☆ REY INFINITO ☆

the king of infinity

 for the best experience,
please read in dark mode.

PART I: PAGE ONE

1973, GUATEMALA

While a fearsome monster was on the loose, the citizens of Antigua, Guatemala's ancient
capital of music, could not afford to be distracted by the scythe of death wielded by a killer on
the loose. The situation of a murderer hiding somewhere in the country was like a plague or a
demon attacking the city itself, but in Guatemala at that time, the military regime and its
insurgents were waging an endless guerrilla war in the forests, hills, and cities. So, rather than
the swelling of their own city’s dead bodies, they were more concerned with fleeing the wildfires
that burned the familiar landscape of their homeland, and they tried to run from the “fire”
(incendio), turning away from the shadow of death like a herd of black condors flying over their
heads.

In Antigua, the capital of religion, the celebration of the “El Cuerpo de Cristo” (The Body of
Christ) is held in early spring before Easter. Holy Week - Semana Santa - to celebrate the
Passion and Death of Christ in Jerusalem before his resurrection. Floats carrying a sacred
image of Christ are set out and paraded along a route through the city, which is lined with
colonial churches and Baroque architecture. At the start of the parade, the leading procession is
led by a group of devotees in ceremonial robes, who place incense in a bowl with a string and
wave it at the head of the procession as they walk along the route. The incense smoke hangs in
the streets, crawls up the narrow stairs, and reaches the churches and monasteries.

The floats go by. A brass band marches next, and then the floats gradually follow. The
procession with statues of Christ and the Virgin Mary passes over a decorated area covered
with coloured sawdust, vegetables, flowers, plant leaves and koji. There are religious paintings,
calligraphy, and objects made of noodle yeast. No two are the same, and they add colourful
splendour to the cityscape. It is one of Antigua's most beautiful and unique customs, and people
from all walks of life, rich and poor, are passionate about the art of making ornamental paintings.
Even the soldiers of the Guatemalan government army, who monitor the area from the top of
their vehicles during the festivities, do not hesitate to take a look at the fruits of labor of the
inhabitants' lives.

Young and old take to the streets and crowds gather along the roadside. Firecrackers go off,
confetti flutters, souvenirs and tortillas are sold from street stalls, and girls who have just
finished communion dress up and dance around.
Even in the midst of Antigua's most festive celebrations, there were a few men who remained
unflustered and cast a wary eye over the hustle and bustle. They were investigators from an
organisation that had arrived at the end of the previous year and, after a secret investigation,
had come to the conclusion that there was a high probability that a monster would emerge
during this year's Holy Week. A non-governmental organisation that transcends national
borders, operates with vast capital, has a growing share in the fields of science, welfare and
medicine, and also has a department dealing with supernatural phenomena.

It is known as the Speedwagon Foundation.

It all started with an article in an American opinion magazine on 'Murder in Guatemala's Civil
War'. It had been written by a Mexican journalist and listed the following facts: that the police,
now the emissaries of the military regime, were only concerned with tracking down and arresting
guerrilla soldiers and left-wing parties, leaving the killers unchecked; that there were press
restrictions in the country and information was not being passed on to citizens; and that a
'signature' could be found in over 20 serial killings.

PAGE TWO

The CIA silenced it, but the events in the ancient Guatemalan capital came to the knowledge of
several human rights organisations and non-governmental organisations, and led the
Speedwagon Foundation, which was particularly concerned about the 'signature' of the
perpetrators, to dispatch investigators. The team of investigators, consisting of experts in
various fields, visited all the crime scenes over a period of five months and interviewed local
police officers, victims' families, the medical examiner, the head priest, psychiatrists and liaison
officers from both the government forces and the insurgents. Other incidents occurring in the
city at the same time were also investigated, and after much deliberation, J.D. Hernández, head
of the investigation team, sent the report to the Foundation's headquarters in Dallas, Texas.

The summary is as follows.

i. All victims were shot dead. All 27 had dozens of traumatic bullet wounds. However, not a
single bullet fragment was recovered at any of the sites. They were not lodged in the floor or
walls, nor were they left inside the bodies.This common denominator is the determining factor
 that makes these cases a series of serial killings, which the investigative team refers to as
'invisible bullets'.

ii. Some of the crime scenes, such as motels, cars, and houses, were locked from the inside
and sealed tightly. The possibility of snipers from a distance was considered, but there was no
evidence of bullets breaking through the windows, and at some sites only the ventilation shafts
were open to the outside.

iii. Men and women, old and young, mestizo and indigenous, were all victims. The only
common denominator was that all were devout Christians.

iv. In conjunction with the murders, at the same time as the killings began, there have been a
number of incidents of property damage in churches and nunneries throughout Antigua, where
sacred statues and crucifixes have been broken. Statues of Christ, statues of saints and the
Virgin Mary. We have examined fragments of broken plaster and bronze statues and found that
the damage was not caused by a baseball bat, but by countless punctures and fissures that
had spread. The destruction was most likely caused by 'invisible bullets', the same as in the
murder case.

v. We suggest that the crime may have been committed by a person with an aggravated case
of Theophobia, which is a morbid fear, hostility and hatred of sacred objects (such as statues,
crosses, Bibles, sacraments, altars, etc.). According to specialist literature, Theophobia is more
common in people who develop it against their own religion than against a rival religion. The
perpetrators may have directed the urge to destroy holy images and sacraments towards the
crosses worn by the victims, the cross slashing patterns, or the respective religious beliefs
themselves.

vi. Furthermore, the details on the biggest concern, the 'invisible bullet', are currently unknown.
There are many things that cannot be explained by physical common sense, and it may be a
phenomenon that has not yet been observed anywhere in the world. We await the opinion of
experts on the possibility the case could have a connection with 'ripples'.

PAGE THREE

He appealed to Antigua's municipal administration and churches, but they were unable to cancel
Holy Week itself. J.D. Hernández came out to the city centre and prepared herself to be vigilant.
How could the biggest parade in Antigua, at a time of such crisis, allow for a week-long
celebration that would flood the city with holy designs and icons? What if the ''invisible bullet''
were to fly into the the crowded streets?

Invisibles, packed with countless residents and tourists, stirring up the horrifying impulse of the
monster of unknown origin, by the holy images on the floats, the crosses that leap into view in
every direction you turn…

You can't be sure that you're not lost in the hustle and bustle, or that you haven't somehow
joined the parade procession yourself in this crowd. Clergymen, army soldiers and policemen,
whether they are sellers of chocolate or vagrants, cannot be left off the alert. The intelligentsia
who came here are neither agents who can enforce their authority, nor operatives of the
Intelligence Bureau.

If someone was behaving suspiciously, shewould investigate from the very beginning, and in
some cases she would not hesitate to detain them without hesitation, but what if the murderer in
this place harboured that "bizarre power" - or a different ability comparable to it? No one in the
Speedwagon Foundation's ranks here holds that ability.

Is the monster that threatens Antigua's daily life and festivities really someone they can
overcome on their own?

On the Friday of Holy Week, the night is completely over, yet the parade is not finished. The
sound of firecrackers kept echoing from everywhere. The Foundation's researchers split into
several groups and wandered through the streets of the city, which they had become so familiar
with during their five-month stay. Yet every time they turn a corner in an alley, the air under their
noses changes. The weight and density of the air, the taste that caresses the tongue…
changes. The smells of sawdust, flowers and incense smoke rising from the air mix and mingle
as they roll in the darkness of the night. The torches on the road made the parade seem like a
shadow play. The movements of those carrying the holy statues assumed double and even
triple outlines.

Just past the site of the old Santa Clara Convent, a shadow approached J.D. Even without
looking back, J.D. could sense the presence. One or two figures lit by flickering lights. The
shadows, which had been overlapping vertically, split and lined up behind him. A large young
man on the left approached J.D.

“Sir, there's been some movement,” he said in a hushed voice. The smaller young man on the
right groaned and tried to communicate something with his body language. This man seemed to
have been born with a speech impediment. But his watchful, grey eyes were expressive.
Strangely, his intentions were conveyed.

“At the church, the statue was broken again,” said the large man, “you know, the church just
past the clock tower, the priest was attacked.”
J.D.’s eyes widened. He ran to the church, thumping along the street pavement, led by the two
local youths. These two men were locals hired by the Speedwagon Foundation. Their names
were Octavio and Joaquin. The muscular, tall one was Octavio and the smaller one was
Joaquin. They both came from an orphanage run by a convent in Antigua, and had been making
a living on the streets since they had left their path as novice theology students. Both were
young, aged 18 or 19, but Octavio had settled into the position of a sort of backstreet celebrity.

He has dark eyes like a forest creature that eats only the leaves of plants, but at a moment's
notice, he looks as if he is about to do something dangerous, something irreversible. Octavio is
a man who seems to have already made up his mind that he is going to be someone important
in life. Joaquin, too, is a brash and fierce man, but there is an inescapable intelligence in his
watchful, reserved eyes. Both men seem to have a background in dirty work, but he doesn’t
judge them on their rightness or wrongness, or on their morality or holiness.

At least not during Holy Week.

The investigators of the Speedwagon Foundation alone cannot cast a vigilant net over the
whole of Antigua. Therefore, there had to be as many warning whistles as possible, and in this
respect Octavio and his team were the right people for the job.

PAGE FOUR

When the boys call out, a network of secret back alleys is up and running. Orphans, vagrants,
mobile vendors, flow out of the streets like blood and cells. They continuously grab hold of the
parade line, spreading the latest news from mouth to mouth, and skilfully evading the eyes of
the military and the police. At the sound of Octavio's voice, the orphans run from the roofs of the
townhouses to the roofs of the buildings, running from the back alleys to the corners of the
streets.

It was J.D.'s decision to require the cooperation of the townspeople. It was a choice based on
the investigator's rule of thumb. It was a smart read. They have patriotism too. Rather strong.
No one likes to see a murderer running rampant in their home town, not even him! Octavio
assured him that he would be happy to flush the guy out during Holy Week.

“If you see any sign of the killers, retreat. This is as far as you go,“ J.D said as he ran.

“But I can be a good fighter! I’m quick!” Octavio said, pivoting his arm at the joint.
“No, alright?”

“Even Joaquin here could do it if put his mind to it, yeah?”

Joaquin nodded in agreement.

Stubbornly, J.D. would have none of it. “No.” He reached his destination via the shortest
possible distance.

The stone walls of the church were also decorated with tapestries bearing passages from the
Holy Scriptures. There was a tall, latticed window just above the wooden door, through which a
light leaked; J.D. knocked on the door and the latch on the doorway was removed from the
inside, inviting him in.

