DARPA’s Black Site, USA - 4 years ago

The flowing river roared eastward, and white foams of its waves washed away heroes. Where flowers once grew, now withered, where leaves of green rustled against one another, wilted and fell. Wind once blew with warmth, now a gale of irreverent cold. Atop the mountain ridge, where once sat a sage, now his lonely disciple Cuauhtemoc. The jade eagle sat cross-legged before an empty teacup, staring into the distant sea, where storm clouds brew. His left wrist’s hologram projector was showing him the PDF file of an announcement, entitled ‘COMPLETION OF EVALUATION - TRANSFER TO MEXICAN ARMY’. The date was set for next week. His head slumped, and his fists clenched. It came like a one-two gut punch, never a moment for him to recover. Selena, Delgato, and he had packed their things for the move to Mexico. But even then, he felt the sanctuary he grew up in was dying little by little. 

“Cuauhty!” Sam’s voice called from below the ridge as the colossus bald eagle traversed its height, coming next to Cuauhtemoc, and seeing the jade eagle, offered him a seat by scooting aside. “There you are, I’ve been looking for you,” Sam spoke, his tone grew cautious when he saw Cuauhtemoc’s face looking down at the teacup. “I… I heard about you moving out. After your mentor was reassigned.” Sam awkwardly spoke, trying to formulate sentences when Cuauhtemoc’s silence was as firm as a boulder. Sam sighed out, looking exasperated with his head turned down, hand on his forehead rubbing. “Cuauhty… I know you’re upset. Please, I’m here for you.” He pleaded, hoping for Cuauhtemoc to answer.

“Sam… it wasn’t reassignment, the brass weren’t talking. They’re burying him.” Cuauhtemoc corrected, shocking Sam without turning his face to meet the bald eagle’s. 

Sam shook his head, trying to reconcile the conflicting notions. “That doesn’t make sense!” The bald eagle screeched. “He was an excellent teacher. I saw your performance reports. You’re the star of the project, they wouldn’t be burying him if you’re performing beyond expectations.” He asserted, but his words fell on deaf ears. They both knew the performance reports and grading, yet events turned against them. Suddenly, Sam found himself searching for Cuauhtemoc before their chance for closure disappeared. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to… what did he say before he left?” 

“What is seen might not be real, what is real might not be seen. What is real and seen might not be believed.” Cuauhtemoc coldly uttered, his gaze fixed firmly on the distant sea. Sam quirked an eyebrow, hearing the odd phrase, wise but cryptic. Yet the way Cuauhtemoc worded it sounded like a warning rather than a regular lesson. The odd mentor always gave Cuauhtemoc riddle-like teachings, entrusting him to decipher their meaning. Yet the final one felt off.

“Something doesn’t make sense with higher-ups,” Sam muttered. “Cuauhty, I want to tell you something, before we’re separated for good,” Sam stated, now seeing Cuauhtemoc turning to face him, hope seemed dim, even though he was trying to keep it burning in his eyes. 

“I don’t know how to put this. Maybe it’s too childish, but… I love you.” Sam uttered, exasperated with a deep sigh escaping his mouth. “I don’t know how else to say it. I don’t trust anyone with it but you.” He saw Cuauhtemoc standing up from where he sat, hands on his shoulder, pulling him in for a hug before burying his face into Sam’s puffed chest feathers. Surprised at first, Sam pulled Cuauhtemoc into the embrace, preening his feather. 

“Sam, I don’t want to go. But I can’t leave Selena or Delgato.” Cuauhtemoc uttered, his sobbing muffled by the feather. 

“I don’t want you to leave either. But I don’t know how to stop it.” Sam replied, feeling hopeless and helpless to aid Cuauhtemoc. “I want to build the Spades’ Nest together with you and Del…” He hesitantly choked.

“Someday, we’ll meet again. I’ll move Heaven and Earth for us to be whole.” Cuauhtemoc uttered, preening Sam’s feather as he felt Sam’s arms around him, tucking him tight. 

Sheraton Hotel, Avenue Paseo de Reforma, CDMX

Present Day

Uniforms primmed, pressed, and proper, medals clanged against one another on the dark olive green fabric. The cravat around his neck tugged a little too tightly now, almost like a noose. Lieutenant General Robert B. Henderson, US Army, three stars, stood before the mirror, peak cap tucked neatly under his arm. His bald head, freshly waxed, reflected the bathroom light with surgical precision. But beneath the surface sheen, tension clung to his every movement. As he affixed his name tag, he glanced at his watch. Not late. Not yet. But something about this night sat wrong. Somewhere, laughter drifted up through the open window. It wasn’t joy—it was memory. It gnawed at his crooked spine as he leaned against the mirror, staring blankly at his reflection, his right hand reached forth and caressed his wrinkled cheek.   

