The pieces of Cortès' map were so old and fragile, Cutter was genuinely concerned they might crumble in his hand if he breathed too hard. Holding up the a fragment he examined it closely, trying to make sense of the markings and how it fit with the rest. It was all yellowed and stained paper with faded ink lines and sixteenth-century Spanish written in flowery script- he'd have a hard time reading it even if he was more capable with the modern-day language.

"That piece goes here."

Cutter looked up at Solange, who was pointing at a spot in the map which lay partially assembled on the nav desk in the pilot house. "Oh," he said simply, putting it where she instructed. "Right. Thanks, mate. I can't seem make heads or tails of all this."

Solange nodded without looking up, instead talking under her breath in Spanish as she picked up another piece and spun it first one way, then the other, trying to fit the pieces together like a particularly delicate jigsaw puzzle. She ran her fingers thoughtfully across her scalp, then tossed her dark locks over her shoulder.

Suddenly the door to the pilot house burst open and Ian Foster crashed in, noisily crossing the room to a first aid cabinet and ripping it open. Cutter watched as he fished around in it for a few seconds before selecting a bottle and opening the lid.

"Nice of you to join us!" Cutter said, deciding on the safe approach of some good-natured ribbing while he tried to get a read on the younger man's mood. "Seasickness getting to you?"

Ian shook a couple pills out into his hand and tossed them back in his throat. He held up a finger in a "just a minute" gesture as he swallowed them dry, then cleared his throat. "Headache," he said in a low rasp. "Think I banged my head in that loop-de-loop the shipwreck did," he added, twirling his fingers around each other to illustrate.

Cutter nodded sagely. "It was a terrible place to crash a boat. Clearly an oversight on De Figueroa's part."

"Clearly," Ian agreed dryly as he screwed the lid back on and put the bottle back in the cabinet. "Do we still have a visual on Tristan?"

"Barely," Cutter said, handing him a pair of binoculars and pointing to the horizon. "We're at max RPMs, but he's a sight faster than us and we don't have the fuel to keep this up all the way to shore. Fortunately, Solange here almost has this map put together, so even if we lose them," he paused and scoffed. "Well, let's be real mate- when we lose them, we'll still be able to follow this to the right area."

Almost on cue, Solange placed the last piece of the map and gave a triumphant flick of her hair. "There!" she said, jabbing a finger down on it with such force it made Cutter cringe as images of the brittle paper simply crumbling to dust filled his brain. "Tollan!"

Ian, who had been standing on the deck just outside watching Tristan's fleeing vessel, lowered the binoculars and stepped back into the pilot house. "Where is it?" he asked.

Cutter leaned close over the map and studied it. "Yucatan Peninsula, looks like." He furrowed his brows in thought as he compared Cortès' map with a modern one. "Not far from the border of Belize."

"The Ocelotl have spent the last fifty years building up a base around the purported entrance to Tollan," Solange explained. "No one knows much about it, but the base is said to be built on top of the ruins of the Toltecs and Aztecs. Rudimentary military fortifications were raised on the site during the Caste war of the Yucatan, which were greatly expanded and modernized by the Ocelotl when they made it their base of operations."

"And after all these centuries," Ian said dubiously, lifting his eyes to meet Solange's, "the entrance to Tollan still hasn't been opened? How is that possible?"

"Or it hasn't been found," Solange offered, and pursed her cherry-red lips. Seeing Ian Foster's doubtful expression, she shrugged and straightened up, dusting her hands together. "I don't know. I suppose we'll find out how that's possible when we get there."

"Hold on, hold on," Cutter interjected. "If we get there." He cast his gaze between the two younger people across the table from him, and he registered Ian's disapproving frown. "Look, I don't mean to be a killjoy, but I'm just saying that we're going in blind. We have almost no intelligence on this place, what the defenses are, anything. From what you're saying, I don't know whether to expect Menwith Hill or a crumbling pile of rocks. I mean, just humor me for a second- how do we even get in?"

The three of them exchanged an uncertain look between them. "It's rumored that, with the extensive history of the fortification, there may be underground tunnels leading to it that date back to the pre-Columbian era." Solange didn't sound sure even as she said it. "Unfortunately, very few people that are not part of the Ocelotl have ever seen the base and lived, so the rumors are… unsubstantiated." She held up her hands, a bit lamely. "We are, as you say, going in blind."

A weighted pause followed. "Brilliant," Cutter sighed, folding his arms over his chest and leaning against the door casing.

Ian looked between his partners. "Then we improvise," he said. "It's what we do half the time anyways. And we can't just leave Cassie-"

"Hey- mate," Cutter said, his tone firm. "Nobody's talking about leaving Cassie. We'll get her. Besides, she's a big girl. She knows how to protect herself." He scratched at the stubble on his chin and added, "Besides, we still have the upper hand on Tristan."