The assaulted sacristan lay on a stretcher waiting to be taken to hospital. His ceremonial
garments are stained with blood. He had received first aid on his shoulder and abdomen. He
had been shot by what appeared to be a bullet. But there were no gunshots. The sacristan said
he did see a pistol flash either.

The sacristan, who had stayed behind to keep track of the church parish records, had been
dozing since after ten o'clock and was awakened by the sound of a plaster statue shattering. He
thought he had locked the door tight, but had the rumoured blasphemers broken in?

He went to check on him and found the statue of St Francis shattered on the floor near the altar,
but no windows had been broken. The locks had not been broken either. The sacristan grabbed
the candlestick.

At the time, the priest felt that there was a presence, so he had went around to the back of the
church. In the darkness had stood a strange man. He had his weight on one leg and
immediately shifted it to the other, his body swaying from side to side. The man was of medium
height, dark-skinned, bearded and stocky, and looked like a common Indigenous fellow. He
covered his face with his clasped hands and let out a weak moan, as if he were crying or about
to cry. However, when he removed his hands from his face, he was laughing. There were no
traces of tears left.

To the sacristan, he looked like a drug addict. The man held his right palm above his head and
turned his wrist. The next moment, a searing pain shot up his right shoulder, followed later by a
burning pain in his left side. The fallen sacristan, his teeth clattering in pain and fear, prayed to
the Lord for his soul. He prayed to the Virgin Mary. He realised that he had been shot, but the
attacker did not have a gun of any kind. How then? The sacristan felt as if a bullet, which could
not be caught by the naked eye, had shot through his right shoulder, made an instant U-turn,
came back and pierced his left stomach.
“There’s no doubt,” J.D. said. “Monster.”

Bullets came back, he reckons? If that's true, it's not the invisible bullet at all. It's a magic bullet.
It may be the monster destroys the statues before his own supper, as if they were a drink of
spirits. Then, shrugging off his vexation, he might go into the city to start on the main course.
The city, that must be it. Borrowing a genuine carbide lantern and pulling out a pistol for
self-defence, she chased after the fleeing monster. They search the whole area around the
church. Two of the local collaborators tried to accompany him, but he asked them to contact
other investigators scattered around the district, and even the reluctant Octavio was pulled out
of the area. Throughout the streets at night, churches had been vandalised, statues and
monuments of saints have been broken.

My God, have they lost their grip here?

PAGE FIVE

Tracing the trail of desecration, J.D. asked around to see if anyone had suddenly collapsed or
suffered unexplained trauma.

A souvenir vendor staggered up to him as he turned left from Herreros Street. Police, police, he
calls out. He told him that just a few minutes before, he had seen a man crouched in the
courtyard of the convent at the end of the alley. As he approached, he heard two or three
moans, as if he was trying to hold back vomiting, followed immediately by the sound of chanting.
A nun had fallen shortly after, collapsing in front of the cowering man. As the vendor screamed,
the man ran through an archway into the interior of the convent.

Standing in the vaulted hall, J.D. looked up at the ceiling of the convent. Smoke from the
embers of the wall candles slowly rose to the ceiling and dense ochre-coloured clouds hung in
the air. Footsteps could be heard running through the side corridors behind us, and the sound of
heavy sha's falling over. He told a few terrified nuns to return to their rooms and headed towards
the sound of the noise. A pillar decorated with a wooden carving of the archangel Gabriel had
fallen. Behind it was a stone staircase leading to the basement, the hinges of which had been
broken off.
He holds a lantern at face level. A stone subterranean passageway extends backwards. It was a
secret escape route that the colonial priests had their workers build. The silence of the
underground overwhelmed J.D. It was like descending into “Infierno” (Hell). This underground
passage felt as if it existed out of living time.

A breath-stopping silence and slowness filled the passage. He felt like an helpless foreign object
- a sacrifice on the altar of darkness - who had wandered in there. For the beasts and murderers
that lurk in the shadows of the night, the darkness of the underground could be a cosy place to
sleep, or it could be the monstrosity. He can hear noises at the end of the passage. Surely the
monster is here - the oxygen was faint. The carefully and precisely hewn masonry walls are sure
to consume JD's body heat. J.D. goes straight down the underground passage and turns right.
Turn again and go straight ahead. There are few branches, but they extend over a surprisingly
wide area. He should be able to get above ground from somewhere, but if he can't...

There was no sludge or sewage. There were no rats rushing by, but out of the blue, he came
across the carcass of a dead dog. It must have wandered in from another exit, as it seemed to
have been dead for at least three days. The eyes, nose and floating ribs of the dead dog were
covered with maggots, and the body hairs were rippling under the skin. There was a sharp
buzzing sound. The next moment, something like debris hit the lantern. The glass pane
shatters, the carbide dish breaks and the lantern falls. The burning fire was extinguished.
Immediately, his vision was engulfed by darkness. What was that?

The lantern does not light when he tries to relight it. Could he have been struck by an 'invisible
bullet' just now? Even if he could not confront the wielder of supernatural power, he would track
him down and capture him. That was the investigator's mission. But this was not possible. If
they are blocked by the darkness as she is, they also cannot notice the opening. The only way
is to advance slowly with his hands on the stone wall. Then, the worst possible disaster that
could happen happened. J.D. is almost suffocated when he is dropped into the darkness
underground. He was buried alive in the ground in Antigua.

Why did they aim for the lantern, when they could have shot him in the head or the heart and
that would have been it? Is the monster taunting him, or is he trying to toy with his pursuer? A
chill crawls up J.D.'s spine, and something is building up heavily in his abdomen.

PAGE SIX
His eyelids pulse wildly, and his body temperature drops further and further. Step by step, in the
darkness that does not change whether she closes her eyelids or opens them, she was walking
along the cliff like on a tightrope when the hem of his jacket was suddenly pulled down.
Someone is here. “Oh, oh, oh, oh," a voice said. He told them to go back, but it seems that one
of the street kids had followed him here.

“Joaquin, is that you?”, said J.D. “You've come this far without a light?” There was no voice or
sign of Octavio. There was only his silent partner. Joaquin grabbed J.D. by the wrist and started
to tow the stranded boat. “You mean you want me to follow you?” He had absolutely no
hesitation in his steps and did not slow down. He didn’t run into any obstacles. His leading was
so precise and confident, he wanted to ask him if he could see through the darkness.

No, it can't be. No one can see things in the dark without the slightest light source. J.D. guesses
that this is also the advantage of the local people. They are familiar with the streets, they know
about this underpass, or maybe they come and go so much that they can run through it
blindfolded.

“Innnnfeeects oh oh oh!” Joaquin suddenly growled, causing JD to lose his centre of gravity. He
hears the swarming sound of the dreaded winged insects and is hit by something hard and
sharp. The pain was as intense as if he had been bludgeoned from the face by an execution
tool. His cheeks were ripped open, his forehead was cut, and blood poured into her lips and
eyes. J.D. dropped low and crossed his arms to protect his face as he ran. J.D. ran through the
thorny debris that had gathered like a cloud haze. As he ran, J.D. felt as if he had caught the
outline of an 'invisible bullet'. Could this be the true nature of what had destroyed the sacred
image and buried so many civilians? If so, this was no ripple, but something completely
different. Soon the darkness in my vision faded. A slanting light falls on the passage ahead. It
depicted a signpost to the ground. Up a narrow staircase, there was a square clearing in front of
the cathedral.

Here, the Holy Week parade had reached its greatest climax. Christ carrying the cross to the hill
of Golgotha. The most gigantic statue of the Holy Cross clung to the end of the parade, and
countless spectators surrounded the floats. The Cathedral, illuminated and standing out in the
night, drops its banners of holy blessing, confetti flies and residents in colourful costumes weave
in and out of the square lined with stalls. Finally, peddlers scramble to worship a statue of Jesus,
a brass band blares their instruments, and liturgical music whistles in the wind. It was as if the
Antiguan being was trembling with pleasure. J.D. comes out on the ground and is agitated as
soon as he leaves. This is where the monster thrives, his urges are certain to be unleashed in
the midst of the bustle. Had J.D. almost caught the guy by the tail, but lost him again because of
the chase?

“Yo, over here, over here!" A clear voice yelled, “'This must be the guy, he just jumped out of
the underpass!” Octavio was struggling in the street. He is wrestling with someone, splitting the
gravel and trying to hold the man by the neck as he flails about like a wounded beast in the
dust. His opponent is a bearded, dark-skinned Indigenous man. This is consistent with the
testimony of the sacristan. Like Joaquin, Octavio knew of the underground passageway: he
followed J.D., made sure he descended underground, and sent Joaquin after him, while he
himself went ahead and waited for him. Quite resourceful. He had already done more than the
investigator estimated...

PAGE SEVEN

But no matter how confident you are in a fight, it's still dangerous. If that man is the Antigua and
Barbuda monster, he could hurt the boy gravley.

“'You're not going anywhere, you're finished, so don't give me any more of your shit!” Octavio
yelled.

J.D. ran towards him, shouting, "Get away from him!” A crowd had already formed, and both
the Foundation's investigators and the army soldiers guarding the cathedral were coming
towards them, blowing their whistles. An old vagrant woman pushing a cart on a special trolley,
and the peddler's children are also gathering. No, go home now, J.D. wanted to shout to the
crowd in the square. The man folded into Octavio leaned back on his arms and began to move
his busy fingertips like a flag signal.

The air rumbled with a ripple, a whisper, a rustle and a shudder. Ripple, ripple, ripple, ripple,
ripple, ripple, ripple, ripple. The air was filled with a rush like a leaf blown by a strong wind. The
cries of the people overlap. It's a fly. A swarm of flies.
They were huddled in great numbers. The flies filled the sky like a swarm cloud, amplifying the
heaviness of the night's darkness. Or, if it had been broad daylight, it would have clouded the
area as a pseudo eclipse. Zaaaaahhhhh, zaaaaahhh, zaaaaahhhhh, zaaaaahhhhh, zaaaaahhh,
zaaaaahhh, zaaaaahhh, zaaaaahhh, zaaaaahhh, the depths of the night are convulsing. The
landscape in front of me was visually shifting. The citizens of Antigua, looking up at this
perversion of normality, had no idea what this bizzare thing meant. Nevertheless, the instincts of
those living in the religious capital instinctively felt that it was the manifestation of an apocalyptic
evil omen.

