A/N: Next one as promised. Chapters will get longer towards the end. Trust me.

CHAPTER 09: AYOTL

"Awk! Amo cualli! Amo cualli!"

"Stop, you stupid bird!" Leonardo yelled. Half-laying on the ground, he flailed an arm at a blue and yellow Macaw, whose screeches worsened his migraine.

"Amo cualli! Awk!"

Leo growled as the Macaw swooped down and flapped his wings. "Let me move!"

"Yo!" someone called.

The Macaw squawked, abandoning Leo for Coyolxauhqui's shoulders. The bushy-haired human stood by the curtained doorway and cooed in her native language. Yo replied by ruffling his head feathers.

"That's your bird?" Leonardo questioned. "Figures." He straightened himself, although the tousled blanket under him made him feel uneven.

"Beard?" the tribeswoman asked.

Leonardo nodded. "Bird."

"Beard. Bird."

"Your bird." Leonardo pointed at Yo and repeated again, "Bird."

"Ah, Yo? Yo is Cochotl. Cochotl is bird?"

"I—I guess?"

Coyo grinned, puffing up with pride. "Yoh-lo-tlee," she added. Her finger rubbed below Yo's black beak, his head leaning onto hers. "Mean…uh." She patted her chest. "Ha—heart."

"And he's your pet?"

The tribeswoman stared at the mutant until he sighed.

"Never mind," he grumbled. Hissing, he rubbed his thighs to his knees. They looked more swollen than usual, discolored, yet also straighter. And he still couldn't stand on them.

"Tetani?" Coyo asked.

The mutant tensed. His eyes found the doorway, where Huitzilopochtli's staff thumped against the wood floor.

"Awake already?" Huitzilopochtli questioned. Coyo turned as her older brother's smile broadened. "Thought turtle-man would sleep longer."

"The bird woke me," Leo said.

"Yo?"

"He was pecking my face."

The tribesman chuckled. "Keep turtle-man clean of bugs. Be thankful."

"That'd be easier without this killer headache."

"Ah, so Chicha hit turtle-man hard?"

Leo shuddered, asking, "What is that stuff?"

"Beer."

"That is not beer."

"Tribe specialty. Quick pain-killer."

"I can tell. Why carry so much if it's that potent?"

Huitzilopochtli's smile turned somber. "High tolerance," he said.

Did that make Huitzi an addict or sick? Both reasons would make sense of his emaciated figure and walking staff.

'He has the same look in his eyes. Like Sensei.'

Leonardo pulled his legs up when he heard the curtains draw back. A group entered the hut, consisting of men and woman. They muttered with bowed heads then fell on their knees, chanting so earnestly that Yo fled out a window. Leo looked to Huitzilopochtli and Coyolxauhqui, but his confusion went unanswered. The mutant was left stiff as a man neared. He carried a basket made of large leaves and placed it on Leonardo's lap. The site sunk Leo's stomach.

A quail laid there, drenched in blood from its slit throat. It was surrounded by purple flowers, sliced fruits and steamed corn husks on the outer edges. Was that supposed to make the plate seem appetizing? Because all Leo could focus on was the red.

"Pardon, pardon!" Huitzilopochtli cried. He reached for the basket, yet every time he touched its leaves, the group protested.

"What—what the hell is this?" whispered Leo.

Huitzilopochtli listened to the rambling crowd, nodding, teeth clenched. "They call turtle-man Teoayotl, a divine assistant of Ometeotl," he told Leonardo. "Say he survive Hupaxque's wrath. That he…" The tribesman trailed off with a frown.

"That I what?" Leonardo asked with a growl. Huitzilopochtli gave no answer, and the mutant snorted, shuffling his legs.

"I say turtle-man is mere Ayotl, a turtle, mortal," added Huitzilopochtli a moment later. "K'ekchi no listen. Persist."

"Can you make them leave?"

Hesitantly, the tribesman shook his head. "Only Leonardo can."

"Ho—how?"

"Turtle-man paint blood on face. Then partake of the Humitas and Naranjillas."

Leonardo swallowed hard. "P—put blood on my face?"

"It mean acceptance, show turtle-man heed plea offering."

"And if I reject?"

Huitzilopochtli sent Coyo a cursory look before replying, "Then they believe their family is dishonored by our most sacred spirit. They would self-exile."

"Th—that's ridiculous."

"That is customary, Leonardo."

