The sun beat down on the central plaza of Tenochtitlan, where a makeshift court had been erected—a raised platform of fresh stone and reed canopies, flanked by eagle banners and guarded by warriors in feathered regalia. The city was still scarred from the siege, but reconstruction hummed in the background: hammers chiseling, workers hauling lime. A crowd had gathered—nobles, priests, commoners who'd survived the fall—whispering eagerly. Word had spread: the Caxtilteca leader, the invader who'd brought fire and steel, would face Mexica justice.
Cuauhtemoc sat at the center, his throne simple but commanding, jade, turquoise tilmatli and quetzal feathers marking his status as emperor.
Ehecatl stood to his right, dressed in a plain tilmatli but with the authority of Cihuacoatl radiating from him—cold, calculated, the boy who'd turned guerrilla nightmares into victory. Malinalli was positioned nearby, unbound but watched, her huipil clean and adorned with subtle beads, a far cry from her cell days. Catalina hovered at the edge of the platform, allowed as Ehecatl's "concubine" and a Castilian witness—pale, submissive, her eyes downcast but ears sharp. Malinalli shot her a smug glance, already translating snippets under her breath in Spanish for the girl to hear, as instructed.
Cortés was dragged in last, wrists bound with rough fibers, his once-proud armor replaced by a tattered tunic stained with sweat and dirt from days of forced labor. His beard was unkempt, his body leaner from hauling stones, but his eyes burned with defiance. Guards shoved him to his knees before the platform, the crowd jeering "Caxtiltecatl coyote!" in Nahuatl.
Cuauhtemoc raised a hand for silence. "Hernan Cortes," he intoned, voice booming. "You stand accused of war crimes against the Mexica people. Slaughter of innocents, violation of sacred oaths, enslavement of the surrendered. The Cihuacoatl will speak the charges."
Ehecatl stepped forward, his gaze locked on Cortés like a blade poised to strike. Inside, a private thrill coursed through him—a butterfly effect rippling from his 21st-century soul. War crimes were one thing, a modern legal jab at colonial hypocrisy. But this next part? Pure irony, a term from his era weaponized against the man who'd unwittingly set the stage for centuries of terror. "You entered our lands under false pretenses," he began, voice steady and amplified by the plaza's acoustics. "In Cholula, you feigned alliance, then massacred civilians—women, children, elders—in their homes. You took hostages to bend kings to your will. Burned temples, executed those who yielded, and broke every term you swore by your own gods." He paused, letting the words sink in, the crowd murmuring approval. "These are not acts of war. They are crimes. And by our new laws—our victorious laws—you will answer."
Cortés laughed bitterly, straightening as much as his bonds allowed. "Laws? From those who rip hearts from chests? This is no trial—it's vengeance dressed in feathers." He spat on the ground. "I conquered by right. Your gods failed you. Mine prevailed."
The crowd roared, but Ehecatl silenced them with a gesture. "Your 'right' ends here. And there's more—you, your remaining Castilians who surrendered you like cowards and fled to Tlaxcala, and the entire Kingdom of Castile… we brand you all as terrorists."
Cortés's brow furrowed, confusion cutting through his defiance for the first time. The term hung in the air, alien and sharp.
The crowd shifted uneasily—even they didn't fully grasp it yet, though Ehecatl had primed the nobles. "Terrorists?" Cortés echoed, his Castilian accent mangling the word. "What nonsense is this? Some invented barb from your tongue?"
Ehecatl's lips curled into a cold smile, savoring the private jab—the irony only a modern person could appreciate. In his original era, "terrorist" evoked images of asymmetric warfare, ideological bombings, the use of religion, states labeling resistance as threats. Now, he flipped it: the colonial invaders, harbingers of genocide and empire, branded with a label their descendants would wield against the oppressed. A butterfly effect indeed—history's script rewritten with modern venom.
"Let me explain, since your 'civilized' mind can't grasp it," he said, his voice dripping sarcasm. "A terrorist sows fear to break wills—attacks the innocent, hides behind false peace, uses horror, and religion as a weapon to conquer and control. Sound familiar? Your massacres, your betrayals, your unholy alliances—they terrorized our people. Not honorable battle, but cowardice cloaked in crosses. So yes, Cortes—you are a terrorist. Your men who fled are terrorists. Your distant king and his kingdom? Sponsors of terror. And we will treat you as such: marked, hunted, denied the glory you crave."
The explanation rippled through the crowd like a wave—nobles nodding with growing understanding, commoners cheering the condemnation of their tormentors. Malinalli translated under her breath to Catalina, her voice laced with glee: "He calls them terrorists—sowers of fear, breakers of peace. Your Capitán General, a coward hiding behind horror and religion." Catalina's face drained of color, her hands clenching in her lap as the words sank in, her world fracturing further.