The bearded Indigenous man turns his wrist, as if he were musk fishing with a hook and line,
and a swarm of flies descended on the ground. J.D. could see that it was not just a fly. It was a
sacrilegious tool used by the monster. Each one of them was a deadly bullet. It was a mass
shooting. The fly's deadly bullets rained down, aiming first at Octavio. It was no ordinary fly. It
was a deadly weapon that pierced the skin, hardened to the point of breaking flesh and bone,
and raced towards the light and body heat. Octavio, hit in the shoulder and back, scrambles
away from the man and crawls, cowering and shielding his head, before slinking behind an
enclosure. The cross on Jesus' back cracked as he struggled on. It quickly shatters in a black,
murky whirlpool.

PAGE EIGHT

It all fell apart like a explosion. In front of the cathedral there was a warlike uproar. It was the
airborne roar that brought Passion and death. The blackness of the raining flies eroded all the
colours of Holy Week and dyed it in the colours of the underworld apocalypse. The chaos was
further stirred up by the lines of people fleeing in confusion, taking shelter under floats, pushing
over stalls and moving right and left. A man stands at the centre of the bustle.

Antigua's monster dances wildly with his hands as if he is pretending to be a fly, chanting
something in a non-Spanish language. He was laughing with happiness or weeping with
sadness, his face filled with grief, ecstasy, repentance, and ecstasy as he sobbed.

Large tears were dripping down his chin. It is as if he is forcibly squeezing out something— an
abomination that should not be shown to others. J.D.'s vision is blurred, wanting to get closer
but unable to. The monster standing ten metres away from him is distorted, and the air behind
him is shaking like a thick fog. The government troops have fired their automatic rifles,
launching a guerrilla war against the flies, but a conventional barrage cannot push back the
concentrated bombardment of the swarms of flies. They cannot even intercept them. The
situation was the worst possible tragedy, the stuff of nightmares. The fly swarm was clearly at
the will of men, and in J.D.'s hands there was no sword or shield to challenge this tyranny. The
Antiguan monster was no longer blowing the unmistakable siren whistle of slaughter.

The chain of command of the government forces is in shambles and the equipment of the police
and foundations is no match for the quantity of casualties. At the very least, civilians must be
evacuated, but there is no roof to run into this open-air square. The death-bearing moat will
enter through high windows and ventilation fans, even if they run into the cathedral. Brass band
wind instruments on the ground have had their windpipes blown out, crests have been
vandalised and even the roof of a military vehicle has been turned into a beehive. Children who
had failed to flee would slump over, old women of the tottering vagrants would stagger and fall,
and the crowds would wildly flee to the fountain in the square.

The two sides clashed and jostled each other. The fly bombardment continued, and JD was
unable to offer help to the citizens of Antigua, not even to one of them, these people, who had
nowhere to run. No help? Is the Lord only silent in this ancient city? Do the prayers of the
believers not reach heaven even in the midst of chaos? J.D. looked down at his feet. Grains of
broken glass were strewn about, as were countless fragments of the holy statues. The scattered
glass pieces reflected the irregular light of the corner lamps and torches, twinkling faintly.

Flowers and leaves were emerging overhead, as if in response to each of these tiny lights. The
materials flew as if they were weaving the city together. Leaves of plants, fresh flowers and
coloured sawdust were rising to the heavens as if electrified and brought to life. It was as if a
miraculous wind blew up from the surface of the earth, not from the heavens. Oh, this, J.D.
knew, was the outpouring of the extraordinary power they had discovered.
 PAGE NINE

The sacred art that originated in Tibet, the secret method of creating a mighty torrent of energy.
The soaring flowers, grasses and sawdust acted as a 'ripple' medium, overlapping and layering
to form a huge dome that almost covered the whole area of the square. It functioned like a
mosquito net with an electric current running through it, binding together seamlessly and not
allowing the flies to attack further. It flows forward out with the life force as the sunlight, carrying
everything away and keeping them out.

They were on their way, after all. That person has arrived in time.

He had never heard of such an application of the art. The entity that the users of the 'ripple'
were able to defeat more than a quarter of a century ago was bigger than this disaster that
befell Antigua, maybe even bigger than the earth itself. They could do it, and only they could do
it, and this chaos in front of the Cathedral of the Holy Cross has not yet been given a name. The
same is true for the outburst of energy witnessed by the citizens present, but at a later date, the
internal documents of the Speedwagon Foundation will record the name of this applied art.

A Thousand Colors: OVERDRIVE!

The elderly vagrant woman who had collapsed stopped and lifted herself up from the ground.
She is not a vagrant at all, but wearing is a disguise that keeps people’s unwanted attention off
of her. But she is an older woman. When she pulls down her hood, her long hair, stained the
colour of silver and white, flows in the air like a waterfall. Half of her face was covered with a
scarf, but even just her exposed eyes had a surprisingly noble air.

What is her real age? The use of her physicality has made her look 20, no, maybe even 30
years younger. She says that she stopped paying attention to the anti-ageing aspects of her life.
Even so, she ages naturally and beautifully, full of distilled, unadulterated energy. As they say,
the mellow alcohol concentrates and grows in sweetness and intensity. From back to waist,
curving like a Stradivarius masterpiece, J.D. doesn't know exactly what to say to the veteran
vixen. What does she look like? She wears heels as high as the stakes she drives into the
ground with her rippling breathing technique. The woman, who looks at J.D. when their gazes
collide, is a beautiful display of rainbow with the rest of the flies in her grasp.

Driving him away with his cane, she walks towards the Antiguan monster, who is distraught,
shaking, unable to swallow the sudden change in the situation. With each step, it’s as if she
were crossing over the night. The monster notices the old woman approaching. He shouts
something, probably in the language of the Indigenous people. The old woman shouts back,
perhaps in the language of the Indigenous people too, as if the words of a resentment, or
perhaps a lie, coming out of her like fresh spit and she couldn't stop them. On the other hand,
she utters something in fluent Queen's English. “The festival is over.” J.D. rushes to the old
woman and man, while sending instructions to the other investigators.

One of the greatest surviving ripple users has come to the scene of the crime. The greatest
object of research, the owner of an ability that has never been observed anywhere in the world,
could not be allowed to escape. Together with the investigators, she closes the siege with a gun
in her hand: “Shall I help you? If you can't shut up yourself, shall I shut you up?”

The woman had done something to the monster, making him lose control of the flies. The
monster, who seemed to have realized what was happening, opens his mouth wide to let out a
desperate cry. Led by a single fly that buzzed up from the back of his throat, a large number of
spewing flies hit her in a sideways blow. But there was no retreat. No shaking. She was not
particularly quick, but she was able to move without fumbling to where she was supposed to be,
to where she had been pre-determined to be. There was no spectacle of anything, no show of
excessive force. With her scarf, a bundle of silkworm-like glitter, she swept the swarm to the left,
carried her own body deftly to close the gap, and placed her hand on the monster's neck.

PAGE TEN

There was no room for J.D. and the others. The woman outshined them all. After achieving such
a tremendous performance, they could breathe enough to make one large man faint. The lung
capacity of the 'ripple' was extraordinary. He couldn't help but marvel. She had been involved
with the Speedwagon Foundation for a long time as a special adviser and had only been
appointed head of the department a few years ago. She was supposed to send out instructions
at headquarters as a commanding officer, but when she came out to the front lines in the field,
her work was no match for a bunch of investigators. She is still active in the field.

“I’m sorry it's taken so long for us to get here, and I'm sorry for all the hardship that fact has
caused.” She handed over the monster, which had been detained due to the protracted
Peruvian case, to the foundation's medical team, which had arrived on the scene with her. The
officer was also very appreciative of her investigators, making sure to thank them all. “Look at
this fly,” she said as she reflipped the bullet in her palm. ”It's hardened like steel or cast iron, and
what used to be violent has turned back into a mere runt. Probably because the person who
invoked the ability has fallen into a personnel depression. Hernández, the question in your
report must be solved.”

“Miss, is this not a ripple after all?”

J.D.'s suspicions, which he had been harbouring all along, were effectively confirmed by his
boss's affirmation. “The ripple is the power of the sun, the rush of the life force, but this is
something... even the darkest part of the human psyche, which lies in the depths of the
netherworld, has become more confident thanks to the embodiment of this power. The world is
being transformed, or has already been transformed. We have to find out which it is. The vortex
of change expands from Central America to the rest of the world.”

In this year, in this place, the past and the future were merging with each other. A gigantic wave
of temporal change that also affects the fate of the Speedwagon Foundation. A turning point in
history. According to records, the 'Antiguan Monster' was the first manifestation on the
observation list of a unique set of abilities that the Foundation would later devote all its
resources to investigate. It is not unlike a ripple, in spite of not being connected to the same root
somewhere in the ground. The woman who has come to observe the world will eventually learn
the identity of the new wonder, which in April 1973 had not yet been named and researched.
The woman who has come to witness the irreversible dividing line in history urges J.D.
Hernández and all the foundation's emissaries to be aware.

Her clear blue eyes gaze at the fate of her own descendants' future battles.

“That man tonight must have had a trigger for the manifestation of his abilities,” said the woman,
facing the investigator, “He must have been pierced by that bow and arrow,” said Lisa Lisa.

PART II: PAGE ELEVEN

Holy Week passed in a state of anxiety.

The Easter Vigil held a few days later was dedicated not only to Christ, but also to the many
citizens who had fallen victim to the monster. Bible readings, the sacrament of the Last Supper,
the coffin and the funeral mass were, moreover, rituals that had become part of everyday life for
the Guatemalan people. Order was disrupted, families and relatives became collateral damage
in the guerrilla warfare, and the deadly news reached the local rural Mayan villages that they
had all been attacked. As long as armed rebels continued to rebel against the Guatemalan
military regime, sudden death was a constant companion to life.

A long line of surviving family members carry the coffins down the church steps, which hung
with thick incense smoke, to the cemetery. Even if the steel flies are exterminated, none of them
could ever really know if another bullet would fly in from across the street.

Passing by a grand funeral procession and amidst the hustle and bustle, the emissaries of the
Speedwagon Foundation walked through the streets. A market stands in front of the church.
Lisa Lisa, wearing sunglasses, a scarf and a purple cape, is listening to the report of J.D.
Hernández, who is accompanying her, and looking at the market stalls. Lanterns, crosses and
handwoven fabrics patterned with the national bird, the cairn, fill the landscape with colour.
Although this is a market, there are no fish or other living creatures for sale, so there is no foul
odour to be smelled. What wafts through the air is the smell of ground maize flour and beans,
and the savoury tortillas the women are grilling.

