I didn't sleep. Couldn't. Every time I shut my eyes, I saw him thrashing, spitting blood, staring at me when the spear went in.
By dawn, I knew what I had to do. The body couldn't stay.
I got up, legs stiff, stomach sour, and walked to where he'd fallen. The group kept their distance. Nobody offered to help. Nobody stopped me either.
The Tlaxcalan lay face up, blood dried around the stakes that had torn through his leg. His mouth was open, eyes glassy. The smell hit me before I touched him.
I gagged but forced it down.
First thing, I untied the headband. White and orange cloth, knotted tight around his forehead — the kind they all wore. A mark of who he was.
I stripped it off, tossed it aside. Reached into my stash and pulled out a red headband I'd looted days ago. With shaking hands, I tied his hair up the way the Mexica wore theirs, like I'd seen in codices — the warrior's knot high on the head.
From a Tlaxcalan to a Mexica. At least on the surface.
Then the armor. Quilted cotton, stained but intact. I pulled it off his chest, my hands slipping on sweat and blood. The weight of it surprised me. Not light, not heavy — solid. Usable.
Next, the weapon. A macuahuitl. Cracked, edges chipped, but still better than the sticks I'd carved. I pried it from his stiff grip. My fingers trembled. My throat burned.
Every second I touched him felt wrong.
When it was done, I dragged the body. Out of the alley. Away from the aqueduct. Each pull felt like hauling stone. My arms screamed, my stomach lurched, but I kept going until I was far enough no one would tie him back to us.
I dropped him near a collapsed wall, left him with his new headband, his hair tied like a Mexica, his chest bare without armor.
If a Tlaxcalan patrol or Spaniards found him, they'd just see another dead Mexica. One of thousands.
That was the point.
I went back and reset the trap. Sharpened fresh stakes, covered them again with mats and ash. My hands were raw, my arms weak, but I forced it.
By the time I was done, the sun was climbing. I hadn't slept, hadn't eaten, and my whole body felt like lead.
But the trap was ready again. The armor and macuahuitl were mine. The body was gone.
I sat by the fire after, the group quiet around me. Nobody asked what I'd done with the corpse. Nobody cared about the headband or the armor.
They didn't look at me like a leader.
They didn't look at me like a monster.
They didn't look at me at all.
I stared into the flames and thought about what I'd just done.
No glory. No honor. Just filth. Blood. Lies.
Another piece of me chipped away.
Afterwards I threw myself into training.
Push-ups until my arms buckled. Squats until my legs locked. Sit-ups until I couldn't breathe. Then again. And again. Not for strength. Not for "gains." Just so I wouldn't feel hollow anymore.
Every time I dropped to the ground, sweat stinging my eyes, I told myself I was filling the emptiness. But it didn't work. The emptiness was always there.
So I just kept going until I collapsed.
At night, I scavenged. Not in the empty ruins anymore — too many scraps had already been picked clean. I went where the risk was higher. Near the camps of the Tlaxcalans and the other native allies.
They had food.
Not much, but more than anyone left in the city. Tortillas, beans, gourds of water. Some looted, some tribute. If I wanted to keep myself alive, if I wanted to keep training, I had no choice but to steal from them.
Every step near those camps made my skin crawl. Fires burned bright. Shadows moved across the walls of captured houses.
And always, the sounds.
Screams. Whimpers. Pleading in Nahuatl.
The Tlaxcalans and others were taking their revenge. On Mexica prisoners. On women. On old men. On children.
I crouched in the dark, waiting for a chance to slip close to a cooking pot or a supply bag, and I heard everything.
The begging.
The crying.
The laughter.
I hated it. My chest twisted. My stomach churned. Every part of me wanted to run in, scream, swing the macuahuitl until it broke.
But I didn't.
I couldn't.
One boy with a stolen weapon wasn't going to stop a camp of warriors. I'd die before I got close. And then the twelve under the aqueduct would die with me.
So I clenched my jaw, stole what I could, and told myself I'd help one day.
Not now. Not tonight. But one day.
The more nights I spent out there, the easier it got.
At first, every scream cut into me. Every sound made me flinch.
But after a week? I didn't flinch anymore.
I still hated it. Still wanted to help. But the sound didn't make me freeze like it used to. I told myself that was good. That I needed to harden.
I didn't notice that I was already changing.
In my head, the Tlaxcalans stopped being "people." Same for the Huexotzinca, the Otomi, all the ones who fought beside the Spaniards.
I stopped thinking of them as neighbors, cousins, humans.
I started thinking of them as something else.
Enemies.
Dogs.
Parasites.
The Spanish too.
It was easier that way.
If I told myself they were people, I'd break every time I heard the screams. If I told myself they were less, then it didn't matter how many died when I finally struck back.
I didn't realize it then. But that's when the desensitization started.
Back at the aqueduct, I trained harder. I ate more than the others, because I had to. The food I stole wasn't much, but I took the bigger share.
It wasn't fair. But if I wanted to keep training, I needed the fuel. And if I got stronger, they all survived longer. That's how I justified it.
They didn't complain. Maybe they noticed. Maybe they didn't.
I didn't care.
Every day, my body ached. Every night, I heard more screams.
And every morning, I woke up feeling a little less like the boy I'd been, and a little more like someone who belonged in this hell.