Cortés surged forward, chains rattling, face twisted in rage. "You dare? I brought civilization! God's will! This… 'terrorist'—it's a lie, a savage's fantasy!"
Ehecatl ignored the outburst. "Malinalli—testify."
Malinalli rose, her posture regal despite the glares boring into her. She spoke in Nahuatl first, her voice clear and unflinching. "I was his tongue," she said, eyes on Cortés. "Sold as a slave, given to the Caxtilteca like chattel. I translated his lies because refusal meant death—or worse, rape by his foot soldiers. He slaughtered in Cholula under peace flags. Took nobles hostage in Tenochtitlan. Burned our temples, enslaved survivors. I saw it all." She paused, adding the scripted details with a twist of her own venom. "Their kingdom—Castile—is fractured. Their king, Charles V, juggles crowns, wars with France brewing, a heretic named Luther tearing their church apart like a jaguar on prey. Without gold and silver flowing back, they can't rearm. Delays that favor us."
As she spoke, she leaned toward Catalina, translating sotto voce in Spanish: "He massacred in Cholula… burned temples… their king distracted by wars and heretics." Catalina paled further, hands trembling in her lap, the words hitting like arrows—her people's sins laid bare.
Cortés turned to Malinalli, sneering. "Lies! She chose me! Spread her legs willingly, whispered my strategies because she hated you all!" He glared at Ehecatl. "And this 'terrorist' label? A boy's invention to mask your barbarism!"
Ehecatl's smile widened, the irony a private delight—knowing how this term would echo through centuries, labeling the colonized while excusing the colonizers. "Your defense? 'That's war'? No. War has honor. You have none." He nodded to Cuauhtemoc.
The emperor rose. "Guilty. Your sentence: life in chains. Labor from dawn to dusk, rebuilding what you destroyed. No death—no martyrdom. Just endless toil, until your body crumbles. And let it be known: all Caxtilteca are terrorists in our eyes—branded as such, their kingdom a nest of fear-mongers."
The crowd erupted in cheers as guards hauled Cortés away, his curses lost in the din. Ehecatl watched, smug, the butterfly effect fluttering in his mind—a 21st-century jab rewriting history's script.
Justice served. But the real trials? They waited at home.
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The trial's echoes faded as the sun dipped low over Tenochtitlan, painting the rebuilt skyline in blood-red hues. Cortés had been hauled away in chains, his defiant snarls drowned by the crowd's cheers—doomed to endless labor, his body breaking stone by stone under the same sun that once favored his conquests. Ehecatl walked the paths home with a smug stride, Malinalli at his side, her arm looped possessively through his, and Catalina trailing a step behind, silent and obedient. The irony burned hot in his veins: the man who'd caused so much pain now toiled like a slave, while he—the boy-king—claimed the spoils. Two women from the Caxtilteca side, one a broken translator, the other a traded prize, both his to use in this twisted celebration.
The door to the modest adobe home shut behind them, sealing out the world. The room felt smaller tonight, the hearth's fire crackling like laughter at the absurdity. Malinalli wasted no time, shrugging off her huipil with a wicked grin, her naked body glowing in the firelight—bruises from their last encounter still fresh, a map of his obsession. "Well, my lord?" she taunted, sauntering closer, her hands already fumbling with his tilmatli. "Cortés breaks his back rebuilding your empire. Time to break mine again? Or will you play with your Caxtiltecatl toy first?"
Catalina froze by the mat, her shift clinging to her curves, eyes wide but not protesting—her Stockholm devotion holding firm. "My lord…" she whispered in Castilian, flushing pink, but there was a flicker of curiosity, perhaps even resentment, as she glanced at Malinalli.
Ehecatl pulled Malinalli flush against him, his mouth crashing onto hers in a bruising kiss, tongue invading like conquest renewed. "Both," he growled against her lips, one hand tangling in her hair, the other beckoning Catalina. "Strip, Catalina. Tonight, we celebrate. The Caxtilteca fall, and their women kneel to me."
Catalina obeyed, her shift pooling at her feet, revealing her pale skin and soft curves—innocent contrast to Malinalli's scarred fire. She knelt prettily, as she'd been taught, eyes downcast but breath quickening. Malinalli laughed darkly, breaking the kiss to shove Ehecatl onto the mat.
"Look at her—so eager to please. But you need me to make it hurt good." She straddled him, grinding against his hardening cock through his loincloth, her nails raking his chest. "Fuck us both. Breed your enemies' whores. Show us what victory feels like."