A large number of women, ranging from young girls to old women, break the corn flour kneaded
with water into dumplings, which they crush with the palms of their hands and pat up and down.
Under a griddle made from a drum sliced in a circle, coals are lit and the tortillas are thrown into
the griddle, where the surface puffs up and the tortillas are ready to cook. She smiles at the
women who load her with freshly cooked tortillas but doesn’t push them away, nor look
disgusted when people bump shoulders with her as they pass by. Lisa Lisa gazes at the activity
of the land she has traveled to, listens to the vibrancy and smells the scent of life.

“Even when the killers are caught, people are still under the threat of guerrilla warfare, which
could start at any moment”, J.D. continued his report. ”Many citizens are impoverished and
jobless. If they want to escape from a life no better than that of stray dogs, they can either join
the army's ranks or cross the border into exile… They could see themselves dying in the field
and becoming supper for the forest animals. That's why they wanted to help us kill the monster.”

“From what I've heard, those two local boys deserve a lot of credit,” Lisa Lisa replies. The words
also include a scolding of J.D. and the other members. If they hadn't asked for local help, the
Antiguan monster wouldn't have revealed itself.

“You’re absolutely right. I’m responsible for putting them in danger. I sent them to the
Foundation for treatment, but they want to meet the representative of the investigative team,
possibly to ask for compensation. If you have something to say, I could tell them in your stead.”

“No problem, I will see them myself.” says Lisa Lisa, and begins to examine the items in the
marketplace. “But what kind of request will they make, I wonder?”

“I, too, would like to meet them.”

 PAGE TWELVE

The churches that occupy the city of Antigua all look like catholic buildings, but in fact they were
built by the conquistadors who invaded the region in the 1530s, who piled rubble from the
burnt-out city and defaced the original Mayan sacred sites. The Kʼicheʼ, the indigenous people
of the time, were one of the proudest and bravest of the Mayans, and fought to the bitter end in
the sacred city of Qʼumarkaj for the survival of the Mayan people in the face of conquest.
However, after a wound with a broken sword and arrow, a Spanish missionary preached to the
few surviving K'iche about the love and preciousness of their God. Believe in the Christian God.
Be fragile under this earthly cross. The colonization of the old religion. It was one part of the
occupation agenda that could be seen in every colony in the world. The Kʼicheʼ no longer
resisted, they pretended to kneel and make crosses, but deep in their souls they did not
abandon their faith.

Thus, indigenous beliefs and catholic doctrines overlapped and merged in places, creating a
mosaic of belief patterns in Antigua. Even today, some 400 to 500 years later, the churches still
echo with two types of prayer, Spanish and Kʼicheʼ. Some buildings even have altars that have
nothing to do with Christianity. When an elderly couple appears in church, they offer flowers and
candles on the Mayan altar, recite a prayer in Kʼicheʼ, and then leave without looking at the
statue of Jesus or the crucifix. Such spectacles could often be seen in this part of the country.

In the middle of the tragedy that took place in front of the Cathedral, there were descendants of
such Kʼicheʼ— people who had inherited their blood. One of them was the caged Antiguan
monster Fabio Úbufu. A Mayan Indigenous who had just turned 30, he had been sacked from a
subcontracted dairy processing factory. In detaining Fabio, the Speedwagon Foundation gave
the Guatemalan police a rundown. During the course of the analysis, it was discovered that
Fabio's ability to manipulate steel flies at will, did not mean that he could generate the flies
themselves. If detained in a sterilised cell with no ventilation, Fabio would not be able to use his
ability, nor be able to commit violent acts. In exchange for guidance, the Speedwagon
Foundation was granted informal interrogation rights. After days of visits by J.D. and long, silent
interviews, Fabio finally fell silent. Maquiladora Silvar.

He received his primary education at a Maquiladora Silva Catholic boarding school, but his
mother, brother and sister were killed in his home town of Chichicastenango for allegedly
harbouring suspected guerrilla soldiers. They were shot dead in the village square as an
example. God was merciless. No matter how much they prayed, the indigenous people's
prayers were only answered with silence. They had to get out of this country.
He attempted to cross the border by paying a smuggling contractor with his money, but was
conned, stripped of his clothes and thrown out before the border. Fabio drifted to Antigua, where
he continued to struggle with the question: “How did this happen?” He continued to wrestle with
the same question as his journey continued. As he climbed up the Hill of Crosses from the Via
Ancha de los Herreros, he was reminded of how much he hated the Christian designs that filled
the city. To him, this was just like the plantations of the Americans! The remote cause of the
capital influx of the big powers, the CIA-backed coups, the endless conflicts, Fabio found in the
churches built on top of the Mayan sacred sites. He was horrified. His family, his indigenous
people, have not been saved because Cerro de la Cruz is praying to a pagan god from a
different place. His people have been living in this world for a long time now. So Fabio decided
to rip up the church and its designs, which was built over the top of his people’s corpses. Unable
to restrain his rising impulse whenever a catholic feast day approached, he vandalised sacred
images and took one devout believer after another who embodied the faith he had lost. All this
was driven by what he named El Signor de las Mosques, 'The Lord of the Flies'.

“Now that you mention it - are you referring to that power you used? Or are you referring to the
unique form of faith you have found, or to yourself, who has become the lord of the steel flies?”

“You guys can't see them anyway,” Fabio began to laugh through the barred window. He was
crying with laughter. “You’re just like the others, just like them, you can't see them either. You
can't see them, no one can see them but me. I can't tell you about what you can't see. I don't
know, I don't know, I don't know anyway, this is definitely who I am, this is proof that I have
become my true self, this is the real god I have met anew.”

PAGE THIRTEEN

There is indeed a tendency towards hatred of Christans in Fabio. The anger and hatred of
those who have been deprived of their families and have no place to go is transformed into an
urge for retribution, blasphemy and destruction. J.D., who transcribed Fabio's testimony,
scribbled 'Lord of the Flies' outside the column. Was it the hallucinations of a deranged man? A
deformed alternate personality? Another self-image? Upon hearing the report, Lisa Lisa decided
to withhold her judgment on the matter. She tells J.D. to keep taking statements from Fabio
anyway. The most important question is when, where and how he got that ability.
“I heard that that fly guy was also a Kʼicheʼ”, said another indigenous descendant when visiting a
medical facility in Antigua City. “I don't know that guy, he's a disgrace to the Kʼicheʼ. I'm telling
you, I'm not like that murderer, if we hadn't been attacked by him I would have finished him off
right there and then.”

“What was your name?" asked Lisa Lisa again to the man on the sickbed, restraining her
subordinates.

“My name?” the Mayan descendant replied. He says his name as if he is inquiring about his own
well-known fame in front of a packed audience. “I'm not a stranger in this town, and you're the
dumbass for not knowing! My name is O… Octa… Octavio!”

Joaquin was the only one who cheered, as if he had been waiting for his friend to finish. This
one is not Indigenous, but mestizo, born of Spanish Caucasian and indigenous descent. Despite
their different lineage, race, skin and eye colour, they both grew up in an orphanage and shared
the same career path and subsequent livelihood. Their mixed heritage may have helped, but
they were more than just friends from the same hometown, they were an inseparable pair,
feelings of kinship linked them for life.

“Are you really the leader of everyone here? Even though you’re old enough to be my
grandma?” Octavio looks at Lisa Lisa with curiosity, without hesitation when she appears with
several men in tow. In return for his cooperation, Octavio, who was seriously injured by a fly
attack, was treated by the Foundation's medical team. He was making a remarkable recovery,
thanks to the medical resources that could not be expected in a normal hospitalisation, the
generous and precise surgery, and his remarkable vitality. The head of the team was summoned
to the hospital to discuss the situation and to receive as full a compensation as possible. The
investigators in the hospital room were nervous, and J.D. was also distressed, but Octavio,
without caring, spoke to her bluntly.

“What should I call you if not granny, lady, huh, what's your name?”

“I am Elizabeth Joestar. You can call me whatever you like. They call me Lisa Lisa.” J.D. and the
others were unnerved by the expression in her eyes, which were hidden by her sunglasses, but
Lisa Lisa did not dwell on the other's comments and sat down in the chair next to the bed, her
hands clasped together in front of her chin to form a sort of spire.

PAGE FOURTEEN
Despite a language of civility, Octavio is Octavio, and Octavio is a jittery boy above all else. He
is clearly perplexed by the way the white woman he is facing paces around, rocking her hips
slowly, the way she brushes her silver-white hair off her shoulders like a young girl, and the way
she sits with her old, still well-shaped legs elegantly crossed. How old is this woman? She is no
doubt a very old person, but the impression he gets changes rapidly from young, not young,
young, not young, depending on how she behaves from moment to moment. Her presence
exudes a certain sexiness, like an old but powerful magnet, and since this is the first time
Octavio has come into close contact with what a film producer has described as 'grandmotherly
eroticism', he seems to be experiencing some difficulty in his own way.

“You know what, Lisa Lisa? How did you— an old, frail woman with no muscle mass on your
arms, and veins like spider webs crawling out of your skin, manage to perform such a feat like
sending carpet sawdust flying— how did you perform that miracle, huh? What are you guys
after in the first place?”

“I told you not to get too involved,” JD says, checking from the side. “We agreed from the start
that if we caught the murderer, we wouldn't go into the details. I'm grateful for what you've done.
That's why she came to visit in the first place. But if she tells you something like that, you're
going to get restless," JD said. “Forget about it. We’ve already done damage control with the
other citizens.”

“It's going to be a bumpy road here on out, huh, Joaquin?”

Octavio nudges him, and Joaquin nods his head in agreement. “You’re the one who led
Hernández here through the underground passageway,” said Lisa Lisa, leaning over and tilting
her head at the other investigator. She is not as strong as her partner, but she also has a
curious glint in her eyes. “You are Joaquin,” Lisa Lisa looked at the two young men in turn. “And
you, Octavio. You are Octavio, and you want hush money on top of your reward. Or do you want
to brag to your fellow orphans about your magic tricks?”

“It ain't like that, we're…” Octavio took a deep breath, paused for maximum effect, and he
exhaled. ”We've been waiting,” he said with almost theatrical sincerity, turning his gaze straight
at Lisa Lisa.

“Oh-oh-oh,” Joaquin croaked in resonance.

