I sat awake while the others slept. The fire was down to embers. The pot was empty. My stomach growled so loud I thought it might wake the kids.
I weighed it out in my head.
Daytime was safer. You could see patrols, hear people before they got close. But the Spaniards owned the streets during the day. Them and their Tlaxcalan dogs. You showed your face, you got dragged, whipped, or worse.
Nighttime was different. Dark. Quiet. No eyes. No patrols yelling orders. More risk, but also more cover. If I wanted to move without getting caught, this was my shot.
"Tonight's the night," I muttered under my breath.
I grabbed one of the crude spears I'd carved. It wasn't much. Just a wood shaft with a sharpened end. But it felt better than nothing. I tucked a broken pot shard in my belt, too.
I looked once at the group. The old man snored. Cihuatzin was curled against the wall, eyes closed but tense even in sleep. The kids huddled together like a pile of bones.
If I died out there, they'd barely notice. Maybe that was good.
The city at night wasn't silent. It was worse.
Water slapped against stone in the canals. Dogs barked in the distance. Somewhere, a baby wailed, then stopped too fast. Wood creaked, like houses groaning in their sleep.
Every sound made me flinch.
I stuck to the shadows. Moved slow. Low to the ground. My heart hammered so hard I thought it would give me away.
First stop was the market district. Daytime it was stripped bare. Maybe at night I could find scraps.
I crouched near the ruins of a stall. Kicked through broken pots. Found nothing but ash. Tried another. My spear tip scraped something hard.
A jar, cracked but not shattered. Inside were beans. Moldy. Sour. But food. I stuffed them into a reed basket I found under the rubble.
Better than nothing.
I moved on. Kept to alleys. Twice I heard boots on stone and froze. Spaniards. Torches bobbing. I pressed into a doorway and held my breath until they passed.
When I could move again, my legs shook. I forced them to keep going.
By the canals, I found a corpse slumped against a wall. Male, maybe twenty. His hand still clutched a macuahuitl. The obsidian blades were snapped out, edges dull, but the wood frame was solid. I pried it free. Heavy, cracked, but usable.
I whispered, "You don't need it anymore." Then I pulled the weapon away.
I searched his body for food. Found half a tlaxcalli (tortilla), dried and hard like stone. I didn't care. I put it in the basket.
Deeper into the city, I found another ruin. A house, roof half-collapsed. Inside, scattered mats, broken jars. I almost turned back, then spotted a gourd wedged between stones.
It was half full of water. Stale, tasted like dirt, but it didn't make me gag. I carried it out.
That's when I heard voices.
I ducked low, heart in my throat. Two Tlaxcalans, laughing. They had torches and a sack between them. The sack twitched.
A prisoner.
I froze. Part of me wanted to move. Do something. But I stayed still. My hands were sweaty on the spear.
They passed within twenty feet of me. My chest felt like it would explode.
One of them stopped, turned his head. I pressed against the wall, silent. The torchlight moved closer. I thought it was over.
Then the prisoner whimpered in the sack. The Tlaxcalan cursed and kicked it. Then he laughed and kept walking.
I didn't breathe until they were gone.
My legs almost gave out. I had to sit in the dirt for a minute before I could move again.
By the time I circled back to the aqueduct, I had:
• A basket of moldy beans.
• Half a tlaxcalli (tortilla).
• A cracked macuahuitl.
• A gourd of dirty water.
Scraps. Junk. Nothing glorious. But it was something.
When I stepped under the arch, the firelight hit me. Cihuatzin was awake.
"You went out," she said. Not a question.
I set the basket down. "We need more than thin soup."
She looked at the beans, the tortilla, the broken weapon. "That's your victory?"
"Better than nothing."
She didn't argue. She didn't praise me either. Just went back to staring at the fire.
The others woke as I laid it all out. They picked through the beans like they were gold. The boy chewed the tortilla until it softened enough to swallow.
Nobody thanked me. Nobody smiled.
They just ate.
I sat down, spear across my lap, and realized something.
This was the start.
Not speeches. Not rallies. Not pride.
Scraps. Broken wood. Dirty water.
Survival, one night at a time.
And tonight, at least, we survived.
But even then I couldn't sleep after coming back. Everyone else did, bellies full of moldy beans and dirty water. Not me. I just sat there with the cracked macuahuitl across my lap, staring at the fire.
On paper, I'd done what I said I would. No more rants. No more speeches. I went out, risked myself, brought food back.
But it didn't feel like victory.
It felt pathetic.
I'd been shaking the whole time. Every noise made me flinch. Every shadow made me think I was about to die. My legs almost gave out when those Tlaxcalans passed me. I froze like a rabbit in grass.
And the worst part? That sack. The prisoner. I could still hear the whimper inside.
I told myself it would've been suicide to try anything. Two warriors, both armed, both stronger. I had a stick and nerves of glass. The math wasn't there.
Still, it ate at me.
Here I was, trying to hype up twelve broken people every night, talking about pride, survival, fighting back. And when the moment came, I did nothing. I hid. I let them drag another one away to be whipped, raped, or sold.
I wasn't practicing what I preached.
I stared into the canal water again, my reflection broken by ripples. A scrawny boy, ribs sticking out, skin gray from hunger. This wasn't a fighter. This wasn't someone to rally behind.
Cihuatzin had been right. I was just another mouth that happened to figure out how to boil water.
And if I really believed the things I'd been shouting about — about the Mexica rising again, about not staying broken — then I couldn't keep hiding behind "it's suicide."
Because the truth was simple: shit like that happens every day now. Every day a prisoner gets dragged off. Every day another woman screams. Every day another kid vanishes. Every day there's one less Mexica.
And every day the Tlaxcalteca and Spaniards laugh about it.
If I kept saying "not today, too risky, too hard," then I wasn't different. I was just another coward waiting his turn.
I clenched the macuahuitl until my knuckles hurt. The wood was cracked. Most of the obsidian blades were gone. But it was still a weapon.
If I wanted to matter, I'd have to use it.
Not tonight. I wasn't stupid. Not against patrols, not with twelve starving ghosts to worry about. But eventually, yes.
If I wanted these people to believe, if I wanted myself to believe, then I'd have to stop being such a pussy and strike back.
Not talk. Not rant. Hit.
Even if it was small.
Even if it was ugly.
Because as long as they walked our streets without fear, we were already dead.