The weeks of scavenging, training, and stuffing more food into my body than the others paid off.
I didn't look like a corpse anymore. My ribs weren't poking out. My arms had a little shape to them. My legs didn't buckle after a dozen squats. I could breathe without wheezing.
It wasn't much. But at least when I caught my reflection in canal water, I didn't look like someone already dead.
So I figured it was time to try something more.
Not a full fight. Not yet. Just stalking prey.
I found two of them near a ruined courtyard. Not Spaniards. Not Mexica. Not Tlaxcalans either. Some other native allies — I didn't even know which group. Otomi, Huexotzinca, maybe something further out. Didn't matter. They weren't us.
They were resting, leaning against broken walls, laughing as they chewed stale tortillas. Spears rested close by.
I crouched in the shadows, heart hammering. This was it. Test myself. See if I could stalk, maybe take one down if he strayed too far.
Step by step, I crept closer. My bare feet barely made a sound on the dirt. I held my breath.
But the closer I got, the clearer it was.
Even after weeks of training, I wasn't ready.
They weren't starving survivors. They were warriors. Their arms were thick. Their movements were steady. Even at rest, their eyes scanned the street like men used to danger.
If either of them spotted me, it wouldn't be a fight. It would be me sliced open and left for the dogs.
My chest tightened. Sweat poured down my back.
I retreated. Slow at first, then faster once I was out of earshot.
By the time I made it back to the aqueduct, my whole body shook with frustration.
Weeks of training. Extra food. Traps. Weapons.
And it still wasn't enough.
I couldn't even shadow two warriors without pissing myself. If I wanted to survive in this world, let alone fight, I had to admit the truth: I wasn't built for toe-to-toe combat. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
All I could do was small acts. Scavenging. Traps. Strikes from the shadows. Guerrilla work.
But even that had to be better. More vicious. More certain.
So I asked my cheat. Guerrilla warfare. Vietnam. Against the United States.
The flood of information hit me. Tactics. Hit-and-run. Ambush. Disappearing before reinforcements came. And the traps.
Punji pits. Bamboo spikes. Whip traps with spears that swung down from trees. Landmines. And worse.
I almost gagged reading it.
They didn't just build traps. They pissed and shit on them. Let the waste fester so the wounds rotted, infected, killed slow.
It horrified me.
It also made sense.
That's how you kill enemies stronger than you. You don't fight fair. You don't give them a chance to recover. You make every step they take dangerous. You poison the ground they walk on.
I sat there staring at the dirt, my stomach churning.
This wasn't the kind of war I'd read about in books. It wasn't the kind of history I used to romanticize. It wasn't glory. It was filth. Disease. Death.
But I wasn't in a history book. I was here. Alone. Weak.
I didn't know how to fight like the Mexica, and trying would get me killed. If I wanted to live long enough to matter, this was the path.
Ugly. Desperate.
The kind of war where you turn the world itself into a weapon.
That night, I sharpened stakes again. Not just to pierce. To rot.
I hated myself for it.
But I kept going.
And then it Happened, I told myself I'd wait. Keep scavenging. Keep training. Keep building traps. But then I heard it.
Not far from the canal. Voices. Rough. Laughing. And a woman's muffled screams.
I crept closer, my stomach already twisting.
Two warriors. Not Spaniards. Not Tlaxcalans. Another allied group — I didn't know which and I didn't care. One held the woman down. The other stood nearby, waiting his turn.
She kicked, sobbed, begged in Nahuatl. They laughed.
My chest burned. My hands shook. Every part of me screamed to run. To hide.
But I didn't.
I moved.
The one waiting was closer. I gripped the macuahuitl and stepped from the shadows. My swing wasn't clean, wasn't strong. But the obsidian edge bit into his throat.
He gurgled, staggered, clutched at the blood pouring down his chest.
The other one turned, still inside her, face twisted in shock.
I stabbed. Not skillful. Not precise. Just raw panic and hate. The point jabbed into his ribs. He howled, stumbled back, blood bubbling.
The woman screamed, scrambled away.
I kicked their weapons toward the shadows where I'd been hiding. Spears, a club. I backed after them, chest heaving.
"Pick them up," I hissed at her. "Carry them, and follow me if you want to live."
It came out harsher than I meant, almost absurd given what I'd just said. But there was no time for humor.
The one I'd stabbed was still moving.
He staggered toward me, clutching his side, blood soaking his tunic. His face twisted with rage.
I grabbed whatever I could — rocks, dirt, a broken piece of clay — and hurled them. One struck his shoulder, another his face. He slowed.
Every step he took was weaker. His breaths came ragged.
Finally, he cursed me in a language I didn't know, spat blood, and stumbled back into the night.
I didn't chase. I couldn't. My arms ached, my chest burned, my legs shook.
I collapsed against a wall, gasping. The woman crouched beside me, clutching the weapons I'd kicked her way. Her eyes were wide, wild, terrified.
We sat there in silence, both shaking, both broken in different ways.
There was no honor in what I'd done. No glory.
I hadn't fought them in a fair duel. I hadn't stood tall.
I'd cut a man's throat while he was distracted. I'd stabbed another while he raped. I'd thrown dirt and rocks like a cornered animal.
But they were alive.
And more importantly — we were alive.
That was the only thing that mattered.
For now.