April 16th, 2024. A date that would mark the beginning of the end.
It’s my birthday.
The narrow streets of Madrid capture us in their suffocating embrace. Despite the beautiful spring day, the air hangs heavy with pollution and the tension is palpable. Our Alpha Team unit, it’s core made up of – Fosco, myself, Cina, Mister E, and Al Primero, advance across uneven cobblestones, tracking TIK dealers. The irony doesn’t escape me: high-tech mercenaries in a medieval setting, like characters lost between centuries. The contrast would be almost comical if not for the weight of destiny pressing down on us.
Fosco, that towering figure with a heart of gold, breaks the taut silence with his charismatic warmth. His voice echoes off the ancient stone walls:
“Tell me, Cina,” he says, as his eyes twinkle with mischief, “surely you know Italian cuisine? A beautiful woman like you must know how to prepare an authentic pasta alla carbonara.”
I suppress a sigh. Even in the midst of a mission, Fosco remains… Fosco. It’s both comforting and maddeningly distracting.
Cina rolls her eyes, though affection colours her feigned exasperation. “Really, Fosco? Since when is cooking a measure of beauty?”
“Since forever, my dear!” Fosco exclaims with theatrical indignation. “Let me explain. For true carbonara, you need fresh eggs, guanciale – not bacon, mind you! – pecorino romano, and absolutely, positively no cream!”
I observe him from the corner of my eye, marvelling at how he maintains such lightness in our world of shadows. Perhaps it’s his way of keeping the darkness at bay, of preserving something pure in our tainted existence.
Mister E fails to suppress a chuckle. “Are we on a mission or in a cooking class, Fosco?”
Fosco dismisses the question with an elegant wave. “The mission can wait. Culinary education is urgent! You know, today’s youth can’t even boil water properly.”
Al Primero interjects, with a smile on his lips. “Here he goes again with his ‘back in my day’ routine…”
“Laugh while you can,” Fosco retorts, feigning offense. “When the apocalypse comes, you’ll be grateful to know how to prepare a decent pasta.”
I am drawn into his game, he is unable to resist. “And what about French cuisine, Fosco?” Cina asks “Going to lecture us on that too?”
Fosco turns to me, his smile now conspiratorial. “Ah, for that, dear Cina, you’ll need to consult our friend Alva. A true cordon bleu when it comes to snails and frog legs!”
Laughter erupts, momentarily dissolving the mission’s gravity. If they only knew my last “cooked” meal was a military ration warmed over a makeshift fire…
But this proves short-lived. Fate, that cruel dramatist, has prepared a brutal twist in our story.
Rounding a corner, we come face to face with our quarry. Fifteen hostile gazes pierce the shadows, steel glinting in half-light. At their centre, stands a young man, his face hardened by street life. Angelo, they call him. An angel’s name for a demon in the making.
The atmosphere shifts instantly. The air crackles with electric tension, and I feel adrenaline flooding my veins. In moments like these, I question why I persist in this profession. For the thrill? From habit? Or simply because I know no other way of life?
Fosco, true to form, steps forward. I recognize that familiar light in his eyes – that unique blend of compassion and determination that sets him apart from mere mercenaries.
“Easy now, boys,” he says, his voice calm yet firm. “We’re not here to hurt anyone. We just want to talk.”
Angelo sneers. “Talk? Where do you think you are? Assholes!”
“What’s your name, kid?” Fosco asks, unperturbed.
“Angelo,” the youth spits. “But for you, it’s Muerto,” he adds, pressing a gun against the Italian giant’s forehead.
What follows is a fascinating, yet terrifying verbal dance. Fosco, with a weapon aimed at his head, speaks of hope, choices, and better futures to a street kid. It’s like watching a tightrope walker pirouette over an abyss.
“You know, Angelo,” Fosco says, his gaze steady despite the barrel pressed against his skull, “I see many things in your eyes. Anger, yes, but mostly fear and determination. You’re not here by choice, are you?”
Angelo hesitates, his bravado wavering slightly. “What do you know about it, old man?”
“I know you’re intelligent,” Fosco responds gently. “Too intelligent to truly want this life. Tell me, is it for your family that you do this?”
