Chapter 22: Shadow of Plaridel
The dawn in Plaridel brought no hope to the people, but only a stark reflection of the grief that shrouded a poor community and a suffering barangay, a witness to countless hardships in life.
Amid the bamboo and nipa huts, a young woman named Georgia Pilar walked—a 14-year-old girl with tightly bound black hair.
In her hands, she carried a small basket brimming with flowers—roses, sampaguitas, and gumamelas—which she had gathered from the edges of their barangay to sell at the market.
Her clothes were tattered and old, revealing their humble existence, yet her eyes burned with determination, despite the gnawing hunger in her stomach since the previous night.
"Georgia, be careful on the road!" called her grandmother from inside their humble hut, her voice frail but laced with concern.
Lola Maria, an elderly woman struggling to breathe due to a lung ailment, lay on a mat, her skin thin as parchment.
"Stay away from the Spaniards, child. You know what happened to our family."
"Yes, Lola," Georgia replied, though her heart swelled with rage as she recalled the past.
Her family had been victims of Spanish brutality. Her father, Mang Pedro, languished in prison for a crime he didn't commit—a fabricated accusation supported by Spanish officials to intimidate Filipinos.
Her mother, Aling Rosa, had perished in a tragedy—she was murdered after being raped by the police, their crime against Georgia's family remaining unpunished to this day.
The echoes of her mother's screams and the blood on their floor haunted Georgia, fueling her strength each morning to force herself to uplift their life.
As she walked toward the market, she beheld the pitiful state of their barangay—homes made of old wood and worn materials on the verge of collapse, children playing despite their hunger, and elders begging for mercy from passing Filipinos.
In the distance, the city of Plaridel loomed—grand Spanish houses, churches adorned with beautiful decorations, and streets that were a sharp contrast to their muddy slum.
"This isn't right," Georgia whispered to herself, her grip tightening on the basket.
"Why must we live in the mire while they revel in gold? This land is ours, yet they treat us only as slaves."
While walking, she witnessed a group of Spanish police dragging an elderly Filipino, his face bloodied from their blows.
"Pay your taxes, indio!" barked a policeman, as the old man pleaded for mercy. No one cared, no one helped—the Filipinos merely bowed their heads, fearing they'd be next.
Georgia's chest tightened, her anger deepened even further towards them. "They're destroying our lives," she murmured, but she knew she was powerless for now. She needed to earn money for her grandparents.
By afternoon, she sold a few flowers, earning a meager one hundred pesos—insufficient for her grandmother's medicine. Upon returning home, she carried a small bag of rice and fish, a pitiful meal bartered by her grandfather, Lolo Mateo, at the market.
"Thank you, apo (grandchild)," said Lola Maria, her trembling hand taking the food.
"Apo, I know it's hard for you to work. I'm sorry we can't help you more."
"If only your mother had listened and stayed away from the Spaniards, our life wouldn't be this miserable. So please, my dear, never trust them," her grandmother added, her voice heavy with regret.
"Yes, Lola, I understand," Georgia replied, her mind preoccupied. The injustice they experienced was not new in their area; they all had no one to turn to. Those from poor families like theirs were treated like refuse in the city.
She wondered why the heavens seemed to abandon them amid her grandmother's devout prayers, and why they had to endure such suffering.
She observed the entirety of their house, which was nearly decaying. Overwhelmed by disappointment, she grew increasingly filled with bitterness toward life. She went into the room and sat down while looking at their pitiful dwelling.
"We're like garbage just dumped in this place. I won't forgive them," she whispered, her eyes brimming with tears yet burning with resolve.
That night, while her grandparents slept, Georgia slipped out of their hut silently. She pulled out from her pocket the small mask made of white cloth, etched with an "H" as a symbol of her justice.
Her pulse pounded with determination as she walked toward the town, her steps unwavering despite the enveloping darkness.
In the center of Plaridel, she climbed the tallest structure—an old tower, once a Spanish church. From there, she surveyed the town: the glowing lights of the wealthy Spanish homes, filled with lavish furnishings, and on the other side of town, her barangay, a mere shadow in the distance because many houses had no lights.