“See, I know these things happen. I’ve been waiting for this dickish town, for this callous, boring
world, to show a different view. I've been waiting for this for a long, long time. I don't know what
kind of work you guys do, but you're going to keep chasing guys like that, aren't you? You're
going to go out across the border and solve the mysteries of this world, just like you rode into
Guatemala from your home country. Right, hey, right?” Octavio has a burning fire in his eyes,
and Joaquin is leaning forward, his eyelids wide open. “You never would have guessed. You
would never have guessed that we, the locals, had such hopes. But we're not just another
bunch of people for you to rub the sleeves of when you bump into us on the street. We are not a
cloud that migratory birds fly past. Now that I'm involved, take me and him with you. I want to
get out of here. Have you ever imagined? A never-ending civil war.

The unrelenting noise of agony. The hardships of the days covered in blood, fatal wounds and
stench. A youth that is simply rotting away, without tomorrow's bread or a decent job. The
loneliness of being the face of the street, with nowhere to go and no exciting adventures to be
had. Up on the hills at twilight you can see the dusk colours engulfing the local landscape, the
map of stars rising overhead. But you can't see anything beyond the horizon. There is always
nothing but a monotonous, dark wall of sky. It's as if, no matter what we hope for or believe
outside Antigua, the landscape we see from there is the end of the world. Such is the
suffocating life. Have you guys ever imagined that?”

PAGE FIFTEEN

“I could almost understand the story.” When Octavio and Joaquin complained about their
disadvantaged circumstances, Lisa Lisa responded with a cold statement. “Unfortunately, the
Speedwagon Foundation doesn't do any humanitarian work. The first thing for us to do is to
make sure that you are not a victim of the same thing as the other people who were attacked.”

“Joaquin and me are young and can move, and aside from Mr Hernández, we’re way more
useful than the other dazed and dumbass investigators you got just hanging around!”

“Let me have an interview or a hands-on test,” J.D. exclaimed, trying to calm the situation down.

“I thought you guys were helping us to protect the local town, to flush out the murderer.”

“So you know, that was true until this man showed up, Mr Hernandez. But then he showed me
something like that... So me and this man, we had a good discussion on the matter.”

Joaquin responded with a series of rejections, with J.D. acting as his mentor. He said, “The
power this man has used is not yours to engage with.”
Octavio balked, “You praised me, you said I did a good job!”

“Your work was only possible because of your network and your local knowledge.”

“Oh, you underestimate us, Mr Hernandez, you underestimate us! We didn't help with that
shitstain’s arrest because we're from the area. I've never told this to anyone, but the truth is that
both Joaquin and me have special abilities.”

“A special ability?” A crease between Lisa Lisa’s eyebrows moved faintly.

“It’s not horrible like that fly man, but we're orphans and we've been very close to God for a
long time. Maybe that's why we were given these gifts. We have eyes and a sense of smell that
can definitely tell the holy from the unholy, the bad from the good, the light from the dark. We
usually get it right, don't we, Joaquin? So we'll definitely help you, Senora, we'll be your hands
and feet, your eyes and nose, and we'll work for you.”

Lisa Lisa remained silent and quietly raised her eyebrows, as if searching for the truth of
Octavio's words.

“Take us into the Speedwagon Foundation, take us with you.” The two young men, full of
ambition and self-esteem, are not going to accept another denial from Lisa Lisa. No exceptions.
Even so, with her ability, she knows the true value of their courage, the extent of their
commitment, and the destiny they are destined to follow, and she is determined to make sure
that they are not left alone in the dark.

A faint smile crossed her lips, as if she knew she was being singled out. “I won’t immediately
accept this on the spot. However, we will see, once I’ve put it in perspective. I present a
challenge to both of you.”

PART III: PAGE SIXTEEN

Now, children of the future. Unravel the great records and attempt to reconstruct the past. You
should know once again about two young men from Antigua. They are the ones who will not be
behind J. D. Hernández and Elizabeth Joestar, also known as Lisa Lisa in their pursuit of the
supernatural with the Speedwagon Foundation, but rather will lead the way through the stormy
times - and they are the ones who will be the architects of the history that must be told. There is
no other way.

Marvel at this man. The young man with the large voice and body comes into view with brown
skin, obsidian eyes, cheeks and chin shaded as if carved by a mechanical tool, and over 185
cm tall, the majority of which are his legs. He was a descendant of the proud Quiché tribe, but
contrary to the standards of the Mayans, who are not very big, he looked like a Uruguayan
national football team player in appearance alone. Facing his well-developed chest, anyone
would be tempted to give himself 30 push-ups on the spot. He had just turned 19 years old at
the time, but his eyebrows are filled with a brave temperament, the appearance of a king with a
strong and brave character, he would not hesitate to throw himself in front of a puppy that was
about to be run over by a truck, he smoked cigarettes, told clever jokes and was a hit with the
girls. If only he had been born and raised differently, he could have jumped into Hollywood and
rivaled Clint Eastwood as a boy. Such a man's name is O? Octa? Octavio!

Thanks to the glare of his hawk-like eyes, the orphans of Antigua enjoyed having a soldier to
lean on. Despite some of these advantages, Octavio Luna Cancão was not a particularly
pleasant person to be around. He was addicted to playing the leading role, and would lash out
at his peers if they said or did anything even remotely clever. He calls someone a dick at least
once a day, and his sense of honor and self-esteem is so strong that he often goes off the rails
and causes damage by involving others in his actions. He is fearless and overconfident,
believing he can change everything.

PAGE SEVENTEEN

The other Mestizo, on the other hand, has never volunteered to change anything. Really,
nothing.

Behold this man. Behold Joaquin Ruiz-Holudá. In later years, it has been speculated that Lisa
Lisa's keen eye may have been drawn to the hidden potential of this other young man. He does
not have the wound-up eloquence of his partner, nor does he have a well-defined voice. He was
a young man who just wanted to be as free as the wind and live without fear of murder or
conflict. He has a memory that allows him to transcribe a priest's sermon word for word, and an
attention span that allows him to cover every inch of the landscape, and he can solemnly fulfill
his assigned role without complaining or whining. Joaquin was the right man to join the
Speedwagon Foundation's investigators, and yet he would not have willingly thrown himself into
the change if his partner had not been so willing to do so.

Ever since he can remember, Joaquin has functioned as a protective barrier for Octavio. In fact,
if he had been able to hear the words that were overflowing in his chest, he would have said:

“If Octavio wants to go, I want to go. If he wants to get out of here, I want to get out of here.
Because I'm Octavio's glue, and I've always gone with him on his dates with the girls. I'm
Octavio's companion, I'm the one who encourages Octavio to do things he desires, I'm like
Cricket, the conscience of Pinocchio.” He is the bard who sings songs about the hero's exploits.
Because he is the one who picks up after Octavio and follows him when he drops his trash, as
Octavio rushes forward with no regard for the future. “I have never been dissatisfied with such a
role. Octavio is not only a man with a simple, naive sense of justice and a manly spirit, but he is
also twisted and unpleasant, but even so, he was the only person I could communicate with
when I couldn't speak, because he was the only person I could communicate with since I was a
child. We were always together. So, do you understand? If Octavio wants to join the Foundation,
I want to join too. If he believes that this world has surprises and adventures in store for him,
then I can believe it too. If I am given the opportunity to leave Antigua, I will do my best to be
there. But these thoughts will never reach anyone in the form of spoken words.”

Drawn together by a strange fate, the orphans of the Storm - Octavio and Joaquin - are given
their first task: to find out if someone else like Fabio Úbufu is lurking around somewhere. This
would be perfect for the boys! They already have an intelligence-gathering network in place.
“Has anyone behaved strangely recently, has anyone suffered from unexplained fevers or
illnesses, have there been any strange incidents?” They asked around from one end to the
other, from colonial building repairers, priests, sacristans and nuns, thieves selling bandits'
goods, pimps and prostitutes, float makers to jade makers.

“I'm not going to answer any questions from people. “I'm a sinner, I'm a sinner, I'm a sinner, I'm
a sinner, I'm a sinner, I'm a sinner, I'm a sinner! I'm not going to answer anything people ask
me!" says an eccentric old lady,

"My father has been in hospital and hasn't woken up, and the police won't act. I want to make
sure that such an incident would never happen again", he said, causing her to weep. He was a
master of lies, emotionalism and cunning tactics, and he gathered live information, asked
questions and crushed them, and then sculpted the rumours of the city like putting together the
pieces left over from multiple puzzles to create a different picture. This one was quite difficult.
When they went to the subcontractor factory where Fabio worked and to the landlord of the flat
to talk to him, most of them had already been investigated by J.D. and his team. Are they being
forced to compete with active investigators to see who can get to the facts first? Those bitches
gotta leave the country sooner or later. If the boys don't bring usable information by then, they'll
be gone before you know it and that means goodbye forever!

"That Fabio guy, he couldn't have been born with the ability to control flies, could he, like maybe
Lisa Lisa and the others?"

PAGE EIGHTEEN

That's what it comes down to, Joaquin answered Octavio with a disobedient look on his face.
Devil. “Did he learn black magic or did he sell his soul to the devil?” Yeah, yeah, something
happened to him somewhere. The most important thing to remember is that the best way to get
the most out of your investment is to make sure that you have the right investment. You can only
search the local area so far and still not find anything.

“The first time I entered Antigua, I was in the middle of the sea," he said. “He was already a fly
man when he washed up in Antigua. If he met the Devil, he would have….”

Drifted to this city, before?

“Let’s see if we can find the one who smuggled him.”

Octavio's first stop was a smuggling contractor. Hunted guerrilla soldiers and civilians, the
jobless and destitute, and eager dreamers looking for a new land are constantly heading north
into Mexico, but the border is heavily fortified with pigs, and the illegal route is controlled by a
number of contractors. Most of these contractors were malicious, demanding tens of thousands
of quetzals in additional money, and in some cases they were stripped of their clothes and
thrown deep into the forest. As far as Octavio knows, Pedro Achoa, the so-called 'impatient
man', Enrique, the 'knife-wielder' and many others disappeared from the town to try their luck,
and he has not seen a single one of them again. Fabio also told his colleagues at the factory
that he had tried to cross the border. He said that he was not able to escape and that he had a
terrible time, but he still was able to survive the horrible experience, while most of them either
went down or were shot dead by border guards. Could it be that Fabio had already gained the
power of a monster at that point?

