535 Rue de Montmorency

[The Exodus]

Character name: Santiago Ortiz
Character age: 31
Desired apartment: The small studio apartment on Le Marais doesn’t scream luxurious, wealthy, or fancy. But that’s just fine because Santiago is none of those things. The stage manager prefers his small, tucked away space to the opulence found throughout most of Paris. Decorated in neutral colors, the flat is a cozy and welcoming haven after a busy day at the opera house, even if it has yet to gain Santiago’s personal decorative flair—whatever that is. Really, Santiago was drawn to the apartment for one feature: the view. Sure, his mezzanine bedroom has a skylight, but the crowning glory of his home is the private terrace, overlooking the rooftops of Paris. Simply breathtaking.

Link

[The Exodus]

Santiago Ortiz

As Santiago tried to calm Mimieux down, he wondered where the blood and the bottle fragment had come from. Mimieux was thrashing violently, shaking and clawing at him. Santiago’s grip remained steady. She was out of her mind—perhaps a lost cause—but she was his employee. What was he supposed to do about that? Walk away? Old Santiago would have. Diego Ortiz would have left her to scream and rave to herself; otherwise, she’d already be just another dead wh*re on the wrong side of town. But he was a grown up now. One with the very real possibility of a police investigation at his opera house should any of his chorus girls die under suspicious circumstances. And it didn’t help that this budding sense of chivalry told him not to harm a woman—even a madwoman. Whether it was something he’d learned from Mama or Gisele or Cam or Rachel, he didn’t know. He just knew that there was something staying his hand, even as she screamed for him to leave her alone and swore at him. Even as she shook violently. Perhaps especially as she shook. She looked like a wounded animal that needed tending. Scared, unaware of why she was in pain, defiant. She moved, as though to kick him, but slid down towards the ground. Santiago looked down, trying to catch her, but instead saw more red—more blood. Blood everywhere. Blood on Mimieux and on the ground and on his boots. It wasn’t a lot, but it was enough. Mimieux fell from Santiago’s grasp and screamed—in horror or in agony, Santiago couldn’t be sure. And then the screaming stopped. Everything went eerily quiet. Mimieux was alive; her chest heaved up and down up and down. But she wasn’t awake and she wasn’t moving. Santiago could have left her there.

He didn’t.

He scooped her up into his arms and cradled her with surprising tenderness before absconding with her in his sidecar. He thought, at first, to take her to the motel and clean her up there. But he kept driving, past the seedy bars and neon lights. Past the closed shops and shoddy tenements. He drove straight out of La Zone Fonecee and back into the civilized world. He drove all the way to Le Marais and to his apartment complex. He scooped her into his arms and carried her up to his flat. Either way, Mimieux would have woken in a strange place. At least here, Santiago had the home team advantage of medical supplies and privacy. Stretching Mimieux’s limp body onto the dining table, Santiago was taken back to another memory—one of Reese lying spread out and unconscious here. Rachel flitting about, telling him in minute—almost irrelevant detail—how the ballerina had been assaulted by American thugs on the hunt for her. Cleaning shallow wounds, bandaging her up. Reese was now what Santiago would consider one of his dearest friends. Sometimes, the strangest things drew people together. It would have been foolish, though, to think that when Mimieux woke, she’d be fluttering her eyelashes at her savior. The only thing really connecting the two memories was an unconscious girl on Santiago’s table. He used it more like an emergency room than a dining room. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d eaten at the table.

He washed his hands thoroughly and retrieved his first aid kit. Then, gently, he rolled up Miimeux’s skirt to check the damage. She’d lost blood—lots of it—but the wound was half scabbed. It still seeped out blood. Santiago grabbed a dish cloth to staunch the bleeding and held her leg with firm, steady pressure. It had been a long time—several months, anyways—since Santiago last brought home a girl. This wasn’t who he would have imagined his first overnight houseguest to be after his break up with Rachel. This certainly wasn’t how he envisioned a night going down since breaking off from the gang. But here he was, his hand up Chianna Mimieux’s skirt, trying to keep her from bleeding to death.

Life was funny, if you had a sick sense of humor.

Chianna Mimieux

Here. Here. Up. Now.

L'araignée...

Yellow, black, orange, white. One two three skip flower light car.

L'araignée du soir
s'est tissé un paradis
Tout là-haut
Entre le mur et le plafond
de ma chambre

Not warm. Not cold. A slam. Hair caught. Door. No.

