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The Jaguar's Lament
Ahanu Tennarse crouched atop the *Templo Mayor*, the ruins of Tenochtitlan sprawling beneath him like a shattered spine. At twenty, his dreadlocks hung thick with new relics—obsidian shards from the temple's sacrificial stones, a Yoruba cowrie shell from Lagos, and a lock of his grandmother's hair sealed in amber. His gold eye tracked the foot traffic below, tourists snapping photos of Aztec glyphs they couldn't decipher. His purple eye saw deeper: spectral warriors pacing the stones, their *tonalli* (souls) still bound to the earth by the Circle's greed.
A voice crackled in his earpiece, sharp and melodic: **"Caiman, you're stalling. The auction starts in ten minutes."**
**Xóchitl "La Algoritma" Mendoza**, his reluctant ally, was a ghost in the wires—a Mexica hacker with a penchant for Nahuatl memes and a vendetta older than the *Codex Borgia*. She'd found him six months prior in a Lagos slum, bleeding out from a Circle ambush. Her offer was simple: *"Help me burn them, and I'll show you where they hid your grandmother's bones."*
Ahanu adjusted his earpiece. "I'm waiting for the clones."
Three blocks east, his **Blood Clones** infiltrated the *Museo de las Culturas*:
- **Clone 1 (Dahomey)**: Posing as a security guard, absorbing the layout via stolen keycard swipes.
- **Clone 2 (Cherokee)**: Disabling cameras with a touch, fingertips crackling with static.
- **Clone 3 (Incan)**: Muttering Quechua equations to bypass pressure sensors.
Xóchitl snorted. "*Ticpiya in tlein ticchihua*? You think this'll be enough?" *You think this'll be enough?*
Ahanu's gold eye twitched. "You got a better plan, *Flower*?"
"Yeah. Stop pretending you don't need me."
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The Auction of Gods
The target: **Huehuecóyotl's Flute**, a pre-Aztec artifact stolen from Xóchitl's ancestors. The Circle planned to sell it to a Dubai prince for "aesthetic value," unaware it could wake the **Tzitzimimeh**—star demons who devoured the sun.
Ahanu dropped into the museum's courtyard, his boots silent against volcanic rock. Xóchitl's holo-projector disguised him as a janitor, but the ruse wouldn't last.
"East wing," she directed. "Guards have *nahual* tattoos. Don't let them touch you."
He moved, absorbing details:
- **Touch**: The floor's *tezontle* stone whispered of priestly processions.
- **Sight**: A guard's necklace bore a Quimbaya bird—*Amara's stolen relic*.
- **Taste**: The air reeked of Circle magic, bitter as burnt copal.
The clones converged, their faces flickering through ancestral traits.
"Distraction," Ahanu ordered.
Clone 1 (Dahomey) roared, drawing guards while morphing into a *hyena*—a stolen skill from Mali's Dogon hunters. Clone 2 (Cherokee) melted into shadows, and Clone 3 (Incan) triggered an earthquake simulation via hacked speakers.
In the chaos, Ahanu slipped into the auction hall.
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The Flower in the Dark
Xóchitl awaited him there, draped in a *huipil* dress woven with fiber-optic threads. Her face was all sharp angles—Aztec cheekbones, a nose ring of jade, and eyes like obsidian mirrors. She held the flute, her fingers dancing across its holes.
"Took you long enough, *nepantla*."
Ahanu froze. The last time someone used that Nahuatl term (*"one who straddles worlds"*), it was his grandfather's clone. "You've been inside my head."
"Please. Your brain's a *puesto de tacos*—messy, but predictable." She tossed him the flute. "The Circle's here for *you*. The flute was bait."
Footsteps echoed. Malik Voss entered, flanked by *nahual* guards shifting between human and beast forms.
"Cute team-up," Malik sneered. "The orphan and the hacker. But you're both *sous* in a cannibal's kitchen."
Xóchitl's grin was feral. "*Tlahtlacotin*." *Devourer.*
Ahanu's purple eye burned. "You stole my family."
"No," Malik said, snapping his fingers. "We *recycled* them."
The walls bled.
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The Dance of Fire and Code
The battle erupted in layers:
1. **Physical**: Ahanu fought Malik, their blows echoing with ancestral grudges.
2. **Digital**: Xóchitl hacked the museum's security drones, reprogramming them to target *nahual*.
3. **Spiritual**: The flute's song roused the Tzitzimimeh, their star-fire melting marble.
Ahanu **absorbed a drone's laser**, channeling it through his *macuahuitl* to sever Malik's arm. The man collapsed, laughing.
"You think this ends with me? The Circle's already in your blood, Caiman. Check your clones."
Ahanu glanced at Clone 1 (Dahomey)—its eyes now glowed Circle obsidian. *They'd corrupted his blood.*
Xóchitl grabbed his wrist. "We need to go. *Now*."
He hesitated. Malik's smirk was a razor cut. "Run, little bridge. She'll collapse you faster than Tenochtitlan."
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The Safe House
They fled to Xóchitl's loft in *Coyoacán*, a nest of servers and pre-Columbian art. Ahanu slumped against a mural of Coyolxāuhqui, his clones dissolving into contaminated puddles.
Xóchitl brewed *chocolatl* laced with nanobots. "Drink. It'll purge the Circle's code."
He recoiled. "You want me to swallow *machines*?"
"*Yancuic māyēhual*," she snapped. *Modern peasant.* "Your blood's half spirit, half Wi-Fi. Now *drink*."
The nanobots swarmed his veins, attacking the corruption. He screamed, visions flooding him:
- **Xóchitl at twelve**, watching Circle agents execute her parents for a codex.
- **Her nights** hacking banks to fund her revenge.
- **Her lips** on a girl's neck in Oaxaca, whispering, *"I can't stay."*
When the purge ended, Ahanu gasped. "You… showed me your memories."
Xóchitl wiped his brow. "You're not the only one who's lonely, *nepantla*."
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The Kiss of Coyolxāuhqui
They sat on the roof at dawn, the volcano Popocatépetl smoldering in the distance. Xóchitl traced the new glyphs on his arm—Incan sigils from the nanobots.
"Why help me?" Ahanu asked.
"You're the only one who *sees* me," she said. "Not the hacker, not the Mexica. The girl who's tired."
He cupped her face, gold eye softening. "What if I'm not real? Just a pile of stolen pieces?"
She kissed him—a clash of chocolate and ozone. When they parted, her thumb brushed his purple eye. "Then I'll love the pieces."
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