He freed himself roughly, yanking Malinalli down onto him with a savage thrust, filling her in one go. She cried out, riding him hard, her walls clenching like vengeance. "That's it," he snarled, slapping her ass sharply, the crack echoing. "Take it, traitor. Feel what you helped destroy rebuild inside you." His hand snaked to her throat, choking just enough to make her gasp, her hips bucking wildly.
Catalina watched, transfixed, until Ehecatl grabbed her wrist, pulling her closer. "Your turn to serve," he commanded, guiding her mouth to where he and Malinalli joined—her tongue lapping at them both, tasting the mix of their arousal. Malinalli moaned, grinding down harder, her free hand tangling in Catalina's hair, forcing her deeper. "Lick it clean, little Castilian slut," Malinalli hissed in Castilian. "Taste how he owns us."
Ehecatl flipped positions, slamming Malinalli onto her back, legs spread wide as he drove into her punishingly. Catalina straddled Malinalli's face at his nod, whimpering as the other woman's tongue delved in—aggressive, skilled, drawing soft cries from her. Ehecatl slapped Malinalli's thigh, then her breast, heightening the chaos. "Beg for it," he demanded, hand back on her throat. "Beg me to breed you while she rides your face."
"Please," Malinalli gasped, voice muffled against Catalina, her body arching. "Fill me—make me carry your heir. Ruin me like you ruined the Caxtilteca."
Catalina came first, trembling on Malinalli's tongue, her whimpers turning to sobs of pleasure. Malinalli followed, walls pulsing around him, milking him relentlessly. Ehecatl roared, thrusting deep and spilling inside her—hot, claiming, the breeding taunt made real once more.
They collapsed in a tangle, breaths ragged, bodies slick. Catalina curled submissively against him, Malinalli on the other side, her hand possessively on his chest. "Victory," she murmured, smirking. "Tastes like us."
He laughed darkly, already hardening again. The empire rebuilt outside; inside, his own conquest raged on.
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The morning sun rose harsh over Tenochtitlan, casting long shadows across the reconstruction sites where stone and sweat rebuilt what the Caxtilteca had shattered. Ehecatl stirred in the tangled mats of his modest home, the air thick with the mingled scents of last night's "celebration"—sweat, sex, and the faint herbal tang from Malinalli's bundle. Malinalli lay sprawled on one side, her naked form marked with fresh bites and bruises, a smug curve to her lips even in sleep. Catalina curled on the other, her pale skin flushed, submissive and sated, her breath soft against his chest. The threesome had been raw, victorious chaos—fucking two women from the enemy's side while their leader toiled. But duty called.
He extricated himself quietly, dressing in his simple tilmatli, jade plugs glinting as the only sign of his power. A quick glance at the women—his women—stirred a twisted pride.
Malinalli, the defiant traitor, and Catalina, the broken prize. Both his. He left them to rest, stepping out into the bustling streets with a guard escort. Today: oversee the labor crews. Specifically, ensure no one slit Cortés's throat mid-haul. The man was too valuable broken—alive, laboring, a symbol of reversed fortunes.
The site was a hive of activity: workers chiseling blocks from quarried stone, hauling timber across the causeways, the rhythmic thud of mallets echoing like war drums. Cortés was there, chained at the ankles to prevent flight, his once-commanding frame bent under a load of limestone slabs strapped to his back. Sweat poured down his bearded face, mixing with dust to form grime streaks. His hands, callused now from the toil, gripped the ropes steadying his burden. Guards watched nearby, macuahuitls and swords at the ready—not just for escape, but for any vengeful Mexica who might decide justice needed a quicker blade.
Ehecatl leaned against a half-raised wall, arms crossed, reveling in the sight. In his original 21st-century life, Cortés was the "great conquistador"—statues, history books, the guy who toppled empires. Now? A broken laborer, grunting under the weight of his own destruction. The irony hit like a high—Ehecatl, a Mexican American kid soul-swapped into this timeline, flipping history's script. No gold, no glory. Just endless sweat.
As Cortés dumped his load with a thud, staggering for a brief water break, a stray thought bubbled up in Ehecatl's mind. Watching the Spaniard toil reminded him of those dark, self-deprecating jokes back home—Mexican Americans ribbing the stereotypes, turning racism into punchlines to cope. And suddenly, that old parody song popped into his head: "Illegals In My Yard" by Matt Rogers. A satirical roast of anti-immigrant bigotry, flipping "Feliz Navidad" into a racist rant about "illegals" doing yard work for pesos.
Dark as hell as it is funny, but in this moment? Perfect irony. The conqueror reduced to manual labor, like the very stereotypes his descendants would hurl at Ehecatl's people centuries later.