He reached over and loosened the draw string on a diving bag that sat on the nav desk and slipped the Smoking Mirror partway out, revealing a crescent of dark obsidian. Every eye around the table turned to it, and a collective chill went down each of their spines at the way the light seemed to roll into the unfathomable blackness of its surface. As Ian looked at it, he found himself thinking that the artifact was somehow both mesmerizing and profoundly disturbing in a way he couldn't quite put to words. As he looked, the ripples of light and shadow seemed to swirl and dance like smoke, and then suddenly he could swear he saw the shape of a snake or a dragon twisting across its surface like a silhouette in the dark, curling around to devour its own tail, and his heart began to pound. Ian stared, blinking rapidly, and then the image was gone. He put a hand down on the desk to steady himself as the boat rolled deeply on the waves.

"I'm going on deck to get some air," he announced abruptly, then turned and stepped out the pilot house door.

Consciousness came like the Monday after a bad party: unhappily and bringing a splitting headache along with it. Cassie groaned and let her head fall backward without opening her eyes. A dull, throbbing pain was coursing through the back of her skull, and she tried to remember what it was from. The last time I went unconscious, I woke up in a fancy lodge in Scotland, she thought, except my head didn't hurt so much that time.

Grimacing in pain, she forced her eyes open. Grey, rust-streaked steel walls greeted her: industrial-looking and studded with dozens of rivets along the edges and seams. A single, oblong, hatch-like door was positioned in the center of the wall almost directly in front of her, and in one corner a dented metal folding chair sat dejectedly. Besides these, the room she was in seemed to be empty.

Definitely a far cry from the Adler lodge, she mused.

What was the same as waking up in the Adler lodge was the fact that she was tied to a chair. Looking down at herself, she took in the sight of rough hemp ropes passed around her upper body, binding her tightly to the uncomfortable wooden backrest, as well as the fact that she was dressed in a wetsuit, complete with neoprene booties. "Oh," she mumbled to herself as the memories of the underwater battle and her resulting capture at the hands of the Ocelotl came flooding back. "Right. That explains it. This is Tristan's ship."

Almost on cue, she felt the room tilt, rolling deeply to the left and lingering before it swung back to the right as the ship shouldered its way through the trough of a wave. Cassie wriggled against the ropes, testing them to see if they would loosen, but found they had been tied very securely. She huffed and blew a stream of air out of the corner of her lips to blow her bangs out of her face.

"Hello?" she called. "Hell-OOOOoh?"

Her voice seemed to die right at the cold steel bulkhead, and the only sound that came in return was the slow and steady drip… drip… drip of water leaking through the ceiling somewhere behind her.

"Hmph," Cassie scoffed, unimpressed. "Well, this sucks."

It was hard to tell exactly how much time elapsed, but it felt like hours before she finally heard the echo of footsteps outside the room, and the hatch opened.

She didn't need her glasses to recognize that face. Even with slightly blurry vision, the ominous jaguar tattoo that dominated his features was easy and distinctive enough to see. Shutting the door behind him, Tristan wordlessly grabbed the chair in the corner, spun it around, and sat down ass-backwards in front of her, his arms folded over the chair's back. It was- Cassie realized- a tactical move. The chair back would offer some protection from an attack, should anything happen. The point was made moot, of course, by the fact she was tied to her chair, but Tristan did it like it was instinct to him. The Ocelotl leader gave a terse huff of air and scanned her up and down.

Cassie glared at him. "You know, I realize I'm at a bit of a disadvantage here, what with being tied up and all- but I feel like I have to tell you that you really lost some points when I woke up and you weren't there looming over me all creepy-like." She tossed her head, flipping hair over her shoulder as casually as she could manage. "That's like, the number one power move for guys like you."

The barest hint of amusement flashed over Tristan's face, which had- until now- been almost exclusively an unchanging mask of cold, calculated malice. The lower fangs of his jaguar tattoo curled as his lips quirked in the ghost of a smile, and his cobalt blue eyes gleamed. "Cassie…" he paused, dramatically drawing out her name, "…Drake." Inhaling deeply, he laced his fingers together and stared intently at her face. "I have to say, I did not know who you were when you first began to get involved. But!" he shook his index finger at her for emphasis, "I do my homework."