L'araignée espoir.

Piano under fingers. Foot just reaches pedals. Tinkering tinkering afternoon. Songs with names, but no names in her head. Tinkering in her head, flying around. Fly across black and white to make music.

L'araignée du matin
A déserté son logis
Elle a repris la route
et m'a mise en déroute
L'araignée chagrin

Adrienne points. Closer. One two three four on one side. Five six seven eight on other side. Runs away. The spider runs away.

L'araignée du midi
m'a prise dans sa toile
M'a caché les étoiles
M'a ravi mes amis

Chair squeaks. Doctor voice head window. Birds outside. Can’t hear them. Doctor snaps fingers. Scribbles words. Shiny blue pen that leaks. There is no spider.

L'araignée ennui

Arm. There is an arm? No, can’t have arm anymore. Black. Only black. No arms. No legs. No body. Nobody. No body? Smell. Sharp. Door opens closes. Head pain. Should be no pain. Why pain?

À trop guetter les araignées
j'ai oublié de courir les papillons
et de poursuivre les demoiselles

In leg. Pain in leg. Now. Yes no pain. No yes pain. Pain. Pain. Leg. God…

et j'ai maintenant
des fourmis dans les jambs.

Chianna squinted through the pain and tossed her head to the side. She shut her eyes and opened them, then shut, then opened again. Blinking quickly. She turned her face upward again and blinked her eyes wide. What? What was this? She made to move her leg, but felt a pull.

She shot up and saw his face. What? What was this? Him? Who- who was it? Her head was turning black, struggling to keep her up and awake. She wouldn’t fall under. What was this? Chianna looked at the man’s arm and felt it on her leg. Under her skirt.

Chianna let out a shriek and fumbled her arms behind her, trying to pull away. Her flailing fingers met the edge and she pulled, tried to pull away. But pulling away was hard. It was like moving her arms through syrup. “What the f-ck are you doing?” Her eyes were wild, but they weren’t working right. It kept going to black and fading back and forth. She couldn’t focus right. The Manager. What was he doing?! “Get- ” Chianna gasped for breath. “Get away.” She couldn’t muster more than a hoarse plea as she tried to scramble away, tried to ignore the pain in her leg, which Manager was holding, which she didn’t like. “No. No!”

Santiago Ortiz

Cleaning the cut wasn’t as nasty a business as Santiago thought it would have been. He expected ground shards of glass to burrow in Mimieux’s skin; the cut was surprisingly clean. The antiseptic must’ve stung her; she stirred slightly. Santiago ignored it. Mimieux would wake up slowly, groggily. That had to be how she did it; she’d lost blood and she was drained of energy. Surely she wasn’t going to snap awake and tap dance on the table… Santiago pressed cotton gauze to the injured leg and reached around for the bandages with his other hand. Mimieux thrashed a little.

“Easy mija,” he murmured, half to soothe her, half to sooth himself, “Easy…”

Her leg yanked one way; Santiago held it firm. He wasn’t done fixing her up yet and he’d be damned if Mimeux’s thrashing undid his first aid handiwork. He didn’t want her bleeding to death on his kitchen table. She resisted him and sat bolt upright. White faced and wide eyed, they looked at each other. The breadth of a second seemed incredibly long to Santiago; thick and dense and impossible to act or talk through. Her gaze turned to his hand and Santiago couldn’t quite brace himself for her reaction. Mimieux shrieked at a volume Santiago’s neighbors would later question and she wriggled around, trying to pry herself from his grasp.

“What the f-ck are you doing?” she asked. Her eyes, terrified and large, were as focused as a broken camera lens. Mostly, Santiago could see the whites of her eyes, flashing madly. “Get- ” she gasped. “Get away. No. No!”

“Fine!” Santiago released her roughly. “Go ahead; bleed to death! Don’t let me try to save your life.”

He pushed away from the table and into the kitchen.

“Can I get you a drink?” he asked, sarcasm lacing itself into his voice. “At least let me make your last moments comfortable,senorita.”

God knows I'll need one with you screaming like that.

Chianna Mimieux

The table was small. Her feet were slipping off the side as she tried to push and pull herself away. Chianna closed her eyes hard and gasped for air. She was empty. There was nothing there to hold her, to keep her from shaking. Where am I? I don't know. I don't know! Your leg... Where is your leg? She could feel it, but it was partially numb. A trickle on the skin of her thigh. It was warm. And so were his hands. Get them off. Get them off me! Why was he touching her? What was he doing? He was getting revenge. He was ruining her because she kicked his shin, called him names, insulted him, assaulted him. Her memory was grays and whites and blacks. Why was she here? How? The Manager. He stole her. Took her from La Zone. Why? Revenge. She needed to leave. To go. To run. But her leg didn't want to listen.