'Always gotta make the hard choices, eh?'

"Shut up, Donald," Leo whispered. He felt the brunette behind him, yet refused to meet his obnoxious smirk.

'Do ya bathe in animal blood or break apart a tribe? Maybe break it. Ya'reexcellent at breakin' things.'

Head shaking, Leo wetted his lips.

'But if ya accept, ya're lyin'. These people may not see it, but we both know ya're no god. Not even close.'

"I said shut it!" hissed Leo. He looked up to where Huitzilopochtli argued with the crowd's leader and decided.

He dipped a finger into the blood then drew a pattern across his face inspired by Coyolxauhqui's tattoos. The blood's tackiness left his skin tingling, and he fought the urge to puke while swallowing the fruit and corn husks. When he faced the group again, he did so with a frown and sour stomach.

That seemed good enough for the worshippers. They bore smiles across their dirt-stained faces before they left—an act that chilled rather than warmed Leo. As their last words sounded, Huitzilopochtli snatched up the offering then dropped it onto a table with a force that made Coyolxauhqui jump.

"Hu—Huitzi?" she asked.

Huitzilopochtli spoke over his shoulder. Coyo started a reply, only her brother cut her off. They soon fell into a conversation that likely would have confused Leonardo even if he spoke their language. So what did it matter?

He pulled the blanket towards his face, rubbing it. It scratched like sandpaper, yet the blood needed to be removed. He could feel it creeping into his pores. It was the worst feeling; he'd decided that long ago. By the time he glanced back up, his face felt raw and Coyo's eyes watered. She whispered something, bowed towards her brother, then sent Leonardo a hard look before retreating beyond the library's curtain door.

"Forgive K'ekchi, turtle-man," Huitzilopochtli said. "Especially Coyo."

"Wh—what's wrong?" questioned Leo.

"I told Coyo how troubling it is to see our people bring an offering to an outsider rather than Ometeotl. Or her."

"Really? So, what?" Leo waved an arm and glared. "I should've rejected that thing instead?"

"No, I—" The tribesman hung his head. "I thank Leonardo. Your indulgence mean much. K'ekchi lose enough people."

"I—I—I don't understand," Leo started, rubbing his cheeks. "What does that mean? Who have you lost?"

Huitzilopochtli didn't reply, but Donald did: 'Why do ya care?'

Good question. Leo was unsure of his answer. He suspected he'd have time to figure it out, though. Where else did he have to go?

No matter how many times Xander blinked, black spots persisted in his vision. 'Guess it could be worse,' he thought. 'I could be in a coma.'

"Had I not seen it, I wouldn't have believed it, Mano!" Agent Rook grinned, his weathered face glowing red. He punched Xander's shoulder as if they were old friends—an act as discerning as his address of 'Bro.' "What did you find? Any other leads? Oh, tell me it's something good."

Not five minutes after sitting down and already expecting a full report? The younger agent should've expected as much.

"It's a little hard to make sense of things when your eyes are struggling to stay open, Señor," Xander said.

"A small sacrifice, Zángano. This is what the EPF pay you for."

"Yeah, but you'd think there'd be a hazard bonus for what I just did."

"You got your gun, right?"

A minor comfort, in all honesty. Plasma Rifles injured Jinchos worse than traditional bullets, but if it came down to it, Xander knew which opponent would win. He scoffed, running a hand down his tingling face.

"Report, Agent Hyde."

The brunette met his superior's eyes or at least the dark spot where his eyes should be. "The mutant was there. Had to be."

"Why do you think that?"

"Logic. The camp shows signs of one occupant. Injured. Possibly two broken legs. Drag marks are leading from a bed of leaves to, well, where he took a piss. If he were an injured native, the marks would've been shallower. And if he were a Jincho—"

"There'd be no marks at all."

"Exactly."

"That's surprisingly astute, Agent."

"Yeah, well, believe it or not: some of us qualify for the EPF with reason."

"This coming from the man who fell asleep on patrol."

Xander sighed. He'd never live down that mistake, would be?

"No matter," Agent Rook added. His boots slid across the rainforest floor, crushing dried vegetation. "If the mutant was injured, where did he go?"

"Got an answer for that, too." Digging into his vest pocket, Xander pulled out a wooden statue. It was sun-bleached, splintered, barely five inches in length, but its faded markings were so telling that they made Agent Rook scowl.