Starglow Basin The jungle

Osiel’s in no mood. He has a lot on his mind. The dregs of war, the pack, the attempt on Saya and increased security on their borders. And now @Soto is acting like a loose cannon. 

He forgets his place. The ocelote is here to remind him.

“Levantarse.” It’s night. Osiel appears at the mouth of segundo’s den.

soto’s been busy. 

he’s used to running things how juarez liked it. big man decides the direction, soto provides the people. for all his cleverness, he never stopped to think osiel might feel differently. 

he’s up at his makeshift den in the lookout when el oceloté comes in bristling. commanded to get up, soto does so — wondering if the man’s come to punish him for saya’s failure.

Dead silence as they climb to the desert’s highest peak. Just beyond in a glen unburdened with bristlecone is a wide, fertile valley. Enclosed in grey atmosphere. Here, Osiel plants four feet. Soil pools underpaw.

"Mirar. No verde. Ningún producto." Los Zetas, all over again.

"Sin un producto, no somos nada. Sin un producto, no tenemos rumbo." Never had it been more evident. The muscles in the ocelote’s jaw clench. Of course he wanted to strike him. Of course the leopard should pay in blood for Verapaz’s failings. Eyes find Segundo in the dark.

"Has perdido a tus hermanos," Osiel leers. "Hacemos que este valle sea verde. Entonces tendremos tu venganza."

their thin shadows climb the high desert. soto's mind draws inward.

osiel points out the obvious. at this, a pained non-expression marks soto's face. he has been very busy drawing their distant pieces to their destined ports. moving parts to arrange before the green comes into play.

but osiel is right. they had picked the stone quarter out of necessity while escaping war; not out of its fertility in green. if he'd just kept mention of soto's dead compadres from polite conversation, soto might have been genial.

revenge was only his motive now.

his expression darkens. tu eres el jefe. another painfully obvious point. soto's remaining eye rests in that distant valley, waiting for osiel to illuminate just how he plans to turn desert sand into fecund paradise.

The ocelot distributed four paws into the earth, silver nails etching grooves into the ground.

“Sí. Soy. Enseña a tus perros a cultivar esta tierra. Trae tus semillas del paso y siémbralas aquí.”

  “No vamos a formar una pandilla, leopardo. Estamos construyendo un imperio.” His look was quiet, as was the night. He waited for the consensus to show in Soto’s dark face.

it was a grand idea; for a moment soto's mind is silent with the vision --

osiel, claws curled around his throne of stone. millers, workers, tillers, runners all -- a hive of activity buzzing behind him while meanwhile the drones carried something red and nearly identifiable into the honeycomb grid; so intimately familiar that at first the mind does not wish to acknowledge it is the pulp of men -- their bones and gristle and blood and all -- that fuel this empiric nightmare.

far away from where either stood, a lone owl sent its mournful cry into the muted dusk. como desées. he concedes with a bow; whatever osiel dictated would be so.

A paw raised, but it was not with a violent mean.

“No, leopard.” The hand hooked under the strong chin, raising it, releasing.

“Como deseamos.” Family was gone. Brothers were dead. Here was a place where two men again would rise.

the ocelot's paw raises and for a tense moment soto wonders if the blow will come. he is used to cruelty, a language consistent and fluent and without preamble; there is much of osiel soto does not yet understand.

the strike does not come. soto glances from some nebulous fixed point in the distance to osiel; a fairer man than juarez, perhaps. he nods in acceptance but remains silent, tongue still fixed to the roof of his tightened mouth.

For long after the eyes looked; studied. The alluring face. The singular eye. Soto, who remained as enigmatic as the day they had met.

Whatever his drive, there was a common thread in the mens’ capacity for success. And with it, those rewards.

“Ve,” one last command is given. He grins, “Eres Segundo. Ve a verte entretenido.”

how many more losses must he endure? his mind wanders to juarez. in all this time just trying to survive, he’d had no opportunity to grieve his brother. 

osiel names him segundo. second. soto bows at his command and picks his way down the stony spire. though they might scratch a living here, there is much work to be done before soto would call it any sort of success.