“Fine!” It remained warm where his hands were, but then cold. Her leg was cold again. She yanked her leg away once he let her go. “Go ahead; bleed to death! Don’t let me try to save your life.”

It was hard staying awake. It was hard keeping her head up enough to even see the Manager. You need to leave. I know. But how? I- I can't. Just go. Now. Chianna's arm collapsed under her and her shoulder hit the table's surface, followed by her head. She shut her eyes tightly again and saw a blanket of red, then blue, purple, black. Her other hand squeezed into a fist, grappling with the pain. She hurt. She hurt all over, like she was rolled between two steel cylinders and then spit back out. There was shuffling and feet. “Can I get you a drink?”

Chianna rolled her head to the side and tried to lift it again. She got it up an inch and then let it fall back down with a thud. Her legs were hanging off the edge, disconnected. Where were they? Were they her? They were gone. Her legs had left her, hanging off the table. Maybe they fell off. And they were floating, standing by themselves in the air. Chianna groaned and bit down on her lip. “At least let me make your last moments comfortable, senorita.” It was hard listening. Understanding. Several moments passed before she understood what he was saying. She still didn't understand. It was words, but it was blah blah blah. They passed through her head and she felt them in her fingers. So she clenched them and she threw them up in her gasps and groans and gritting teeth.

She managed to turn on her side, which almost made her pass out. It was black and then clear and then black and then fuzz. The edges were soft and hazy. Chianna reached out to the chair, leaning toward it, but missed. Her body continued forward and all was up and down and down was up and side was diagonal. The impact of the chair hit her side and she couldn't grab anything fast enough to keep her from falling. Her knee hit hard. Her stomach hit the seat. Knee slid against the hard. What... The ground? The hard was the ground? She opened her eyes - took a lot of energy - and found herself looking up. No, down. Looking down. Brown squares. White outlines. Brown squares under her face. Fell on the chair. Half on the chair, half off. Her hair hanging from the sides of her face. She coughed. Sputter.

"Help," she croaked. "Let go." She pushed herself, no balance, fell to the ground. "Where... where am I?" She mumbled, coughed and wheezed. She was angry, but she had no energy. Black and gray and blur and soft and light and dark. No focus. Chianna lay on her side, fighting her eyelids open. Arm outstretched. Other arm on top of arm. Legs. Where is my leg? She reached her arm above her head and tried to pull herself away. No energy. Getting nowhere.

Santiago Ortiz

Santiago pulled the refrigerator open and he debated washing an aspirin down with a beer. He was pretty sure the combination would help more than harm, but his liver would probably disagree. His head was already pounding and just sitting with his face in the cool air felt good. He shut his eyes and rummaged around for something nonalcoholic. Just in case. He wanted to have his wits about him if Mimieux did something completely stupid. Like cause the thud in the kitchen. Santiago groaned, stood up, and kicked his refrigerator closed. He looked into the dining room to see the blonde tangled in a knocked-over chair on the floor. Santiago snorted in dark amusement and shuffled into the dining room.

"Help," Mimieux croaked. Santiago reached to move the chair off of her, to help her up. “Let go."

He backed away and watched as Mimieux tried again, struggling and failing to clamber to her feet.

"Where... where am I?" She mumbled, coughed and wheezed.

“My apartment,” Santiago said, crouching down. “I brought you here after you passed out; see if I could bandage you up. Clearly, that was a mistake.”

He offered her his hand again, seeing if maybe he could help her get to her feet. She probably needed water and something to eat; maybe some painkillers. He didn’t know if she’d accept any of that from him, but Santiago was sure if she took his hand, they could make some progress…

[Deleted]

Chianna Mimieux

Her side hurt so much from where she fell. The leg pain - that was nothing now. It had melted in her head to nothing. The trouble now was trying to stay up, to stay awake, to fight the dark and grey. Chianna stopped fighting the chair. Was it the chair? She didn't know and didn't really care anymore. She was on the ground. Any energy that she could have used to crawl away from here was gone. It had all seaped from her body. There was a leak in her, so it all just went away. It spilled onto the ground and left an invisible mess all around her. She was soaking in it as she hoarsely called for help and asked where she was.

