The world is going to end, and it’s your fault.
“Why the fuck isn’t the sun moving?!” Ehecatl screams.
Quetzalcoatl had only recently created a new earth, ruled by Ollin after the last humans were killed in a giant flood due to their selfishness.
There was no rhyme or reason for the sun not to move on this Earth. Yet… It simply won’t. No matter how much any of the Gods will it to. Ehecatl continues to scream. In a fit of rage after not being able to blow the sun to move, Ehecatl grabs Oxomoco, slamming her to the ground. He forces his hand into her chest cavity.
Crunch.
She dies almost instantly, and he offers the heart to the sun.
“It wants blood. We need to sacrifice the others.” Ehecatl declares as he stands over Oxomoco. It was only a given. Quetzalcoatl and Huītzilōpōchtli nod in agreement as they begin rounding up the others.
You watch near last in line. Chantico, Toci, Itztlacoliuhqui, Tlilhua–everyone, walking with great pride, Ehecatl kills every single one of them as the creator Gods watch.
You have an otherwise normal reaction to this. You are scared. You cry—not regular crying, but loud, deep, hiccupy sobs that shake the Earth.
You don’t move, you don’t stop, and your eyes fall out of their sockets.
When a handful of others are in front of you, panic sets in. You run, as fast as you can.
You don’t want to die.
“Where the hell are you going?!” Ehecatl roars–whistles, really.
You don’t listen. You, the dog, the twin, the fucking coward, you flee.
The world is going to end, and it’s your fault.
You hide in a field, turning into a young xolotl with two stalks.
The plant would sustain humankind for millennia. Tlaxcalli, tamalli, pozolli–rich in flavor, tradition, culture. Sometimes, on special occasions prepared with meat. There was, and will never be, a plant as crucial as this as you.
Until they come, take you away from your land, from your people. They make you into a bastardized version of yourself. Once regarded as important, nutrient, life-fucking-sustaining, you’re rendered into a canned good and sugary cereal.
Ehecatl sees you.
He sees you.
He flies in and tries to grab you by your short, strong stalks. You, however, are fast. You jump and transform back into your body.
You run again. Faster.
The world is going to end, and it’s your fault.
You run to a different field, leaving Ehecatl behind.
You turn yourself into a double mexolotl plant. You are perfect in just about every single way—and then some.
Large, green, healthy succulent. You have long, strong, fleshy leaves with sharp marginal teeth.
Your people will pick your leaves until your core is all left. The core will be pressed until it yields sap sweeter than anything on Earth. The sap would be fermented by your people, turning into pulque. Only ever drank in special celebrations by priests and those honored to be sacrificed.
You will be widely regarded as the most sacred and vital plant.
Until they come, you will refuse to take root on any other soil. But they will bastardize you all the same, the drink you create is dirty.
You, pulque, will be pasteurized until you are no longer milky. You lose all your value and importance. They’ll call it tequila, use it for shitty cocktails, and give it stupid fucking names like 818. They will love your spirit but not your people. Never your people.
Ehecatl sees you again.
“You’re a coward, a disgrace, a sorry excuse–” He whistles as he tries to grab you.
You, however, are faster. You return to your body, moving to the left, and he misses you.
The world is going to die, and it’s your fault.
You run again to the river. Ever flowing.
You jump into the river, swimming deep. You won’t survive long in your current body, though. You turn yourself into a mud-puppy.
An axolotl.
You will live in several lakes all over Mexico, like Xochimilco and Chalco. You will be a marvel in every sense of the world. You will never metamorphosis as you reach adulthood, and you will never take to land. You can grow back your limbs, a true gift. You will be a child forever, a half-formed God.
Until they came, they would have pillaged, raped, and murdered your people. Then, they will drain the lakes you live in, destroying your habitat.
Ehecatl sees you again.
You aren’t fast enough this time; you don’t get away.
“You are a coward! In every sense of the word! How could you possibly be the twin brother to Quetzalcoatl?!” He screams, and you shake, still like a mud-puppy.
His eyebrows furrow in disgust. You are rather weird-looking.
“You want to live so bad? Have at it.” He drops you back in the river. “Let the world burn. Let the sun rot.”
Do you feel relieved?
“Xolotl,” you could practically curl into yourself hearing your name. “You will live on earth until the water can no longer sustain you, and you will die with the rest of humanity.”
The world is going to end, and it’s your fault.
You survive the invasion. Barely, but you did.
Everything is awful, though, and you wish you had died.
You sit alone in a fish tank in an exotic pet store. A white boy who looks like them taps on the glass, scaring you.
“Mom! I want it! It’s an axolotl.” He butchers your name.
You’re a fucking commodity. They’ll use your form to make plushes, and they’ll name you after fucking Roman Gods!
FUCKING ROMAN. A Mexica treasure named Apollo.
His mom makes a face. “It looks disgusting.” She complains, but he begs.
They buy you, and this is how you die. He forgets to feed you. Your water grows stale. Mold takes over. He taps the too small tank, a dull thud-thud-thud reverberating in your skull.
When you are finally good and dead, and bugs eat your brain, they see visions of your people. The bugs hear you call their name through moonlit night. The bugs experience unimaginable wonders of the ancient world as they feast on the corners of your brain that house your people.
You are still here. You are still here. You are still here.