The low hum of the air-scrubber filtered through the sterile suite. Sunset light seeped through the curtains, bathing everything in pale gold. Sam Spades stood before the bathroom mirror—wings tucked, shoulders squared—but his eyes were anything but steady.

He examined himself. The armor had been polished to a subtle shine. His tuxedo components hung loosely over his massive frame—nothing fit quite right, nothing ever did. The bowtie sat half-done around his thick neck. He tried again, talons fumbling over the silk. Gave up. Tried again.

A tin of deodorant, Freedom Breeze, sat on the counter, untouched. He opened it, paused, then chuckled dryly at himself. “Like he’s gonna care if I smell like apple pie and war crimes…” Still, he applied it. Carefully. Out of ritual. Out of hope.

He ran a comb through his chest feathers, smoothing them down one by one, carefully fluffing the shoulder plumes just a little extra—Cuauhtémoc always noticed those first. “Okay. Okay… You got this, Spades. You’re a war hero. A legacy. You’ve taken artillery fire and cleaned up coups with a spoon.” He stared at himself in the mirror. “So why does asking him how he feels make you wanna shut down your entire core processor?”

Silence answered. He straightened up and looked at his reflection again. Then pulled out a photo from his pouch, an old one worn with a warm yellow tinge. Him, Cuauhtémoc, Delgato, and Selena. Sunset-lit, a little faded. Cuauhtémoc’s beak caught the sun just right. Sam touched the image, his talon tracing the edge.“Please, Cuauhty, please let this be the night for us.”

He tucked it away and checked the time. It was almost showtime. Distant traffic hummed beyond the curtains. The rooftop was waiting. He gave himself one last nod. A soldier’s nod. And walked toward the door. As it closed behind him, the last thing visible was the cufflink still slightly crooked. But his chest was proud, wings confident. He was going to confess. One way or another. His comms link buzzed with a faint ping. He turned.

Across the Reforma skyline, a light blinked once, then twice, then paused before being followed by three flashes. It was coming from Cuauhtémoc’s fifth-floor balcony. 

S-T-A-N-D-B-Y.

Sam stepped closer to the edge of the rooftop. Another flash: L-Z O-N A-N-G-E-L S-T-A-T-U-E.

He didn’t hesitate and spread his wings. The night air welcomed him like an old friend, during the power-assisted glide carried him over the boulevard. Below, pedestrians craned their necks to witness the mechanical bald eagle soaring above the Angel of Independence, where he met Cuauhtémoc, already perched on the Angel’s shoulder, the two traded smirks and high-fives before flying over to Edificio Antonio Sola.

Their SUV, matte black and silent as a jaguar’s pawstep, wove through the labyrinthine streets of CDMX before arriving at the Edificio’s front side to pick them up like clockwork. Selena kissed her sons on their cheeks and whispered, “Es tu noche, Pollitos.” She waved them off as the SUV drove off from her sight, leaving her to the serenity and safety of her apartment.

Delgato grinned from the front seat. "We hoped you’d get the message, Pajarraco."

Sam huffed. "I didn’t iron this vest just to watch you two hog the dance floor."

From the seat beside him, Cuauhtémoc turned. The gleam of city lights caught his emerald plumage. He gave Sam a wink, his voice smooth and low. "Welcome to the telenovela, mi corazón. Try not to steal the scene too early."

Sam adjusted his collar again, then met Cuauhtémoc’s eyes with steady confidence. "No promises."

The convoy peeled off into the night, engines humming low. Above them, the drones had already begun to circle. The dance of legends was about to begin. “Oye Jefe, we got viral hashtags pre-loaded, drones ready on-site.” One of the media members spoke while leaning out from the front seat of the van.

“Questions from the brass?” Delgato asked while putting on his RGB rig for the highlight between his armor plates.

“Nada, they think it’s all part of the production crew.”

“Perfecto. We’ll make this an evening they won’t soon forget.” Cuauhtémoc adjusted the plume of emerald synthetic feathers on his shoulder. His form, half-dressed in ceremonial Aztec regalia, half-dressed in tailored military chic, radiated theatrical royalty. He was the emperor of optics tonight—and he intended to set the sky on fire.

“Uh…Del, you’re not mad-” Sam hesitantly asked, to which Delgato let out a soft chuckle.

“No, hermano. Tonight is your night with Cuauhtémoc. You deserve the moment.” Delgato calmly assured Sam. 