“My apartment" Chianna watched the Manager approach her. She pulled her arms closer to her, away from him, as he lowered himself toward her. He was so large and dark and he scared her. He was a monster from a nightmare. Was she sure she hadn't fallen asleep again? This was a nightmare. This wasn't death. Death was supposed to feel good - no, it was supposed to feel like nothing. Because Chianna didn't want to feel anymore, especially not now. “I brought you here after you passed out; see if I could bandage you up. Clearly, that was a mistake.”

The Manager's words fell into her ear slowly and wiggled its way into her head. Bandage? Chianna inched her chin closer to her chest and caught sight of her leg. The red was gone. Some smear, but mostly gone. That's why she slipped away. Her leg. The cut. She remembered now - but only in fuzzy bits. The store, the gun, the broken glass. Chianna slid her cut leg on the floor, still looking at it, still trying to stay awake.

When she looked back at the Manager, her eyes fell on his hand. It was near her face. Why? What was he doing? Chianna looked at the hand for a long time, saying nothing, only swallowing, breathing and moving her back and arms a little to get more comfortable. What was he going to do to her? Good? Bad? She couldn't tell. She thought back to her leg. The pain had died away. It was almost gone. Good?

Finally, she took his hand with a sloppy, hard grip and tried to push herself up with her other arm. Her legs slid against the ground as they tried to get under her to push her up. She had once watched a horse on TV. It was a baby, new and shiny. It's legs wobbled and it's head shook from side to side when it tried to get up. The legs were so skinny, it seemed impossible for them to hold up the little horse. But they did. And the baby horse got up. Was Chianna a baby horse? She let out a gasp as she got up, the blood flowing out of her head, struggling to flow back up. She smacked her tongue in her mouth. It was so dry.

"Water. Water." Chianna grimaced and held onto the Manager's arm. She hated holding onto him. Was he good? Bad? She hated touching him. She hated him. Good? Bad? Why was she at his place? It was gross. She wanted out. She wanted to get better and get out as soon as possible. "And put me down. Don't touch me."

[The Exodus]

Santiago Ortiz

Santiago hovered at Mimieux’s side, waiting for her to accept his help. When her clammy hand fell into his, Santiago remained steady, hoping she could stand on her own two feet. And though it took a while, Mimieux struggled to stand upright. Santiago smiled wanly, relieved by her triumph. At least they wouldn’t have to rush to a hospital. Santiago hated hospitals and the way they smelled like soap and death; bleach and sickness. The same for the fluorescent lights and fake smiles from receptionists and nurses. It wouldn’t inspire Mimieux to get better, the way a desire to get out of Santiago’s place could. Never mind the zillion questions the doctors would ask. How do you know each other? Where did this happen? Why? How? Can you sign this? Would you mind sitting in the waiting room? Do you know of any relatives in town?

"Water. Water."

At least Mimeux’s requests were simple. She dug her fingers into Santiago’s unflinching arm, steadying herself.

"And put me down. Don't touch me."

“You got it,” Santiago said, leaning her against the table and pulling away from her to go into the kitchen. “Try not to fall this time.”

[Deleted]

Chianna Mimieux

Standing so close to the Manager, she felt sick. Before she had blacked out, she had been all over him, trying to get him to kill her. The smell of him was right here, but it wasn't mixed with the lovely stink of La Zone anymore. It smelled like a house. It smelled stale, not like La Zone's stale smell. Different. Chianna didn't like it. Right now, in her frame of mind, she didn't like. If she was in a better mood, maybe she wouldn't mind it. Overall, she didn't like the fact that she was standing where the Manager walked everyday. She was in his kitchen, where he ate. She was still holding onto him. Gross. It made her sicker thinking how she had tried to lure him at the motel that first time.

“You got it,” The Manager set her against the edge of the table. “Try not to fall this time.” She shot him a snarling look and then lowered her eyes to the table. Chianna stood uneasily, but didn't fall yet. He moved away. She didn't follow him with her legs or her eyes. The blood was coming back up into her head and she could see a little better. The woozy feeling was still there a lot. It was making the back of her throat drier and grosser. Something wanted to come up through her throat, but she held it back. She hadn't eaten anything for hours. Nothing would come up even if she wanted it to.