He ventured outside his local area, moving from neighbourhood to neighbourhood, village to
village, day and night. It was there that Octavio ran the back alleys of Antigua. He traced the
contractors who did not have signs on the main street, and by passing whispered secrets and
gossip from mouth to mouth, he identified the contractor who was in charge of smuggling people
from Fabio's home village. “So, it seems that the contractor's boss changed a while ago, just
when Fabio was about to cross the border. The whole team has become more vicious since the
head changed, demanding dumbass amounts of money, making them take dangerous walks,
and there are even rumours that they deliberately let them go deep into the forest to test their
guns. It's like they're hunting people.”

The deadline had not expired, but it was four days into the assignment when he went up to the
inn where Lisa Lisa was staying to report the clues he had found. How's that for a pass on the
screening? Octavio was all smiles, he was all smiles, he was all smiles for J.D. and the others
who had turned their noses, he was all smiles, he was all smiles to prove he was useful, he was
all smiles, but in reality he was like a Labrador dog who had come back with a bone in his
mouth.

“Senora, I heard that the gang of contractors has a small settlement in the forest north-east of
Guatemala City as their hideout. We know the approximate location and can guide you there. I
doubt your guys know where it is.”

PAGE NINETEEN

In a soft tone of voice, she inquires of Joaquin and Octavio. “The fluorescent lights are flickering
blindingly fast. This light is much brighter though.”

Octavio lifts his chin and draws his eyes to his upper eyelids. “Huh, Abuela, what did you start to
say?” Joaquin and him exchanged a dubious look.

“Over a hundred times a second, so you can't see it”

“Are you sure? It doesn't look like it, though…”

“It’s constantly flickering, flickering, flickering, flickering...' Her eyelashes sway faintly, but she
doesn't blink. Lisa Lisa stares into the fluorescent light. “The first time I saw the light, I thought
I'd be able to see the darkness that was escaping between the lights,” she said. A hundred
times in a second. Darkness surely does exist between the flashes. But the human eye cannot
catch it.

The fluorescent lamps were somewhat pretentious and dispensed a white light. It was as if they
were cutting through the white with a brazen face, saying that there was no darkness hiding
anywhere. “I and you live as if we are passing through intermittent light. Light and darkness, the
other side of the chasm in the world, the world where our reason does not prevail, is haunted by
the shadow of death, which thickens the shadows of everything. Those who live in the light and
those who live in the darkness, they are so close to each other that they almost touch, but they
never mix.”

Lisa Lisa lowered her face and looked at Octavio and Joaquin with clear eyes. “Our task is to
catch a moment of darkness the second it comes in,” she said. “The investigators of the
Speedwagon Foundation are neither CPO employees nor agents. We are not a secret society
like the Freemasons, nor a social club to protect certain vested interests. They may wear black
suits, but there are no symbols, emblems or decorations to be seen on their ties or cufflinks.
Investigators become ciphers themselves, hiding themselves from the public eye. Are you ready
for that?” Octavio bravely thought that this would be like a normal interview before being hired.
It's a piece of cake to make oneself invisible and out of the public eye. In fact, he was proud that
this was how he and his fellow orphans had lived.

“You guys have a special ability…”

“Today's report is the result of that, isn't it?”

“Yes, that's right. I can't believe how fast you've finished my task.”

“Thank you, senora.”

“I'll ask you both one more question.”

“What is it?”

“What's the biggest lie you've ever told in your life?”

“I'll tell you. I hate lying," Octavio was the first to answer. “If you can avoid lying, you have to do
it, even if it's cruel and harsh.”

“Hmm. Joaquin, what about you?'”

Joaquin, his face slightly thoughtful, picked up the notepad next to the phone and ran a pen
through it. I've never lied in my life, which is probably the biggest lie of all.

Lisa Lisa lifted one side of her cheek. She seemed to like Joaquin's answer. “Then pack your
bags. You’re going to the contractor.”

PAGE TWENTY

Overhead, a black condor is sweeping in a wide arc. A drowsy breeze wafts along the mountain
road through the fringes of the rainforest. A line of four arranged vehicles was traveling along
the mountain road. J.D., driving one of the three vehicles, seemed to have difficulty adjusting to
the fact that two people he knew as local street rats were riding with him, wearing the same suit.
Octavio and Joaquin are also in the same vehicle as Lisa Lisa. They were given a thorough
education on the philosophy, ethics and welfare of the Speedwagon Foundation, founded at the
beginning of the century, as well as the workings of the supernatural department before setting
off. As apprentice investigators, they were not lent guns. The department does not focus on
combat in the first place, and only carries a gun for self-defence when entering conflict zones for
investigations, with the exception of Lisa Lisa, who had no need for any other weapon than her
bare hands.

The layers of dense foliage open up to reveal a large masonry triangular pyramid outside the
window. Four or five of them rise vertically. “Mayan ruins,” Lisa Lisa said. The Speedwagon
Foundation is one of the world's leading researchers in archaeology and ancient civilisations,
and Lisalisa, who has been closely involved in these fields, had expert knowledge of the
civilisations of the region. Both Octavio and Joaquin had taken a lesson in ancient history.
According to their grandmother, the ancient Mayan civilisation built their settlements from stone,
mainly limestone. The cultivation and harvesting of corn increased as a result of improved
breeding, giving rise to a nature-worshipping religion. Accurate prediction of the transition
between the wet and dry seasons was of paramount importance, and people with a background
in mathematics and astronomy were employed.

In order to determine the movements of the heavens, they piled up stones in a pyramid shape,
and kept themselves in the observation room at the top, which was higher than the canopy of
the trees, to observe the movements of the sun, moon, stars and planets in minute detail. The
Mayan calendar had already been calculated to the extent that one year = 365.2420 days. The
ancient Mayans were so reliant on the gods of nature that they had to develop a calendar and
numerical science with such a high degree of accuracy. The rituals governing the heavenly
navigation were absolute, and their faith grew fanatic, sometimes even sacrificing their own
blood and organs in an attempt to seize control of the heavenly observatory.

“Zero, you see,” Octavio said, hiding yawning tears.

“Zero. All and nothing. The truth and principle of this world. Perhaps what we are following is
Zero's homeland.” The vibrations of the car helped Octavio to doze off, but Joaquin listened
attentively and earnestly. It was also a reenactment of their boyhood. It was Joaquin's role to
listen to the teacher in class.

“You two are like the embodiment of the binary system,” said Lisa Lisa, changing the subject.
“Octavio, like a one, stretching towards all possibilities, and Joaquin, like a zero, bottomless and
ready to swallow anything. It’s interesting.” The pyramid followed in the rear view for a while
through the canopy of the hiro-tropical forest. When the 70-plus metre ruins eventually
disappeared from view, fields of freshly harvested and burnt fields appeared on either side. In
the plantations, coffee plants were late to the Antigua region, with white flowers and red fruit.
Birds and deer wander between the trees, and the farm women who pick the coffee berries by
hand join them, creating a rich ecosystem.

PAGE TWENTY ONE

Further on through a landscape of groves of oak and mahogany, we came to the settlement we
had been aiming for. The village, which is hidden by the camouflage of the forest and separated
from the centre of Guatemala by camouflage, is said to be inhabited by guerrilla soldiers who
have fallen from the People's Army and are expelling the original inhabitants. The contractors,
who not only arrange smuggling, but also make their living as drug cultivators, couriers, thieves
and kidnappers, are presumably out somewhere, leaving the settlement completely unpopular
and filled with a somber silence.

The foundation's vehicle slowed down and drove on cautiously. In the centre of the village,
surrounded by trees, there is a circular square from which several dwellings are built in a
cross-shaped pattern. The dwellings have only corrugated tin roofs or roofs made from piled up
stones, with walls broken and foundations crumbling in places. In a corner of the square, a large
water tank was miserably rusted and charred. Wilting plants and trees were swaying in the wind,
and the grass was bowing and twitching in the dark. Hand-knitted hammocks hung from the
trees, creaking and squeaking as they were left in place.

“I’m sure it's not a crapshoot,” Octavio blurts out as he gazes out over the depressing
landscape. Joaquin rolled down the car window. The breeze blowing in smelled of wax, sap and
earth.

“I hate the countryside, Joaquin.” Octavio grumbled, and Joaquin was silent. “I HATE the
countryside, Joaquin!” Octavio complained, as J.D. said that they might have been crushed by
government forces, or moved somewhere else in anticipation of an attack.

So if they’re too late, does this mean they’ve wasted their time? Octavio was more determined
to search the house, so he opened the door and jumped out of the car, but as soon as he got
out, he said, "Ow!” he jumped up and lifted one of his feet up by the shoe. Something sharp and
iron exposed from the ground. Octavio stepped through it and, buried in the ground was a rake.
“Damn, it's like a trap. This is why I hate the countryside.” Octavio had injured his toes. It was a
serious injury in its own right, but doubly so as he was unable to lower the soles of his shoes to
the ground again. Indeed, traces of life could be seen. Various objects had fallen outdoors and
the chalk lines of circles and squares drawn by some children were still fresh.

“Hopscotch stone-kicking games,” Lisa Lisa said, looking out of the window. “I wonder if it
means that some contractors lived with their families here. Let’s explore, maybe there are still
some of them left.”

With a single word from J.D., the investigators get out of the car parked in the shade of the tree.
“Wait here,” he told Lisa Lisa, as J.D. got out too. Joaquin also gets out as he rearranges his
feet. The younger investigator got out of the car in the back row and put his feet on the ground.
A rumbling sound crawled up from under their feet, shaking the group's ears and skin. Before
they could blink or not, the investigators disappeared underfoot. Suddenly, a hole in the ground
opened up and swallowed them. With a roar and a cloud of dust, the surface of the ground
gouged out and collapsed in an avalanche. Sand and stones flew high into the air. Even the
investigator's entire body had collapsed, leaving not even the top of his head.

PAGE TWENTY TWO

“Hey, what's going on?” J.D. immediately called out the name of the investigator. He tried to
make sure he was okay, but there was no reply. The voice was sucked into a hole that had
formed there. What was that, what happened? A pit? But not on such a scale. He rushed to the
edge of the hole with a nearby investigator, but we could not see the investigator who had fallen
into the two-metre-diameter vertical hole in the ground. Too deep. You can't see the bottom. This
is not some childish prank where they dug a hole with a shovel and covered it up with dirt and
grass. This is a landslide. Even a bomb dropped from overhead would not create a hole this
deep. This is an abyss.

“Hey, what the fuck happened!” Octavio shouted.

“I don't know, what the hell is this?”

“It’s a pit, it's a pit.”