"One day," she whispered, her hands gripping the tower window, "Filipinos will live in these houses, and the Spaniards will face the punishment they deserve."
In a flash, she leapt from the tower, and mid-fall, her body vanished, gradually coalescing into a figure with pink hair and a red cape—on that night, Hustisya, the hero of Plaridel, was reborn.
As Hustisya traversed the darkened streets of Plaridel, she heard a woman's cry from an alley.
"Please don't hurt me, have mercy, I'm just a poor person!" the victim screamed, as a snatcher wielding a sharp knife pulled at her bag.
"Shut up, or I'll kill you!" the snatcher snarled, his face ablaze with anger.
But before he could close in, a cold wind swept through, extinguishing the streetlight.
"Who's there?" the snatcher demanded, but the response was a soft laugh from the shadows. "Scum like you really ruin my night! It seems you need a serious lesson," said Hustisya, her voice lively yet carrying a warning.
In an instant, the snatcher's knife floated upward, hurled far away. "What's happening?!" he cried, but before he could react, a rope, as if alive, tightened around his wrists, yanking his knees to the ground.
Moments later, Hustisya appeared before him, her pink hair gleaming in the darkness, and her white mask with an "H" etched upon it shining brightly.
"I know life is hard, but that doesn't mean you can harm others. People like you deserve punishment," she said, her smile teasing.
The snatcher tried to run, even though his bound hands hindered his movement, but Hustisya caught up swiftly. A powerful kick from nowhere struck his back, sending him crashing toward a post.
"Stop! Please don't hurt me, have mercy!" he begged, but Hustisya only laughed.
"It's amusing, isn't it, to hear yourself beg to me now?" she taunted.
She delivered a kick to the man's face.
Her form vanished, and in a flash, she possessed the snatcher, his eyes turning white.
"What will I make your body do next?" she mused. The man stripped off his clothes and pants, climbing the post on the side of the road.
The rope moved on its own, binding him tightly. "It feels so fun to toy with the likes of you!" Hustisya laughed, floating in the air.
She returned the bag to the woman, who fled with gratitude, while the snatcher remained, bound and terrified.
"As long as I'm in this town, I'll deliver justice for the abused and oppressed," she declared.
Days passed, and Hustisya's name became the talk of Filipinos across Bulacan.
In markets, villages, and even churches, tales of the ghost-like vigilante spread—the woman with pink hair bringing justice to the downtrodden.
"Thanks to her, we reclaimed money from thieves!" said a vendor. "She's the true hero of Plaridel!" added an elder.
In the mayor's office, as the days passed without an arrest, the room was thick with fury.
Mayor de Guzman, a half-Filipino, half-Spanish official serving the Spaniards, rose from his chair, his face flushed with rage.
"Why haven't you caught this vigilante?!" he bellowed at his men, slamming his hand on the desk. "What this Hustisya is doing is a great disgrace to the government!"
"But, señor, we cannot catch her that easily," a guardia civil defended, his voice trembling. "She appears and vanishes like a ghost. We are powerless against her abilities!"
"You're useless, a shame for letting a Filipino woman outwit you!" the mayor roared, but before he could continue, a voice echoed from the room's side.
"Let me handle this, Mayor." Seated in a prestigious chair was a tall Spanish man, his uniform adorned with gold and medals. General Vicente Salazar, commander of the Spanish forces in Bulacan, stood, his eyes blazing with power and hatred.
"General Salazar, thank you for coming," said the mayor, his tone dripping with deference that bordered on subservience.
"This vigilante threatens our control over the people, a significant danger to our rule here in Plaridel."
"It's not control we've lost, Mayor, but my reputation," Salazar replied, his voice cold and sharp.
"This Hustisya is merely a presumptuous Filipino pretending to be a hero in my territory. Because of her, these indios think that foolish woman will save them."
Crystals gleamed on the general's arm, releasing tendrils of electricity crawling over his body.
"I'll show them they've chosen the wrong enemy," he said bravely.
General Salazar was more than a leader—he was a symbol of corruption and brutality. In his office, he was often seen accepting bribes from Filipino magnates who imposed heavier taxes on the poor.
"Increase the barrio taxes by five percent," he ordered his secretary, his smile dripping with malice.