The noises of the Manager shuffling around the kitchen was just background noise. Chianna's palm was flat against the table's surface with her hip digging into the edge. Her eyes darted from her hand to the door. It wasn't too far away. She could make it. Yes, yes, she could make it. But she was thirsty. Chianna's eyes darted over to the Manager. To hell with thirsty. She just had to leave. She wasn't going to stay here any longer. It was too foul here - or not foul enough. Escape.

Chianna glanced at the Manager and then lunged for the door, throwing her torso and head out in front of her legs. She stumbled forward and almost tripped, but miraculously caught her balance. Oh no... Her head felt too light and her legs felt the dizziness. The black was coming back into her vision. She had moved too fast. She made it and fell against the door. Her hand fumbled for the door knob as her other hand lay flat against the door, trying to hold her up. But her head was too light. Her hand failed her and she slumped against the door. I need out. Now. Chianna closed her eyes and pressed her forehead against the door. It was sort of cool against the skin. I need to get out.

"Water! I need my water!" She yelled against the door. She was still thirsty and she wasn't going to get far. Not like this.

[The Exodus]

Santiago Ortiz

Was it wrong that Santiago was amused by all this? He hadn’t missed Mimieux’s scowl, nor was he trying to ignore it. He reveled in it as he filled a glass with tap water. She hated him, but hate was strong. You grafted it onto your soul and since Myron had been gone, since Rachel had left him, there were days when Santiago felt purposeless. He wasn’t a loved man. Maybe Reese loved him. Maybe; he loved her in his limited way. But to be hated was like being loved. It was passion after a fashion; something Santiago’s life had lacked in recent months and it was sickly flattering—and riotously funny—that Chianna Mimieux hated him.

He flicked the faucet off and went out to the dining room, watching as Mimieux made one last, valiant effort to escape. It was sad—and still funny—that she was trying so desperately to get away. Even as she fell against the door, Santiago pitied her a bit. He still chuckled a little.

"Water! I need my water!" she screamed, voice muffled by the door.

“Easy, chica, “ Santiago said, squatting arms-length from her and extending the glass her way. “I got you your water. You can have it if you stop shouting.”

[Deleted]

Chianna Mimieux

Her throat was on fire. It was dry and felt like it was filled with hot, hot sand. Someone was pouring it in, drowing her in the hot, hot sand. She couldn't even cough. It was clogging up the airway and she coudln't even cough. Red pulsed in her mind to the beat of some music that she couldn't hear. Chianna brought her hands up to her head, which was still resting against the cool door surface. She pressed the heels of her palms into the sides of her head right above the ear. The pressure pricked her skull. She could have crushed her skull inward and she wouldn't have cared. Why, why didn't she die? She would have been better off being dead. It wasn't worth being alive. Living was overrated. Life wasn't sacred. Suicide wasn't sin. There wasn't such thing as sin. It was just stuff that people did. Right, wrong, good, evil. It was all just people stuff. Stuff people made up. Killing herself was her own business. No one would mind. But then this son of a b*tch picked her up and put her on his table. She could have died and then everything would have been fine.

“Easy, chica," Chianna jolted and snapped her head toward him. What the f*ck, why was he sneaking on her? How did he get there? She shrank back as he pushed the cup at her. She slid down the door, leaning her head, shoulder and side against it. Her eyes were wide, but she was tired. She was in pain and she was so tired. She wanted to sleep, but she couldn't. Her mind wouldn't let her. It fought to awaken her body fully. “I got you your water. You can have it if you stop shouting.” Chianna just looked at him, not saying anything, not moving. The Manager was all that stood between her and death in that store. It was a good idea, to get him to kill her. She remembered the look in his eye when she had kicked him in the shin. He had wanted to end her then. She wanted that look again. She wanted the look and the anger and the snap of the neck, or bang of the gun, or the stab to the heart. No, no, he didn't do it. The b*stard Manager didn't do it. Instead, he wanted to save her. Stupid, stupid, stupid. So stupid.

And what was in that cup? It was see-through. Water? He said it was water. What did he put in it? Drugs to make her go to sleep so she'd stop screaming? He wanted her to be quiet. What was in the water? If it was even water. Chianna waited and then took the cup jerkily, spilling some of the "water." She drank a sip. It tasted like nothing, like water. So he put the tasteless drugs in there. She took another sip and kept it in her mouth. She would spit it at the Manager, but then what would she do? She couldn't make a break for it. She didn't have the strength to. But that would make him angry. That was a good thing, non? Wasn't that the plan? That was the plan back in La Zone. So was the plan still good here?