This isn't so easy. This is not that simple. The investigators, who had been scattered in all
directions, returned to help their comrades. One of them was once again caught in a cave-in in
the ground. It was more clearly visible than the first collapse. He fell, screaming as he tried to
step over the white line of chalk and slipped on the edge of the cliff. Soon the screams were no
longer heard. Then he heard a yell from the opposite direction, but when he turned around, the
investigators were already gone. There it is: hole, hole, hole.

“No one move a muscle,” J.D. shouts, and Octavio and Joaquin both freeze. 'This isn't just a
cave-in, this isn't some kind of natural disaste. This is a trap, this is a—“ Attack. Who is it? The
contractors. Is it a pitfall they've set up? Pitfalls are a means of hunting large beasts and a tactic
in modern warfare. In Guatemala, they are often used by armed rebels and the People's
Liberation Army as a guerrilla warfare method. It is used as a response to enemy forces
attacking one's own camp, as a warning line to set up, and as a souvenir of retreat. However,
this pitfall is a man-made pit, in terms of both the depth of the hole and its concealment.

If it were an attack, it would be something akin to the steel flies. J.D. had an intuition that the
hidden, amazing power was once again being activated. So what are its principles, its laws?

Then Joaquin said, “Oh-oh! Oh-oh!” like a tropical bird. He pointed eagerly to the ground. There
were round enclosures, triangular and square inclosures, and a number of shapes marked out
with white chalk lines. How many were there?

“I know what you mean, Joaquin, I see them too!” J.D. shouts back.

“This is a special attack, if you step on the chalk line, you'll fall into the pit! I'll tell you one more
time, never step on the inside of the chalk!”

“But I've already stepped on it…” Octavio said in a strained voice.

“What the hell, stay where you are!”
Looking over, Octavio's left foot was indeed inside the white line where he stepped on the
ground. However, the cave-in did not occur. Octavio, standing there as if he had stepped on a
landmine in error, stiffened, not knowing what to do, but Joaquin pointed to his companion and
lifted his right leg to imitate his position. Octavio was standing on one left leg, holding his right
leg, which was dripping with blood. Oh yeah, stone-kicking games. Hopscotch. Following
Joaquin, J.D. was grasping some of the principles of the phenomenon that was taking place.

PAGE TWENTY THREE

Seemingly no longer lagging behind, Octavio also spoke up. “I know what's going on. Hey, even
Antigua's golden boy is playing on the pavement. As long as you don't step on the chalk
enclosure with both feet— as long as you're jumping on one foot, you're safe.”

Joaquin, J.D. and the rest of the investigators stood on one foot. J.D. instructed them to return
to the vehicles and then to take steps to rescue those who had fallen. The scattered
investigators returned to the car in a frenzy. What kind of phenomenon is this, Octavio said,
“Granny and the fly dude are both insane, but this is a next level of crazy ass witchcraft and
sorcery!”

“Wow, there really is no bottom. What happened to those who fell off, Mr Hernández, did they
fall off the face of the earth?”

“I don't know, but we have to get out of here.”

“Hey, look,” Joaquin and Octavio shouted simultaneously. J.D., still standing on one leg, couldn't
believe his eyes. There was no figure bending over, no chalk in sight. Despite this, a white
powder of lime was drawn on the ground in front of him. A large circle was drawn in a tight,
curved line, followed by a square enclosure next to it, side by side. The figures, large and small,
cross each other in places and multiply one after the other like a raised, speckled rash, just like
the hives on the ground. As if invisible evil spirits were drawing chalk lines. The magic circle that
gargles the pit grows without limit. Dizzying circles overlap each other, one side of a square
intersects with one side of a pentagon, and geometric patterns multiply as if in a geometric
pattern. The land is laid out like a Tibetan mandala. The ground almost erased any room for not
stepping on the white line enclosure.

“Oh, don't put both feet on the ground, go back on one foot!”
“It’s no big deal to jump on one foot, but I can’t step on one foot.”

“Don't relax, go back on one foot!”

Even while giving instructions, J.D. almost lost his position. Confusion and agitation helped, and
it was never easy to keep standing on one leg. Dust was flying and his vision was blurred. He
was only ten metres away, but the vehicle he needed to return to was far away, and then he felt
a dull thud on his left leg. He leaned over at an angle, his position collapsing even further and
nearly knocking him off his feet. “Mr Hernández, oh, my leg—“ one of the investigators shouted.
The rusty point of a sickle was lodged in his left thigh. Where did this thing come from?

“The first time I heard of it, I thought it was a good idea. But not anymore, I’m going home.
They're attacking us!” A surprisingly large number of sickles, hatchets, knives and rakes come
flying at them.Everything that can be used as a weapon is being thrown. It is difficult to see
where they are being hurled from amidst the confusion and dust. At the very least, it is not just
one person who is throwing. They are scattered all over the settlement, hidden behind derelict
buildings and trees, and even if you feel a shadow of a human figure appear where you have
looked, it quickly withdraws and disappears from sight. As if the settlement itself was a trap,
multiple presences were attacking in waves, trying to knock the uninvited visitors into the abyss
at any cost.

“Ahhhhhh!,” shouted the investigator. He was unable to maintain one leg posture after taking a
hatchet to the other side of his body, and his other knee almost fell off, barely poking his hand
out. Still, the trap was triggered. Immediately, with a roar, the ground gave out and another
investigator was swallowed.

The most important thing to remember is that the best way to get the most out of your
investment is to make sure that your investment is in the best possible hands.

PAGE TWENTY FOUR

He was able to get out of the way, but with a whoosh and a bellow, he poked his hand into the
slight buffer outside the white line and just barely managed to hold on. He quickly repositioned
himself and lifted JD, who had been unable to move due to the scythe on his left thigh, onto his
shoulder and jumped up and down, supporting the weight of both of them with only one injured
leg.

“Octavio, you, you, you, your leg—”

Oh, my God, how was he supposed to cope with this?

“Get out of here. Just get back to the car.”

“Joaquin! Are you alright?”

Joaquin shouted in response to Octavio's voice. Joaquin did not get struck with a weapon in his
left or right leg like his partner. He dodged the projectiles with a quick, agile dodge and was
approaching the car faster than anyone else. “What's the matter, Joaquin?”

“Whoa-oh-oh-oh.“

“What, what's wrong with the car?”

“Oh-oh-oh!” Joaquin shouts. He was complaining about something.

Joaquin shouts. He is complaining about something. He groans: “Mr Hernández, that was—
That was— around the car— the chalk.”

A line of white chalk is now being drawn around the parked four-wheel drive car. An invisible evil
spirit is trying to form a large rectangle. Both Octavio and J.D. could see it. This entrapment
does not only operate on bipeds. The grounding point of the vehicle was the moment the
four-choke enclosure was completed, and an unprecedented collapse occurred. The ground
beneath the bottom shattered and erupted, the air cracked and popped with a roar. Gravity and
pressure dragged the four-wheel drive vehicle towards the hole directly below. Like a waterfall of
dust and dirt clods, the car with Lisa Lisa in it, which was tumbling like an iceberg falling into the
sea, was unable to hold its breath as the shockwave of the collapse hit Joaquin. The sound of
the ground cracking echoed in his ears as if it were the earth screaming. The four-wheel drive
vehicle falls. How far will it fall?

This is war, someone says. Or else it is a caricature of war. Joaquín and Octavio were finally
learning what it was like to face this unknown 'awesome power' without any ability of their own.
They don't even know where the death traps are laid. Even the ground cannot be trusted. It's
like going unarmed into a vortex of flying weapons, booby traps and shrapnel. The fog of war.
It was J.D. who jumped into the thick fog-like dust. Octavio and Joaquin followed. They tried to
jump into the bottomless pit after their employer, even though they knew it would be as good as
throwing themselves over the cliff. If the reaction from down the hole had been a little later, they
might have actually done so. The dust, sand and car debris that should have been descending
downwards, rose up in droplets and overhead in a glassy, powdery glint. Those who stood on
the edge were bathed in the wind-like energy that erupted from the hole. Lisa Lisa grabbed the
tip of the outstretched cloth that had grown out of the hole and, without even stepping on it to
pull it back, she leapt back into the air like a leaping pole vaulter. She came back without a
scratch.

“I've never seen anything so unreal,” Octavio muttered, petrified.

PAGE TWENTY FIVE

She leapt up from the abyss with her 'weapon', which was both graceful and powerful, and even
performed an acrobatic manoeuvre, standing upright with only the tip of the muffler on the
ground. The muffler was attached to the inside of the chalk line, but there was only one point of
contact. Safe.

“You're not going to die from this, are you?”

“I would hope not.”

“You're an old lady. How’d you train yourself to do such a feat?”

“I've ruined the car. Hernández, do we have to walk home…?”

“Mr. Hernandez, this is a psychic attack. In this short time, five investigators have been lost. We
need to retreat immediately and plan our countermeasures.”

“Retreat? There is no need for that. I was just about to call out to you,” Lisa Lisa continued in
her eccentric posture. “Thanks to you, we have another piece of data. In a local war like this,
you have to find out the nature of the battle. This battle is an ambush by an unseen opponent.
What we have to do is search and destroy. This force does not seem to be able to spread a
wave of power or persistence over a wide area.”

“You can see it in the Antigua example,” continued Lisa Lisa. “The person who activates the
ability is always somewhere within the effective range. The holes here also show that the
degree of collapse differs depending on the position of each one. There are visible differences in
size, shallowness and depth. The building in the direction of the most powerful and large hole
is—”

“Well, okay!” Without hearing the instructor until the end, Octavio started to run, jumping on one
foot. Joaquin followed behind him. Even if they did not agree with each other, they were heading
in the same direction. Despite the injuries to both legs, Octavio kicked the ground with one foot
and reached the water tank in the corner of the square. A closer look at the rusted surface
reveals a peephole. Octavio, who had quickly climbed up the ladder to the top lid, peered into
the tank and exclaimed. “Hey, there they are! There are people in there!”

The activator of the ability, recorded as 'stone-kicking games' in the Hopscotch Investigation
Team's files, came under the protection of the Speedwagon Foundation on the same day. She
was Mestizo and she was only fifteen years old. She could almost make out the sound of her
pupils dilating like dark holes. A face that had lost all hope and fallen into emptiness. The sweet
skin of her lips was blotched with blood from eating too much of it. Tumble-tweed
canary-coloured natural curly hair, dirty and puffy like spinning grass. Darkened and scruffy,
there were still ruts of tears on both cheeks, but they seemed to have long since dried up in the
Foundation's presence.

