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“The reason why Americans hate us so much?” Luna laughed, and sat back in his seat. “What do you think, Joven?”
The young man blinked, and his eyes briefly flickered to the hardened, burning-yet-warm-yet somehow unhinged eyes the General had, and paused to think.
“Because they fear what they cannot understand?”
“Not quite.” Luna replied, and a butterfly fluttered into the hut. Joven watched it fly easily, tiny and white and so stark against the darkness of the room or the dim light of the lamp on Luna’s desk, and he and the General fell silent for a while as the butterfly flew into the open chamber of the desk lamp.
“Then what is the reason, General?”
Luna shut the lamp chamber’s door, but the butterfly fluttered out in time. He laughed, quiet, yet not quite with enough mirth, more rueful than jovial.
“Because they hate what they cannot control.”
“You’d think that a bunch of us Mapalad would’ve been enough to level these bastards,” Rusca spat blood and dirt out of his mouth, as beside him Joven cowered, journal over his head and glasses askew, and when something exploded just a few feet away, he laughed when the journalist let out a rather undignified squeak. “Okay, just hold on.”
Rusca sped away, faster than the wind, and came back, faster than lightning.
He was covered in more blood, but he was laughing.
“You should have seen their fucking faces!”
Joven wanted to laugh, but the whiz of mortars alerted him to the arrival of firepower, and he dove at Rusca to phase the both of them through a barrel to safety.
The captain simply continued to laugh.
“You should see your face!” he delightedly crowed, patting Joven’s shoulder. “Sit down here, baby Mapalad. Let me show you how a professional does it.”
He sped off again, and Joven realises Rusca left in his hand a revolver and a bag of bullets. He looked down at the weapons, and tucked the journal into his shirt. It was time for him to make a hasty retreat.
“Rusca, you reckless motherfucker.”
It was rare for Paco to swear, but it usually meant that he was worried. He meant well. Probably.
He pulled back Rusca’s dislocated shoulder, and the captain’s scream was drowned out by an exploding mine ahead.
“You’d better be more careful. We’re too far away from the medics now, and I’m no Mapalad.” Paco warned, pulling off Rusca’s shirt to make it into a makeshift sling. “Later when we see Lady Isabel, you’re telling her everything.”
Joven looked at Rusca, who glowered at Paco.
“You can’t make me.” he pouted like a petulant schoolboy.
“I most definitely can.” Paco replied placidly, and laid a hand on Rusca’s shoulder. The soldier groaned, and Joven shuffled uncomfortably. Paco offered a reassuring smile at the journalist, before turning his attention back to his friend. “Now, will you be more careful next time? You may be fast, Rusca, but you’re not nearly as physically strong as the General is.”
“Paco, you’re no champ either.”
“Yes, well, I can, at least, fight with my bare hands.” Paco chuckled. “Head back to camp and bring Joven with you. Keep yourselves safe—and when you get your arm fixed, Rusca, you come right back here. And not behind enemy lines. Again.”
Rusca rolled his eyes, but he was grinning. “Yes, mom.”
Paco shook his head, smiling fondly, and patted Joven’s arm. “I know yourMapalad ability lets you go right through objects, but that doesn’t mean you can be reckless either. I understand your passion to help, but you are not a trained soldier, Joven.”
“… I’m sorry.”
“Just head back,” Paco declared. “I promise I’ll bring the General back safe.”
Rusca and Joven looked at each other and nodded.
“We’ll see you later, then.”
Rusca ended up taking himself and Joven five yards past the Red Cross tent.
“What is the army missing?”
Misgiving.
“Firepower. Skill.”
Determination.
“Things we cannot afford to cultivate and achieve at a time like this.”
Reluctance. Hesitation.
“Senyor Presidente.”
“General Luna.”
“Gentlemen.” He finally spoke up, cutting through the white noise of the crackling thoughts between the two men talking, and the noise hushed into a quiet hum in the back of their minds.
Twin pairs of dark eyes, wild and tired, landed on him, and Mabini felt so, so tired.
“Mabini.” His president, the silent Mapalad who could bend metal spoke, and he hushed him with a gentle mental press.
“General Luna. We shall allocate more rations to your men, however, with the state of things, you and I both know it will be difficult to teach all Mapalad how to control their abilities properly.” Do not forget what we talked about, Antonio.
“I highly doubt the difficulty would matter, Prime Minister.” I was hoping you’d get a move on a little faster.
“How do you propose we gather all the Mapalad you need in such a short amount of time?” The president is… difficult. Stalwart. He listens to not only me.
“Give me three days.” Then work harder.
Aguinaldo and Mabini looked at each other.
Pole.
Mabini wanted to groan. There were two voices in his head and it was already tiring enough to hold his own thoughts in.
Miong. Let him do what he needs to.
Mabini simply lowered his head, breaking his gaze with his President, and Aguinaldo looked back at Luna.
“… You have until the day after tomorrow.”
There was a smirk, of sorts, on Luna’s face, and he answered wordlessly with a salute. Aguinaldo answered it with one of his own, and after a sharp turn, Luna left the office, his boots clicking on the floor a beat march of victory.
“Do you think he can do it? Weed out every last Mapalad in Bulacan?”
“Without a doubt.”
Aguinaldo pursed his lips, frowning, and looked back at the door. With a sigh, he waved his hand, and it swung shut. The lock slid into place, shiny silver metal securely slipping nearly soundlessly into place, and it melded into the receiving metal lock like smooth metalwork.
“Locking the room again for what, Emilio?”
“I need time to think.” The man simply replied.
“Then perhaps you should have let me leave first?”
Aguinaldo’s thoughts, turbulent and crackling with stray thoughts of worry, of distrust, of simple, but heavy tiredness, cloyed Mabini’s head. With a sigh, he made to wipe the heaviness away, even for just a little bit, and that brought a smile to the man’s lips.
“No,” he replied. “I need your voice of reason, Apolinario. Please, do stay.”
His smile was wry, and far from warm. “My dear President. I have very little choice on that matter.”
“Why do the Mapalad exist, big brother?”
“It’s been forever since you asked me that, José.”
Manuel looked over his shoulder at his younger brother, who was lying down in the grass next to his seat, and smiled fondly.
“I just wanted to ask again.” José replied plainly, still resolutely staring at the stars above their heads. With a sigh, Manuel laid down next to him, and sprouted a tinysampaguita bloom from his fingers. He tucked it behind José’s ear, like he always did years ago, and curled to the side to see the tiniest traces of fire drawing idle, spiral designs into the grass next to them.
“Because, José.” Manuel said, making the grass grow again with a smile, and began to thread a wreath of santan in his hands. “We were simply blessed.”
José hummed monotonously in response, but Manuel knew the younger was satisfied. He set the santan crown—red, orange and gold, like the rays of the sun and the warmth of summer—down in José’s hair, and laid back down again.
“Is it a blessing, really?” José asked, and Manuel perked up a little at that.
“Well. That’s the first time you asked that.”
“Is it a blessing that you can grow flowers, and that I can burn them down?”
“Hmm.” Manuel hummed, and let his brother snuggle closer to him. “Yes.”
The stars twinkled above their heads, and he counted each one in lazy patterns across the night sky.
“I believe it is.”