For some reason, the feeling she had in La Zone was gone. She still wanted die, but she didn't want to die. It was fuzzy now. It wasn't as strong. The moment had passed and now she was in the blurry area. It was grey and painful. It was hot. Fiery. So she settled on spitting the little water in her mouth at his feet. And then she looked him in the eye and drank the rest of the water in a few gulps. "Why did you bring me here?" Her voice was quiet and scratchy and angry. "Why couldn't- didn't you just let me die?" She placed the cup on the ground, her eyes fighting to focus on the tile floor and then his pants and then the Manager's eyes. "Why?"

[The Exodus]

OOC: No, I did NOT forget about this scene. My apologies anyways! BIC:

Santiago Ortiz

Mimieux took the water and then a sip and Santiago relaxed. He rested on his haunches steadily and watched her with a faint half-smile. Christ, he was glad she had stopped screaming. He was waiting still for the Tylenol to kick in, but already Santiago knew the headache would outlast the painkillers. They weren’t strong enough for dealing with Mimieux. At least things weren’t getting worse. MImieux drank the rest of the water.

"Why did you bring me here?" She still sounded hoarse, which took Santiago almost as by surprise as the question itself. Why couldn't- didn't you just let me die?" She placed the cup on the ground, her eyes fighting to focus on the tile floor and then his pants and then the Manager's eyes. "Why?"

Santiago shrugged. “I wish I knew.”

He knew—of course he knew—why he’d saved her. In part because if she turned up dead in La Zone Fonecee, the police would come poking around the opera house, sticking their noses in places they ought not to. And if they found out Santiago had been there that night, he’d be sent back to Spain or maybe arrested. He couldn’t have either of those things. But there was more. A lot more. He realized now, with startling clarity how lonely the world would be without Mimieux in it. How dull, how boring. No one to fight with, no one to spark that inner-gangster of his. He’d just be a husk of a stage manager, wandering through, playing nicely. Mimieux played with him, the same way he did: take-no-prisoners, dirty. He didn’t hate her; he didn’t feel indifference, either. He found her interesting, but he didn’t quite like her, either. He wished he knew what that was about. He wondered if there was an altruism in saving her. Any at all. Any thought that said she was a human being, injured, who needed help. Maybe there was; he couldn’t tell. He cocked his head, studying her and he shrugged again.

“Maybe I don’t hate you as much as I used to,” he said, standing up. “You want more water?”

[The Exodus]

OOC: Catalina/Santiago! BIC:


Santiago Ortiz

Santiago had been awake since before sunrise. He was running on little more than coffee and adrenaline these days. Get up before sunrise, make Lola breakfast, grab a coffee and a cigarette. Take Lola for a run by the river. Run back. Shower, change, check in at the Garnier. Staff meeting, lunch, talk to lighting team. Get notes from director, remind Madeleine her notes were due two days ago, clock out. Meet with reporter about newspaper article concerning the rise of gang-related activity in La Peripherie. Go to La Peripherie, talk to locals. Blend in. Come home, feed Lola, quick walk, call Catalina.

And she’d be here in half an hour.

It was almost ten o’clock at night and Santiago had just finished ordering dinner for them from the only decent Spanish restaurant in a twelve block radius. A spicy, seafood paella, sangria, and the closest thing to his mother’s famous almond cake he’d found in sixteen years. He had learned in the last few years that he couldn’t handle things—delicate things—with gruffness all the time. He’d held a woman after her mother had been murdered. He’d talked a man down from a nearly suicidal fit. Had he told either of them to suck it up, as he would have done ten years ago, Santiago knew Rachel and Myron would have completely lost their marbles. Possibly killed themselves. Those were both ages ago, though, and had stuck with him.

When you had something serious to discuss with someone—particularly when it involved family—you didn’t d*ck around. You didn’t act cavalier. You sat them down with a bottle of wine and something like sensitivity.

And what Santiago had to talk to Catalina about tonight was serious.

He had several leads—none of them pretty—regarding Lorenzo’s disappearance. There was a fringe community of Spaniards in La Peripherie. They, unlike those in the city itself, were not integrated into French or Parisian society. Most were just immigrant families, trying to make it by on shoestring budgets and low-paying jobs. Some, though, identified as Netas. Others, as Gardunas.

The Gardunas were interesting to Santiago both personally and professionally; the Netas he wanted to stay the hell away from. Rivalry ran deep. But Santiago had said Lorenzo’s name to a tattooed bouncer who bore Garduna insignia and the reaction had been rather interesting. He paid for a few answers.