A grin split Ehecatl's face—unhinged, almost creepy, channeling that inner devil he'd rumor-milled himself into. He started humming under his breath, then sang softly in English, knowing no one around would understand the words. The guards exchanged puzzled looks, but Cortés—pausing mid-sip—tilted his head, catching familiar Spanish snippets like "pesos," "cervezas," "Si Se Puede," and "La Raza." Hugo Chávez? That flew right over his head, a name from a future he'd never see.
"Illegals in my yard… Illegals in my yard… Illegals in my yard… Throw them some pesos, and they work so hard…"
Ehecatl's voice rose a bit, mocking and melodic, his dark humor bubbling over. He leaned closer to the site, eyes on Cortés.
"Illegals in my yard… Illegals in my yard… Illegals in my yard… I don't even ask, if they got green card… They're gonna pave up my driveway this Christmas… They're gonna clean all my cars this Christmas… They're gonna shovel all the snow this Christmas… Those illegals in my yard… They're gonna dig me a pool this Christmas… They're gonna landscape my lawn this Christmas… They're gonna cook me up some tacos this Christmas… Those illegals in my yard… They're gonna drink some cervezas this Christmas… They're gonna scream 'Si Se Puede' this Christmas… Those Illegals in my yard… illegals in my yard, Hugo Chávez sends his kind regards… They're gonna join up with 'La Raza' this Christmas… those illegals in my yard… they're gonna spread bubonic plague this Christmas…"
Cortés frowned deeply, wiping sweat from his brow, his confusion mounting. He recognized "cervezas"—beer, a common enough word amongst the commoners of Castile and well known in the northern lands of Europe—and the word "Feliz Navidad." But "Si Se Puede"? Yes it can what? What does what you can you do or can be done supposed to mean??? "La Raza"? Race? People? It rang vague bells of Latin roots, but in this mocking context? Baffling. And "Hugo Chávez"? Utter nonsense—a name that meant nothing, like a fever dream or demonic gibberish. "What sorcery is this song?" he muttered in Spanish, glaring at Ehecatl with a mix of exhaustion and unease. "You mock me with words from hell?"
The guards chuckled uneasily, thinking it some incantation or taunt in a foreign tongue. Ehecatl kept going for a verse more, reveling in the private joke—the butterfly effect of "creating" racism through satire. In his time, songs like this mocked the bigots. Here? It was a jab at the man who'd kickstart centuries of it, leaving him lost and frustrated.
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Ehecatl lingered at the site a moment longer, his laughter fading into the rhythmic clangs of labor around him. Cortés, heaving another slab onto the growing wall, shot him one last bewildered glare—his mind no doubt churning over the cryptic words, the mocking tune that twisted familiar sounds into something alien and humiliating. The guards shifted uncomfortably, but none dared question their Cihuacoatl's eccentricities. With a final, satisfied nod, Ehecatl turned away, the sun climbing higher as he made his way back through the bustling streets. Home called—the women, the tangled mats, perhaps another round of "celebration" to cap the trial's triumph.
But as he walked, a deeper current stirred in his thoughts, the weight of what he'd wrought settling like dust after a storm. The butterfly effect—the small flaps of wings unleashing hurricanes across time—would be immense. History, that fragile thread he'd yanked from its loom, was unraveling in ways even his 21st-century mind couldn't fully predict.
Cortés was supposed to be the victor, the conqueror etched in stone and ink, not this vanquished foe toiling eternally under the sun he'd once claimed as his ally.
Malinalli—Marina in the annals of history—was fated to bear Cortés's child, a bridge between worlds, not swell with Ehecatl's seed in a toxic bond forged from hate and hunger.
Catalina Morales? A footnote at best, never meant to be traded like chattel to a boy-demon, ensnared in Stockholm devotion under his roof.
Ehecatl himself—the intruder, the soul from a future unwritten—had introduced horrors and tactics that belonged to distant wars.
Guerrilla ambushes echoing the Vietcong's shadows in jungles far from here, biological poisons seeping into wells like silent assassins, or piss and shit covered in traps.
cartel-style brutality carving fear into flesh. Psychological barbs aimed at the Christian faith, twisting crosses into curses, rumors of soul-devouring demons that made men question their gods. Even now, mocking Cortés with racist jabs from a song centuries unborn—flipping the script on the man whose legacy would birth the very bigotries Ehecatl's people endured.
What ripples would this send across Mesoamerica? Alliances shattered, empires reshaped, faiths fractured before they could take root. The next dawn might bring news of Tlaxcalan unrest, or whispers from distant Maya lands, or even omens from the gods themselves. The web he'd spun was vast, and the tremors were just beginning…