Tristan spoke in very clear and obviously well-practiced English, while still retaining a heavy Spanish accent that lent it a rich, charismatic quality. The low, breathy intonation his voice had in this quieter setting stood in sharp contrast to the tersely barked commands Cassie had seen him issue while in the heat of battle, but both told of a man who was used to being listened to, and to holding a good deal of sway over those around him. Begrudgingly, Cassie mentally acknowledged to herself that she was beginning to understand how such a young man- probably barely older than herself- had come to command an army of radical cultists.

Tristan nodded and looked away meditatively. "You have quite the family, Miss Drake. Your father holds the distinguishment of having discovered El Dorado, Shambala, Atlantis, Ubar, Libertalia. You yourself are already on the same path. I understand that only a few years ago you found your way to Avalon?" He turned his attention back to Cassie, locking her gaze with such intense interest that she found herself feeling suddenly off-balance and unable to formulate a response. He smiled at her and leaned back slightly. "I feel we may have…" for just a moment Tristan appeared to grasp for the right phrasing, "…gotten off on the wrong foot."

Grasping for a modicum of control, Cassie quickly tried another snipe at him. "Really?" she asked sarcastically. "Was it all the times you shot at me? 'cuz I'd agree, that's a great way to not get an invite to Christmas…"

Tristan gave a huff of laughter. "I think you and I are more alike than you realize."

"Oh god, here we go." Cassie interjected, rolling her eyes.

"Correct me if I'm wrong," the Ocelotl leader continued, altogether too cooly for Cassie's liking, "but I imagine you view me as a blunt instrument. Cold. Soulless." His voice dropped to nearly a whisper as he leaned for the last word.

Cassie attempted a shrug, but the ropes tying her to the chair made it difficult. "I mean, there's the excessive firepower, the military-grade vehicles, the personal army, the level of sheer brute force…" She bobbed her head as if weighing it up in her head. "It all leans very 'blunt instrument'-y."

Grinning at her, Tristan produced a knife with a long and slim blade from a sheath on his hip, and for a moment Cassie's eyes went wide. But turning the knife on its side, Tristan rested it across both of his palms and held it in the space between them. "You see this knife?" he asked, his voice was still low and his tone was almost confiding. "It was one of my first. My father gave it to me shortly before I went out on my own. It has one purpose: to kill. You wouldn't use it in the kitchen, or in the garden. It is specifically designed to stab, to disable, and to destroy. Even so, you could never describe it-" he stopped and drew the edge of the blade slowly across his exposed forearm, cutting a shallow incision in his skin. Droplets of blood shone on the knife as he pulled it away. "-as a blunt instrument. Focused, yes. Purposeful, yes. But not blunt." Tristan again locked eyes with Cassie. "I am the same. And I believe you are, too."

"Don't flatter yourself." Cassie said, looking at him with disdain.

Flanked by the fangs of the jaguar printed on his skin, Tristan's eyes flashed passionately. "You can't tell me that you don't feel in your blood the same drive, the same focus that burned in your ancestor, Sir Francis- El Draque. I know you sense that you are here on this earth for a reason, and you feel in yourself that pull to see that purpose realized. You and I are young and capable. With our passion we could change the world!" His voice had taken on an earnest, entreating edge to it. "In fact, I think that there is only one key difference between us."

Cassie made a show of looking at his ostentatious face tattoo. "A lingering skin infection?"

"The courage to do whatever it takes to bring about the necessary changes." Tristan punctuated the sentence by clenching his fist. "Change only comes through struggle. Struggle is often violent. When Cortès and the Spanish arrived in Mexico, it was the portent of a new age- a new sun- that came through terrible violence and suffering. Their atrocities are well-known and documented, but it cannot be said that it didn't bring a change- though it was not a change for the better." Disgust was now evident on the young man's face as he spat out his words. "The Sun of Quetzalcoatl was one marked with passivity masquerading as peace to ensure that no one would rise to challenge his rule, for fear of being outcast by a society of pacifists. A society that quells any thoughts of revolution by making the ones who would bring a change feel that they are the problem!"

Raising an eyebrow ironically, Cassie noted, "I mean, I feel like the point where I'm getting a jaguar tattooed on my face would be the point where I would start wondering if I was the problem, but you do you."

Clearly not one to be put off by her jabs, Tristan continued, "Since that day, the homeland of the Toltecs and Aztecs has languished in poverty and repression. Only a fool would claim that what the Spanish brought to this land has done anything but stunt the growth of this land. It is time for a new Sun to dawn, but it will not come without bloodshed. Tezcatlipoca is not a god of peace, but this is not the time for peace. In order for anyone to make a lasting change, there will be a cost." He leaned in close to Cassie. "I am not afraid to pay that cost. It is what I was born for. I know you feel the call to leave your mark on the world, El Draque- you would be wise to not refuse its cost. If you do-" he gave her a meaningful look, "I can promise you that only one of us will leave Tollan alive- if indeed you even make it that far."