“El Jefe?” the man asked, eyes wide, lips hardly moving. “No one’s seen him for months. Not since Ramirez moved to town.”

“Ramirez?” Santiago echoed. “Which one’s he?”

But that was the end of that conversation. Fifty euros only got you so far. So Santiago had a few possible leads. The Netas, a Garduna insurgency, and this Ramirez guy. He’d talk it over with Catalina tonight.

After, of course, plying her with food and drink.

If Santiago didn’t know better, he’d say it looked like he was preparing his flat for a date. Wine. Food. Cleaned surfaces. Lola was even stashed outside, lest she misbehave. Of course, Santiago couldn’t help but think none of it was quite nice enough for La Princesa.

He’d always been too poor, too dirty, too lower-class for Catalina. Now that he was standing on his own two feet, she was still in a position of power over him. And his one bedroom apartment wasn’t likely to impress. If she was just a client—

The thought jarred Santiago so much that he almost spilled the Sangria he was pouring into a pitcher. Just a client? Why was he thinking of this gig as something more permanent? He was a stage manager, not a private detective. The sooner he remembered that, the better. Santiago swore under his breath and brought the sangria to the table. Catalina would be here soon and it would be better to act as though this whole search and rescue mission was a real drag on his professional life and mental health. Maybe that would speed things up.

Probably not.

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Catalina Reyes

From her hotel room (which was registered under a fake name (Gabriela Escamilla) from a fake account she had set up years ago), she paced. She didn’t sleep, playing over and over in her mind scenarios of leads, possibilities of what happened to her brother to the point where she was physically sick, pale and pacing across her hotel window like some forlorn ghost of a widow.

She troubled her mind with what-ifs so much that her face looked gaunt in the Parisian night lights of the city from her view nad her stomach felt hallow and cavernous like an empty chasm, waiting to swallow her up. She would find her brother, reunite with him, if it was the last thing she ever did.

As she sat still as a stature, staring at the patterned carpet, silently reminiscing of times she spent with Lorenzo, her cell phone rang.

She had never been so happy to hear from Santiago. After months of searching across Europe for Lorenzo, months of dead ends and “Sorry, no. Haven’t seen him”’s, and run-ins with the police, Santiago’s invite over was comforting in its way, almost melodic, and gave Catalina an excuse to pull herself together for just a moment. For Lorenzo’s sake, she convinced herself.

So she made her way over to the welcoming shack of an apartment Santiago called home (for want of a better word) and almost graciously stepped inside. “Wow,” she said sarcastically. “If I knew this was a date, I would have dressed up.”

[The Exodus]

Santiago Ortiz

The ringing of the doorbell set Lola off outside. She barked (a low, strong sound) only two or three times. Santiago looked at her through the glass door and crossed to the second of three doors in his apartment. He pulled it open to see Catalina, early and looking exceptionally pale and malnourished against the dim lights of the complex’s hallway. Santiago’s lips twitched, not quite a smile, but a look of acknowledgement, and he let her in.

“Wow,” she said sarcastically. “If I knew this was a date, I would have dressed up.”

Santiago snorted.

“Lina, please,” he said. “Everybody knows dating you is a death wish.”

Santiago had seen Lorenzo kill men for something as innocuous as whistling at his baby sister. Even though Lorenzo wasn’t around—might even be dead, for all anyone knew—Santiago hadn’t ever shaken his intrinsic paranoia where Catalina was concerned. He went to the coffee table and picked up his make-shift case file. He walked back towards the table and gestured for Catalina to sit down.

“Dinner first, and then business,” he said. It was a decision, not a question. “You look like you haven eaten in days.”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Catalina Reyes

“Lina, please, everybody knows dating you is a death wish.” Santiago said with an expression that balanced precariously between sneer and smile. He was right, of course. The men that chased Catalina's tail were signing their own death certificates with every word they uttered to her, every wink they issued from thier dark, michiveous eyes.

“Dinner first, and then business. You look like you haven't eaten in days.” Santiago said, and Catalina was starlted by the pure non-sneer he offered, the genuine smile of ghostly comfort he offered, and Catalina responded with a weary, light one in response.

Never had she been hungry, especially not by choice, but time had slipped like sugar through a sieve, and eating just hadn't seemed impotant anymore. "Thank you," she said, "I haven't." The tenderness of the moment rested on her tongue, melting slowly like some exotic, bittersweet food.