When their SUV pulled up in front of the Hotel Galeria Plaza Reforma, it was like throwing a match into gasoline. Paparazzi lunged forward with their cameras, hungry for the money shots with the vigor of hyenas looking for their next meals. Drones buzzed overhead, streaming the arrival of the jade sentinel. Cuauhtémoc stepped out, the wind catching his cloak—he appeared less like a soldier and more like a divine being descended upon Tenochtitlan. Followed by Sam, his sharp-dressed American partner, and Delgato, looking like an RGB avatar of Tezcatlipoca. 

On the rooftop, preparations were underway. The media ops team deployed golf-ball-sized camera drones with Mateo’s help. The drones flitted around like hummingbirds, locking in cinematic angles for wide shots, dolly pans, and over-the-shoulder intimacy. The cinematographers weren’t just hired hands—they were veterans of Aztecavisión’s most beloved telenovelas. The house band was suspiciously absent, replaced by Xochitl with a visor displaying LED soundwaves, who presided over the music and mood handling of the evening.

Among the guests there, some members of Mexico’s PRI party were looking at one another in confusion. “Martinez, what are we doing here in Zona Rosa? This is the queer zone of CDMX!” One PRI member asked, half furious. “And where is Ernesto de la Cruz? He’s supposed to be serenading as Cuauhtemoc waltzes with our Isadora. Why is THAT handling the music here?” He pointed his finger towards Xochitl with their DJ set up near the pool.  

The crowd parted as Cuauhtémoc and Delgato emerged from the elevator. It was not a walk—it was a procession. Hovering lenses tracked every step. Every blink was a reaction GIF in the making.

Among the crowds, there was Isadorah Monterverdi, dressed in an opulent neo-Aztec dress of bright neon green, glittering golden lines forming the fifth sun. Her eyes trailed Cuauhtémoc with a longing gaze, her dress grasped her form tight as the grip of a serpent’s constriction. It was her evening, her chance at last to feel Cuauhtémoc sweep her off her feet and lay his shiny, well-waxed beak on her lips.

“Cuauhtémoc, ¿qué haces trayendo al gringo aquí?” Isadorah asked whilst shooting jealous glances back and forth at a confused Sam. The bald eagle would have asked her questions, but one look at the dagger in her eyes, Sam knew trouble was waiting.

“Isadorah, querida, es un embajador de buena voluntad. No nos dejemos llevar por el drama mezquino.” Cuauhtémoc replied, assuring Sam with a wink before giving one last look at the military and political bigwigs in the area. They were gathering into place, one general, colonel, senator, and judge at a time. He gave a thumbs-up to the media ops crew, who then passed it to Xochitl and Delgato.

“Cuauhtémoc, ¡mírame!” Isadorah spoke, raising her tone. “No puedes simplemente-“ she trailed off when the lights went down and the spotlight shone on Sam and Cuauhtémoc.

From their DJ booth, Xochitl slapped on a vinyl record and played. The gentle opening saxophone of WHAM!'s ‘Where Did Your Heart Go?’ slithered through the air like silk. Then came the beat. Sultry. Slow. Electric to the masterful manipulation of Xochitl’s mechanical fingers. 

With a sharp pivot, Cuauhtémoc took Sam’s hand. “Mi corazon, may I have this dance with you?” He teasingly asked with a playful, almost sultry voice.

Sam, already caught in the rhythm, smiled. “For you, Cuauhty, I’d burn the stars to keep the night from ending.”

They danced not as performers but as believers. Their avian bodies arched, swayed, and locked in poetic synchrony. The world faded—there was only the pulse of music and the slow, spiraling gravity between them. Their optics never left each other. Their hearts, synthetic and stubborn, thundered in their chests. High above, a new drone dipped for the perfect close-up.

As Sam danced with Cuauhtémoc, wings brushed, he softly sighed, matching Cuauhtémoc’s movements. His eyes fixed on Cuauhtémoc’s optics. Mateo’s drones carefully hovered in place, their optics zoomed in on Sam’s flustered face, capturing every ounce of fear, longing, and leftover programming clashed against the weightless joy of being there with Cuauhtémoc. Talons held and interlocked with one another. 

You cried “but I don’t know”

I’ve heard it all before

There it goes again

The slamming of the door

His movement started slowly, tailing Cuauhtémoc with the uncertainty of a caged bird. A colossus of steel feathers and silent longing. His knees, reinforced by carbon-titanium alloy, trembled like a teenager’s as he picked up the pace, matching his partner. It was everything he wanted when he saw Cuauhtémoc romantically wink with a rose held in his beak like a classic romantic. In the background, Isadorah panicked and weaved back and forth between the crowds, trying to get a look at Cuauhtémoc, but was being pushed out of the way by the crowds.  

Sometimes the river calls me

In the night it calls my name

Says put your trouble down beside me

Things have always been the same