Cuauhty… what are you up to now?” Sam asked, quirking an eyebrow. But he soon realized he had blurted out a pet name near and dear to him. The bald eagle blushed bright red at Mateo’s amused laughter and Xochitl's winking. 

Cuauhtémoc patted Sam’s back, “Nothing major, just an unforgettable night for the two of us, mi amigo. Or maybe something more.” Cuauhtémoc winked at Sam’s increasingly flustered face. “High soiree couldn’t care less if it’s the houseband or some local DJ. You got the resume to back it, and I vouch for you.” Cuauhtémoc stated, to which Xochitl smirked and nodded. 

“I’m in.” He replied. 

“What’s that event for?” Mateo asked, looking at the holo pamphlet, quite puzzled by the high-class dinner party and celebration event. The most he had would have been a high school galas or graduaciones. 

“A bunch of fat cats patting each other’s backs. I’m obligated to show up.” Cuauhtémoc sighed. “But if I’m going, then I might as well make a few tweaks. Last I heard, one of the drone guys called in sick. Quite unfortunate that we can’t seem to find a suitable replacement.” Cuauhtémoc began to exaggerate, leaning and arching his back in an almost theatrical manner, raising his synthetic tone to almost Shakespearean level. Mateo and Xochitl snorted, burst laughing at the performance. 

“Do I get paid, or is this an unpaid internship?” Mateo asked.

“Mateo, I’m pretty sure you’re paid in more allowances than I. Mine for the past four years? Zero.” Cuauhtémoc presented his proof in the form of a spending sheet. Four years working for the Mexican military, his allowance was for maintenance and repairs. No official salary, retirement plans, dental care, or anything else in between. 

“Muy bien, estoy dentro.” Mateo replied with a wry smile. 

“I’ll let you know the details. Maybe I can ge-” He trailed off when he heard a definitive eagle screech, one too close to his home to brush off. He saw a gold eagle flying out of his room, its legs clutching the heart-shaped photo frame on his desk. "¿Me estás cargando?" He blurted out. 

With a cloud somersault, he leaped off the rooftop’s railings, wings unfurling, dodging drone-taxis overhead, and chased down the feral eagle towards the Monumento a Cuauhtémoc. Sam followed Cuauhtémoc with a majestic wind spread as he flew across the Reforma avenue, trying to intercept the feral bird. 

As Cuauhtémoc closed his distance, the eagle blinded him with a hard bank, throwing the sun into his optics. Pedestrians below gasped, X-verse avatars live-streaming ‘#JadeEagle’ as he was forced to land by the statue’s base.

His talons grazed the bronze, feathers tracing the emperor’s plume. Tía Rosa and Luz, following via X-Verse, crossed themselves nearby. “El Centinela, our jade guardian,” Rosa whispered, holo-glasses streaming. Luz nodded, “He carries Reforma’s heart.” 

Cuauhtémoc the eagle regained his composure and looked upon the statue of his namesake, the last emperor of the Aztecs, towering over him like a great titan, and he was a machine bearing his name, living in his shadow. 

A raptor cry sliced through the air as the golden eagle returned, landing inches from Cuauhtémoc, returning the heart-shaped photo frame to him. Its gaze locked, curious, tilting. He mirrored its every tilt and blinked. 

The eagle chirped, nudging his talon, prompting Cuauhtémoc to extend his wrist. Sam landed next to Cuauhtémoc, picking up the heart-shaped photo frame, and saw the old memento of him, Cuauhtémoc, and Delgato. “Thanks for saving the memory,” Sam spoke, to which Cuauhtémoc nodded.  

The raptor hopped on its new perch, proud and untamed. An ethereal wind brushed his frame, like Aztec spirits whispered prophecy into his audio receptors. Here he was, bearing the name of the mighty, living in his shadow, brought to his presence by the national bird, the Earthly form of Huitzilopochtli. Perhaps it was a divine comedy or divine destiny being whispered to him, not with words but with an invitation to pay homage to his past life.   

“Dios mío, it’s El Centinela,” Rosa muttered.

“It’s the emperor reincarnated,” Luz said.

“El Centinela never lands for us,” a local whispered.

Cuauhtémoc stood, eagle perched, monument looming. At Solá’s courtyard, Mateo’s drone projected the scene, Xóchitl’s holo-deck amplifying cheers, the holo-flame pulsing as neighbors chanted “Centinela!” He was home, the jade guardian of CDMX’s beating heart.

Cuauhtémoc turned to Sam before picking up the photo frame. “Sam, about what I’m cooking up, you want in?” He tersely asked.

Sam cocked his head aside, pondering his thoughts briefly before let out a wry chuckle. “Whatever it is, I’m in.” The two shared a firm handshake, shooting metal sparks as their talons collided and interlocked. “You feel like there’s something… ethereal? Something pulling us here?” 

“Si. I do.” He stared at the towering monument of the final Aztec emperor. It felt as though the gods and emperors of old had called upon him to receive his heirloom. “You remember how I had to earn my name?” Cuauhtémoc asked, and Sam nodded.

“I think you’ve been called to receive the Aztec emperor title,” Sam remarked, his optics trailed up the bronze monument’s glints as though the emperor of old was staring down at the gringo and his modern incarnation. 

“I dare not boast it. But you may call me huēyi tlahtoāni Cuauhtémoc.” He playfully declared before Sam and the gathering crowds of onlookers and drones livestreaming the event. Sam joined him in hearty laughter before making their way home. But for the people of Mexico City, they just saw the unofficial crowning of their new Aztec Emperor.