"Any word?" She asked, breaking it. "Any word on Lorenzo?"

[The Exodus]

Santiago Ortiz

If Santiago said he didn’t care about Catalina Reyes, he’d be a liar. He already was a liar in so many ways; this was one of the few things he could be honest about. He had cared for Catalina since they were children. Literally, at first, and later emotionally. She’d been Santiago’s first gang-related assignment, even before Gisele’s death. Protecting Catalina, being her bodyguard, was a part of Santiago and had been as long as he could remember. Genuine affection swiftly followed.

"Thank you," she said, "I haven't."

Santiago could tell. She looked waifish. The Catalina he knew had curves and bright eyes; this Catalina didn’t. She was sullen and sallow. If Santiago was the emotional type, he’d be fussing over her like some foolhearted mami. Instead, knowing smiles sufficed.

"Any word?" Catalina asked, once they were settled in. "Any word on Lorenzo?"

“Paciencia, querida,” Santiago insisted. “I have leads—nothing definite. There’s a fringe group of Netas—and one of Las Gardunas, too—operating in La Peripherie. Lorenzo was seen there six months ago.”

That was the more hopeful thing. That Lorenzo was alive and working. It was possible; not probable. Santiago poured the wine.

“Unfortunately, my source said no one’s seen him since. Mentioned a guy called ‘Ramirez’. I need you to think, Lina. Does the name mean anything to you?”

[Lets_Eat_Paste]

Catalina Reyes

“Paciencia, querida,” Santiago said, and Catalina, as funder some magic trance fell into aquiet calm. Just hearing her native tongue was soothing, a lullaby amidst the cacophonous French sounds she heard. French was ugly, throaty. Catalina couldn't believe they came from the same root language. She was like a stranger amongst a crowd of friends. She wanted to hide, or at east blend in, but found it increasingly difficult these days. “I have leads—nothing definite. There’s a fringe group of Netas—and one of Las Gardunas, too—operating in La Peripherie. Lorenzo was seen there six months ago.”

Six months ago. Six months ago?! If only she hadn't wasted time in Madrid, she would have been here with him.

“Unfortunately, my source said no one’s seen him since. Mentioned a guy called ‘Ramirez’. I need you to think, Lina. Does the name mean anything to you?”

Catalina didnt bother wracking her brin. "Diego!" she exclaimed, her voice skating on whining. "There are several Ramirezes! He... she... they... could be anybody." Catalina finally ran through the phonebook of Ramierezes she had collected over the years, hoarding them for late use. "Maldito... she mumled, rummaging through her purse Why hadn't she seen it before?

She procued a letter, stained with red wine and smudged in places, making the busy difficult handwriting just legible. "Sebastian. Santiago, do you remember him? But he... he is weak. He couldn't even think about doing something like this, couldn't stomach the thought, much less the action. I mean, do you really think...?"

[The Exodus]

Santiago Ortiz

"Diego! There are several Ramirezes! He... she... they... could be anybody."

For a moment, they were teenagers again. Santiago, the gangster-in-training, Catalina the pampered princesa. She used to whine and rail at him until Lorenzo ordered Santiago to give the girl her way. There was no Lorenzo to bend Santiago’s will anymore. He poured the wine and took a drink from his own glass. He’d need this more than Catalina did.

"Maldito...” she muttered suddenly before going fishing through her purse. Santiago brought his wine to his lips again. He’d wait for her to pull out her cell phone, go through the names, and protest that she didn’t have a “Ramirez” in there. Instead, she pulled out a crumpled piece of paper.

"Sebastian,” Catalina said. “Santiago, do you remember him? But he... he is weak. He couldn't even think about doing something like this, couldn't stomach the thought, much less the action. I mean, do you really think...?"

“I don’t think anything yet,” Santiago assured her.

He remembered Sebastian. Little sh*t used to pine for Catalina in a way that made Santiago’s infatuation with Gisele seem healthy. Always doing Catalina’s bidding, practically kissing the ground she walked on. Santiago and Catalina used to send him on fools’ errands for kicks when they were kids. Sebastian hadn’t attended Catalina’s ill-fated wedding. Lorenzo hadn’t wanted him there. Santiago frowned and looked at the letter in Catalina’s hands. It was dirty, the paper a little discolored. He wondered how long she’d been sitting on evidence without telling him.

“What is that? Give it to me.”