Cassie steadily held his gaze for several moments before replying, "I guess we'll see, won't we?"

Tristan drew back with a disapproving frown. "A very foolish decision," he said, condescension leaking into his words. "A naïve decision even, but an unfortunately expected one. It's one thing that came up over and over again when I looked into your family's history: your hard-headed stubbornness."

"Hey, how'd you find the PTA notes?" Cassie asked, putting on a look of mock affront.

Tristan stood and scoffed, and suddenly the weight of the room seemed to change as the Ocelotl leader's icy persona slipped back over him. "Even still, my fight is not with you." He turned away and began to walk towards the door. "We will arrive in less than two hours. Once we are there, you will be brought inside my base of operations, where we will discuss what happens to you next."

As Cassie watched him open the door to leave, the words 'my fight is not with you' brought back a working theory she had been mulling over for some time. "That's a lot of posturing and blame-casting for someone whose ancestors are arguably just as responsible for the destruction of Mesoamerican culture, isn't it- Valazquez?"

Halfway out the door at this point, Tristan paused and turned back to her. His head was cocked to one side curiously, and his eyes narrowed chillingly. "How did you know my name?"

"I didn't," Cassie said smugly, pleased to see she had been correct and that the information had the effect she was hoping for. "Not really, anyways. But when I first talked to Solange about the Mirror, she brought up the contention and rivalry between Hernàn Cortès and Diego Valazquez. As things went on I couldn't help but notice the similarities between their struggle for power and the one going on between you and Solange's family. It was like everything was intensely personal for both of you, beyond just the struggle for power or wealth. Then I saw your contact in her phone under "T.V.", and, well- it wasn't too hard to make an educated guess."

Tristan stared her down for several seconds. "The fact my ancestors made mistakes does not mean I have to repeat them," he said simply.

Cassie met his gaze challengingly. "Wouldn't you say the same goes for the Cortès family, then?"

Tristan sniffed, unimpressed, squared his shoulders, and said simply, "Goodbye for now, Miss Drake." With that he stepped onto the deck, closing the steel door behind him. The sound of it echoed faintly around the room.

"Hey!" Cassie yelled after him. "How about a drink of water or something?" Her throat was indeed parched after the exertion of the dive and the underwater fight, followed by her being unconscious for however many hours she had been. "Well," she said to herself as his footsteps faded away, "that could've gone worse. I think."

She hadn't expected that Tristan had heard her, or even if he did that he would actually grant her request after her parting shot at him, but it was only about ten minutes later that the door opened again and a very irritated-looking goon lumbered in with a canteen in hand. "Drink," he ordered, extending the canteen to her.

Cassie's eyes flashed to the goon's belt, where she spotted a knife strapped to his side. "I would," she said casually, "but as you can see, my hands are full at the moment." She made a show of wriggling against her bonds. "If you wouldn't mind holding it for me. Just, you know, don't be weird or anything."

The goon looked more annoyed than ever at that, but he reluctantly stepped closer and reached up to unscrew the lid. As he came within range of her legs, Cassie quickly kicked out and caught the side of his left knee with a crunch. The man yelped and lurched to the side, suddenly unsteady on his feet, and Cassie quickly attacked his other knee, cracking it as well. The goon collapsed forward, and she just managed to catch the underside of his jaw with her own knee as he fell, now unconscious, to the floor.

"Wow," Cassie mused as she surveyed her handiwork. "I can't believe that worked."

With some effort, she managed to turn so her back was facing the fallen Ocelotl goon, and by leaning her chair backward on two legs and stretching her hands as far as the ropes would let her, she could just barely reach his unconscious body. Her fingertips brushed agonizingly close to where she knew the knife was, but the weapon remained just out of her grasp. "Come on, come on…" she muttered to herself, straining to try to reach just a little further.

Cassie's efforts ended up tipping the chair too far back so that she lost her balance and fell unceremoniously onto the goon, hitting her head in the process. "Owww," she groaned. "Turns out mom was right," she muttered, remembering her parents' patient instruction to her around the dinner table as a child. "How embarrassing." With a series of hopping movements that Cassie was sure looked completely ridiculous, she managed to scoot to the side enough that she could finally grab the knife on the goon's belt and pull it from its sheath. "Glad Cutter and Ian weren't around to see that…" she said to herself as she began to saw at the ropes tying her to the chair.

A dialogue-heavy chapter, but you gotta have those, too. And we are ramping toward the climax of the story... sort of. I mean, at least the last location! Anyway, I'm super excited about the next bit of this story. Hope everyone's doing well and staying safe!