"These indios are getting too bold with their vigilante ally. They need to know who truly rules this land."
On Plaridel's streets, his abuses were unconcealed. One day, as he strolled through the city, a 10-year-old Filipino boy accidentally bumped into him, his small frame covered in dirt from helping his family.
"What are you doing? You've soiled my uniform, indio!" Salazar roared, his face reddening with fury. "Filthy vagrants like you are an eyesore. It's revolting to think we share the same town."
Without restraint, he seized the boy by the hair, shoved him to the ground, and kicked his stomach with force.
"Learn your place, lowly scum!" he shouted, his boot striking again as blood trickled from the boy's mouth onto the street.
The onlookers looked down when Salazar glanced at them, too terrified to intervene, their fear of the general outweighing their compassion. No one helped the pitiful child, no one stopped the assault.
From a distance, behind a building, Georgia watched the incident unfold, her eyes blazing with rage. "Beasts!" she whispered, her hands clenching her basket. She yearned to attack Salazar, but suddenly felt a presence—strong, dark, and brimming with power.
"What is this? He carries an immense presence," she wondered aloud, her body trembling. She realized Salazar was no ordinary Spaniard—he wielded an anito (spirit) or some potent force.
"If I confront him here, many civilians could be harmed," she murmured, her heart heavy with worry. She couldn't save the boy, and her anger toward the Spaniards deepened. "I swear, General, you'll pay for your cruelty to the Filipinos," she vowed, her gaze fixed on Salazar as he walked away, his laughter like thunder in her ears.
That night, Georgia resolved to become Hustisya to fight crime in her town once more. As she walked a dark street, she heard an old man's cry.
"Don't take my money!" he shouted, pursued by a thief armed with a gun.
"You're old—don't resist if you value your life!" the thief yelled, his finger on the trigger.
But before he could fire, a cold wind passed, snuffing out the streetlight.
"Vermin like you really ruin my night! How dare you commit crimes in my town?" Hustisya's voice rang out with authority.
In the darkness, her pink hair glowed, her red cape fluttered in the breeze, and her white mask bore the shining "H" mark.
"You?! The ghost of Bulacan!" the thief exclaimed, but before he could flee, his gun floated and flew away.
"What's happening?!" he cried, only for a rope to tighten around his legs, yanking him to his knees.
Hustisya appeared before him, her eyes sparkling like fire due to her anger. "People like you don't deserve this town—this nation!" she said, her smile sharp and playful, like a villain in a show.
The thief immediately stood, freeing himself from the leg rope. The man drew a sharp knife from his pocket, and charged at Hustisya.
But the young woman vanished, possessing his body in an instant. His eyes turned white, and his hand drove the knife into his own thigh.
A moment later, Hustisya emerged from his body, and the man suddenly screamed, nearly tumbling onto the ground, clutching the wound in his thigh.
"Stop! Don't kill me, please!" he begged, but Hustisya laughed.
"Amusing, isn't it? Do you hear yourself begging to me?" she taunted.
She grabbed his hair, shouting, "Do you also hear your victims pleading for mercy in front of you?!"
In desperation, he forced himself to stand, and the thief pushed Hustisya while shouting, "You won't kill me that easily!"
After getting away from the young woman, he pulled a small grenade from his bag, aiming to throw it at Hustisya.
But when he threw it, it stopped in mid-air, and the grenade floated back to the man and immediately exploded. His body was shredded as it took the blast.
Hustisya floated in the air. She placed her hands on her waist, and standing confidently with hands on her hips, she spoke bravely.
"Those willing to kill must be ready to die as recompense for their sins," she declared, a red mask etched on the post as her victory mark.
She immediately descended and approached the old man. "It's over, Lolo. I'm glad you're safe," she murmured. The old man embraced his money, filled with gratitude, as Hustisya vanished into the wind.
Days passed, and Hustisya's fame grew further. Her name became a legend in Plaridel, a beacon of hope for Filipinos who said,
"She's our savior against the Spaniards!"
Meanwhile, in General Salazar's office, his rage intensified with each report about Hustisya.
"I won't rest until I catch her!" he roared, his eyes burning with hatred.
End of Chapter.