“If anyone comes to explore the settlement, be it government soldiers, guerrillas or anyone else,
shoot them down,” She said. She told the other children to ambush us and to keep on
entrapping people like antelopes. “I didn't want to go with them, so they thought it would be fine
if they left me behind."

Isabella Mena-Monstromena, who had not bathed or washed for three months, did not need a
straitjacket like the monster in Antigua. As soon as Octavio found her, she was so weak that she
was giggling at the bottom of the water tank. She put up no resistance and was taken into the
care of the foundation, along with several other children who had also been left behind. It was
these children who had thrown hatchets and knives, but as soon as Isabella lost her fighting
spirit, the pit in the ground was closed. It returned to the original ground as if there had never
been such a thing to begin with. The fallen investigators were lying in a remote grove of trees,
but the physical damage they had sustained in the fall had not disappeared. They were still
seriously injured, as they would have been if they had slid down the cliff, with fractures in
multiple places all over their bodies, and two of them had been forced to re-injure themselves to
force regaining consciousness.
 PAGE TWENTY SIX

“I dunno what it is, but anyone who steps on the chalked area with anything other than one foot
will fall into the pit.” said Isabella, who was brought to the foundation's base.

“Since when could you do that?”

“Only I can get the chalk to work.”

A large abandoned building in Guatemala City had been converted into a branch of the
foundation. It is fully equipped with medical equipment and testing facilities to review the
evidence seized. Notes were pinned to maps on the walls, and bundles of new and old
documents were stacked and ridged. The room used for interrogation also contained a device
Octavio and Joaquin had never seen before, a lie detector or electric chair. Isabella, who looked
emotionally numb, was neither afraid nor relieved, but her gaze drifted away.

“Yes, you’re the one who was able to get that chalk out.” Lisa Lisa was asking the question in
her own words. Like a psychiatric counsellor, she had Isabella sitting on the sofa and herself
cross-legged in her chair. “Wasn’t it after you met the contractor this manifested?”

“My family tried to go to Mexico, but they tricked us and shot us with an old bow and arrow they
had. They said that those who survived could become useful, and those who didn't would have
to leave. That's what they said. My father and brother died like they were poisoned after they
were shot, but somehow I was the only one who survived and they took me away.”

Hope for a new world. The hopeful twittering of the forest birds. After the blast, the blood and
screams of family, the sound of arrows flying from behind.

“Everywhere you go in this country, there's war. One of us could have been strapped in that
chair over there, couldn't we, Joaquin?”

Tired, Isabella fell asleep and was sent to the medical unit. Lisa Lisa, accompanied by J.D. that
day, entered the briefing room and looked again at the two investigators and apprentices who
had been put on standby. The calm, hawkish look on their faces was like a priest coming up to
the podium with a sermon topic in his hands.

PAGE TWENTY SEVEN

“Unlike Fabio, Isabella gave us a lot of insight into what we were chasing," she said, pointing
with the tip of her cane at a point on the world map on the wall. It was in the mountainous region
of South America, south of Guatemala, on the border between Brazil and Peru. “Seven years
ago, in 1966, a massive 8.1 magnitude earthquake hit Peru, causing major tectonic movements
in the mountainous region. Workers from a research institute who went to the area where the
massive earthquake had occurred, 40 km east of Pucallba, which is connected to the capital
Lima by a highway, suddenly developed an unidentified illness, and although most of the
workers died strange deaths, only three or so showed unusual physical phenomena such as
spontaneous combustion and electrical discharges. It is thought that they were infected with an
unknown virus when they came into contact with some kind of mineral exposed on the surface
of the earth during the geological survey. Presumably, the pathogen, which had been lying
dormant underground, was released onto the surface as a result of crustal change. The virus
often kills the host on contact, but in a few percent of hosts it acts specifically. It invades our
natural soul and consciousness with deleterious effects, overriding the very composition— that's
how I see it.”

As with every epidemic that has ever spread across the world, it is the course of time, a kind of
fate, that pathogens and people will meet, said Lisa Lisa. Pathogens carried from polar regions,
uncharted lands, primitive forests and deep in caves are rarely beneficial to the survival of their
hosts, but most are unable to control the rapid changes in their own bodies. This is how humans
and viruses have developed a symbiotic relationship since ancient times. We are already
vehicles for hundreds of millions of trillions of microorganisms, whether they are bacteria on the
brain or bacteria in the gut.

'Or perhaps this mineral-derived virus was not dug up exclusively in Peru. It may have risen
from deep global strata to the present day, irreversibly altering the course of humanity. Just as
the world that met tuberculosis, malaria or influenza could never return to the world before it."
“What’s the point of all of this?” an uncertain Octavio asks Joaquín, who is standing next to him.
The other investigators have already been told some of what is going on, but they have no idea
where the words about the purpose of the foundation's activities are going to lead. Both Octavio
and Joaquin balked at Lisa Lisa's tone, which was solemn like the style of the Bible and cold
and hard as steel.

“I have spent many years since I took the position of adviser to the Foundation investigating this
matter. I have learned that in the more distant past, someone knew of the existence of this
mineral, collected it and transported it to Peru or one of the other places where it originated. The
ore was processed into the shape of an arrow, as a bearer of the transcendental virus that
transforms human existence. This is the arrow that pierced her. The arrowhead is made of the
same substance as the unknown mineral.”

Lisa Lisa and her team had long been conducting research across the border, but it was only an
inconclusive theory. It had no flesh and blood, such as testimonies or evidence, and for a long
time it had a place only in the stories and rumours people told, just as in the Bermuda Triangle
or the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. Until today, when the conversation with Isabella took place.

PAGE TWENTY EIGHT

“Who made the arrows and for what—” Lisalisa said to Octavio, to Joaquin, as if posing a vague
question about the secret of the world. She said. It was as if every breath and blood flow in the
briefing room stopped at that moment. Joaquin and Octavio looked at each other, recognising in
the other's expression the colour of self-doubt, as if the seams of consciousness had unravelled.

“Those who sought a certain perfect god-like power, those who have lived in the bloodline since
ancient times, or those who are descended from that lineage, instinctively recognised the true
value of the unknown virus and plotted to process it from minerals into arrows - that is our
hypothesis, based on the advice of experts and researchers. Perhaps not one, not two, but
several arrows were made,” she said. “And so, due to the inherent nature of arrows, they would
have traversed and penetrated the world, appearing to pierce places such as battlefields and
conflict zones.”
Isabella testified. She said that she believed that some of the arrows from the camp went to a
contractor named Noryo Shuhorn, the leader who did this to them. Octavio recited the name,
which was new to him, as if chewing it. Has is not only affected Isabella— the Arrow from the
past, that awakens the extraordinary power that has appeared simultaneously in Guatemala,
and whose abilities transcend human knowledge. Have Fabio, as well as numerous other
targets been shot at by the Arrow? What does this man Shuhorn intend to do with more people
awakening to their abilities? Does he want to organise them like a private army and build a
kingdom? Does he want to overthrow the society and the state by becoming a revolutionary of
established values, or does he want to invest in a business that is connected to smuggling and
drug distribution?

“In any case, he is not just an illegal, he is a most wanted person who should be wanted all over
the world. 'He is a man who uses arrows to control people,” said Lisa Lisa, holding up her two
palms like a balance plate. “A man called Shuhorn screens people by means of an 'arrow'. Our
role is to bring all the arrows that come into circulation under the control of the foundation.”

The Guatemalan night was surrounded by stars overhead and a dark horizon that seemed to be
the end of the world. Octavio, who had been completely taken in by the story of the woman and
the arrow, came out onto the terrace of the facility after the briefing, his cheeks twitching in the
open air. His eyelids moved sluggishly, he nodded his head and his speech faltered. With his
jaw dropped to his chest and his arms and legs held horizontally, he looks like a crucifixion
statue. His emotions were erratic and he seemed to be restless. Joaquin had never seen his
partner like that.

PAGE TWENTY NINE

Nevertheless, there is a silent but communicable sense of intentions between the two of them.
Joaquin could understand without asking. Octavio wants to say: there is an anomaly that is
happening to me. A miracle that has opened up for me. I am the one who has to act and decide.
I hear wing beats coming from somewhere. The sound of a pitfall crashing down is echoing. In
Octavio and Joaquin's minds, the reverberations of the extraordinary reverberate on and on.
Confusion, screams, tears, vomit and the fog of war. If they close their eyes, dizzying scenes of
battle fill the backs of their eyelids.

Looking up overhead, the night tent was like a hole of infinite depth, but the sky and earth were
upside down, and before you knew it, they were floating away, and about to be sucked into the
abyss. Joaquin stamped his feet to keep from falling into the sky, while Octavio's mouth quirked
an ironic smile.

“I mean, each of those people is going to awaken different abilities, right? If you're chosen by
the Arrow that Grandma was talking about…” Octavio opened his mouth to speak. Joaquin
could smell the danger signs in his profile. It was not just his directness, but Octavio's extremely
nasty nature that was on his neck. Insatiable ambition and a yearning for power. In a land where
all hope has evaporated, where he sleeps like a man dying of thirst day and night, Octavio
bellowed that he would make any sacrifice if he could escape such a reality. “Then what about
me? Which do you think I am, Joaquin? If I were to be pierced by that arrow, would I fall off, or
would I awaken to extraordinary abilities? Who wouldn't be tempted by such and such a story?"

Octavio, don't be a fool. Joaquin fumbles at his neck to see what has risen to the border of his
throat and mouth, but his friend's reproachful reply does not connect with his words. “You’d be
thrilled to hear a story like that, wouldn't you?” Their pulsing heartbeats, their palpitations, were
each racing deep inside their bodies. Indeed, the door was opened. There was no turning back
to the world after hearing a story like that. It was as if we were spinning around in a giant
vertigo, gradually being invaded by cancer cells. In the far distance on the vertigo horizon, he
could see a faint white-red fire flickering. It was in the direction of the forest to the north-east,
towards the masonry towers and ruins. Then he wondered if it was a wild fire burning down the
fields - but the fire was not burning like a dazzling hope.

It was a torchlight. Joaquin wobbled unsteadily on his feet. He felt as if his body would burst
through the curtain of night without a sound and fly away like a torn kite. But as if to hold it
together, Octavio's fingertips touched Joaquin's shoulder. Octavio's face turned to Joaquin. The
colour of his eyes, with their unnameable emotions, the tightness of his lips, the stiffness of his
shoulders, and the face that never stops changing, speak to him more eloquently than ever
before.

I don't know how far I can go, my friend, but will you go with me as far as you can go?