I maintain my position, watching the scene unfold like a dream – or perhaps a nightmare. Fosco weaves his words like a net, seeking to capture Angelo’s tormented soul.
“You’re right, it’s none of my business,” Fosco concedes, his voice rich with understanding. “But I want you to know that I understand. This life – selling TIK, threatening people – this isn’t you. It’s what you think you have to do, isn’t it?”
Angelo glances nervously at his companions. “I don’t have a choice, okay? There’s nothing else for people like me.”
Fosco shakes his head slowly. “There’s always a choice, Angelo. Always. Maybe not an easy one, maybe not obvious, but it exists. You’re capable of so much more than this.”
I want to believe in these words, in this vision of a world where choice is always possible. But my cynicism, forged through years of bloody missions, whispers that it’s a beautiful lie.
“You understand nothing,” Angelo growls, but his voice lacks conviction. “I need respect here, I need money for my family. You can’t understand that.”
“Oh, but I do understand,” Fosco replies with a sad smile. “But real respect doesn’t come from a gun or the fear you inspire. It comes from what you build, from those you help.”
“Why would you do that?” Angelo asks, distrust mingling with a glimmer of hope in his eyes.
“Because I believe in you,” Fosco responds simply. “I see a brave young man, loyal to his family, willing to take risks for those he loves. These qualities could accomplish great things in the right context.”
“Give us your weapons!” Angelo suddenly demands, his voice trembling.
Fosco gently shakes his head. “No, we can’t do that. These aren’t toys, and I don’t want to see innocents hurt.”
“You’re going to die, asshole!” threatens Angelo, pressing the barrel harder against Fosco’s forehead.
“That’s possible,” Fosco admits. “But first, let me give you one last lesson.”
With lightning speed, Fosco grabs the gun and points it skyward. Then, slowly, deliberately, he brings the weapon back down to his own forehead. Terror floods Angelo’s face.
“You think this is a game?” Fosco calls out to everyone present. “That you can threaten, hurt, maybe even kill without consequences? You think that makes you bigger? No.”
The silence that follows is deafening. Several dealers back away, unease evident in their postures.
“The real lesson, Angelo,” Fosco continues, his gaze locked with the young man’s, “is that you should never draw a weapon except to protect those you love. Never. Otherwise, you risk hurting innocents and losing your humanity.”
Fosco continues, his voice soft but firm. “Listen carefully. What’s about to happen now, it’s not your fault. You understand? You’re not responsible.”
The young man nods imperceptibly, unable to speak.
“There are so many ways to make this world better, Angelo. So many lives you can touch positively. Promise me you’ll dedicate your life to that. Each day, each action, do it to improve things around you. That’s your mission now.”
Fosco offers a tender, almost fatherly smile. “Ten lives saved will never redeem those I’ve taken, but it’s a start… You’re the tenth. Thanks to you, I’ve finally fulfilled my life’s mission. I thank you.”
I feel my heart constrict. For the first time, I glimpse the weight Fosco has been carrying all these years.
Fosco observes the panicked young man. He delicately releases his grip on Angelo. “Now, slowly put your hand down, remove it from the weapon… Don’t worry, I’m leaving it the gun right where it is.”
Angelo lowers his finally freed hand, bringing it to his side. His heart pounds in his chest, and his legs can’t decide whether to flee or collapse.
As if hypnotized, he watches this Italian giant still holding his own weapon against his forehead.
“Now, your lifetime belongs to you. Be a good man.” Then he whispers, “Sorry for the trauma.”
Before anyone can react, Fosco firmly grips the weapon and pulls the trigger himself. The gunshot echoes through the alley, and Fosco collapses, a serene expression on his face.
The silence that follows is deafening.
Angelo, in shock, stares at the gun on the ground. The other dealers back away, some flee.
And I remain frozen, unable to fully comprehend what has just happened.
Fosco’s blood mingles with the dirt between the cobblestones, creating a macabre tableau that will forever be etched in my memory.
It’s at this precise moment, seeing Fosco’s body lying on the pavement, that I feel something break definitively within me.
As if the last barrier between my humanity and the chaos of the world had just collapsed.
My name is Alva.
It’s April 16th.
I’m 57 years old.
It’s my birthday, and today, I’ve aged a century.