“Anybody who cleared this asshole for flag officer needs a thorough dessing down.” One Major voiced across the hall. 

#MinimartMeltdown OMG HENDERSON’S LOST IT!!!

#QueerGroceryGoals I STAN THIS FAMILY!!!

GENERAL KAREN IS CANCELLED LMAO

“Why did I sign up for this?” Jenkins groaned, pinching his nose, visibly cringing in the process. 

Cuauhtémoc paid no heed to the general’s incessant rants. He casually swiped his holographic QR code from his wrist projector and paid the bills like a dutiful son. The cashier put their stuff into reusable shopping bags, with Cuauhtémoc adjusting their weight distributions to minimize drag for the bag and balance it with ease of handling for Selena. “Aquí tienes, mamá.” He said, handing one of the bags to Selena, he held two of them while Sam and Delgato held the others. 

As they exited the Bodega and walked back to 292 Reforma, Henderson staggered along behind them, hunching over like a raccoon. His pressed uniform was wrinkled, his shoes scuffed, and the American flag pin fell off entirely. He reached out a trembling hand toward Sam’s broad, armored back, fingers barely grazing the trailing edge of a majestic wing. 

“Sammy... Sammy-boy... don’t do this. Don’t let them turn you. You’re still one of us. You were America’s Promise. You’re supposed to—to salute the flag, eat ‘burgers, date blonde women who say “y’all.” He pleaded, almost seemingly dragged along. “Please don’t turn this into Sammy left Gracie for Cuauhty!” 

“I am still a promise. Just not yours anymore.” Sam replied, not even turning to acknowledge him.

“But think of the optics! Think of Gracelynn! You were supposed to marry her in a rustic barn under a giant American Eagle statue!” Henderson continued his pleading. 

Amused, Delgato leaned over to Cuauhtémoc, whispering like soft butter to the eagle’s ears. “Mi amor, he’s spiraling.”

“Let him,” Cuauhtémoc remarked.

“Just—just one more chance, son. We’ll deprogram you. A few Bible apps. Maybe a baseball game. We’ll put you in khakis again!” Henderson picked up his pace, nearly tripping over the pavement as they arrived at the front of Edificio Antonio Sola.

Sam finally turned to face Henderson. Cold and direct, he spoke without reservation. “I’m not your son. I’m someone’s soon-to-be husband.” He held a pause before adding a cold note. “Spoiler alert: their name’s not Gracelynn.” He finally turned and disappeared into the Edificio Antonio Sola with Cuauhtémoc’s family. 

Luz waved from her balcony, rebozo glowing, as Xóchitl’s holo-deck flashed #CDMXPowerCouple. Rosa’s drone dropped a concha bag near Henderson’s van, tagged ‘For General Karen.’

Henderson heard an unmistakable click of three locks, leaving him with the crumpled grocery receipt with a Quetzalcoatl glyph laser scanned at the bottom. His aides had to come over and pick him up, dragging his dejected form back to the van. “…They bought almond milk. They’re lactose intolerant… together.” Henderson muttered incoherently while staring at the sky before being shoved into the surveillance van. 

In Solá, Cuauhtémoc and Sam unpacked, hands meeting in a bag, chuckling over egg cartons. “Tía Rosa’s conchas tomorrow?” Cuauhtémoc asked.

“No more freedom pancakes. Conchas, any day,” Sam smirked, sighing, free. Xóchitl’s courtyard remix pulsed, neighbors chanting “¡EagletDaddies!”

“¡Genial! Es una gran oportunidad para que conozcas a los vecinos. —Temoc, ¿puedes ayudarlo?” Selena smiled.

“Anything for mi corazón,” Cuauhtémoc leaned into Sam, earning a laugh, as Mateo’s drone buzzed, streaming #SoláSafe.

Henderson watched in despair from his van as Jenkins drove away, the sight of the apartment disappearing behind the floral curtains of CDMX’s Reforma Boulevard.

Over at the CNI Headquarters, their director was on the phone with Mexico’s Secretary of Culture, laughing and trading jovial banter with one another. “What do you think Señor Secretario?” The director inquired, having already shown the livestream to the SoC. 

“This is the greatest cultural phenomenon for Mexico! Our Jade Sentinel, so grand, brave as the luchador, romantic as Telenovelas that my abuelas can’t stop talking about, and yet so humble that he spends the day doing groceries for his madre.” The secretary eagerly spoke, lapping up every moment of the record. “Granted, Zona Rosa kiss ruffled a lot of political feathers, but anything you do will ruffle feathers in democracies.” 

“Si Senor Secretario. Operación Quetzalcoatl is proceeding better than expected, and this is merely the opening salvo.” The CNI director replied, enjoying his Nachos with his personnel. 

“Eh, Emilio, was the Zona Rosa Kiss part of the plan as well?” The Secretary of Culture nervously questioned. Excited as he might be, he would have to answer to the Presidente of Mexico and the upcoming cabinet meeting regarding Cuauhtemoc’s antics. 

“No señor, never was our plan. Cuauhtemoc acted on his own then and there. But its effectiveness was irrefutable.” The CNI director asserted. He could tell the secretary was nodding along on the other end of the line from the just the “Mhm” sound alone.

“Bueno, I guess the people at SEDENA and IPN made the greatest leap Mexico has ever had in recent history. In all our history. Aztecavision will have to make Telenovelas covering Cuauhtemoc from your materials. Are these classified military intelligence footage?” He cautiously asked, grabbing a pen and paper to jot down the need-to-know.

“Technically speaking, they are classified as ‘PUBLIC’, Señor Secretario. I’m pretty sure the Secretariat of Culture and netizens will be having field days making content. We will maintain surveillance on El Generalissimo Henderson.” The CNI director reassured, much to the relief and excitement of the Secretary of Culture, as he wrote things down in his note. 

“Excellent. I believe the Gringos in the Pentagon are one of our intended audience?” He asked.

“Si, Señor, without a doubt. But for what purpose? Classified.” The CNI director uttered.