Prayer and Contemplation [St. Basil's Cathedral]

[Marta]

Marta felt the fear recede, not at his words, but at his scent. It remained certain, sincere. No, Matías wasn’t with the cartels, and if he had been part of the Amengual cartel, he no longer was. He wasn’t some Nuevo León spy. He was just a man - praying to God - for her.

”I believe you,” Marta said, wiping her eyes, voice still trembling slightly. ”I’d know if you were lying.”

Marta listened as he spoke, his voice quiet, cognizant of the priest who was now checking on them. He’d likely heard her episode. She didn’t care that he was there. Matias would have to be more careful than she was, but she would have his back should the priest think anything untoward was happening.

Matías words rang a bell. Strength and ferocity. He saw that in her. It was something she needed to hear. That her survival had made her strong. She wished it hadn’t been that way, but it had. She had been dealt a terrible hand, but was still in the game.

”Her name is Splash,” she said, giving a slight emphasis on the pronoun. An innocent correction. ”And she’s the goodest girl ever,” Marta spoke quietly and with a joking smile.

Marta looked at Splash too and the wolf lay back down on the floor, sufficiently pleased with herself. What a weirdo. Marta scratched her head.

”I don’t just pray for my friend. I also pray for guidance,” her hands dropped from her forearms. The words were coming out of her. She had prayed for guidance, and she was beginning to feel like her prayed had been heard - for no other reason than Matías sincere scent. ”Nuevo Leon took so much from me. Most of it cannot be returned. A survivor yes, but a victim still. I don’t think the scars will ever fully heal. I don’t find myself afraid as much anymore. When I look there - it’s mostly anger. That’s okay right? To be angry? He got angry.

Marta paused, looking at the crucifix again. Her tone didn't ask for pity. She didn’t want pity, and Matías had offered none. Instead her words rang with complete honesty. Her fears laid bare. She remained quiet, contemplating whether or not she should say more. Then the word came to her unbidden.

Faith

”Fear for what they did to me. Anger because they’re still doing it. Strong and fierce, maybe. But not strong enough. What can a thirteen year old girl do against the might of the cartels when she feels so strongly she has to do something… he voice trailed off. Her next words were quieter. ”Because no one else will.”

[Matías]

Matias stayed still, his gaze fixed on the altar even as he felt the shift in the air beside him. Her breathing, the stiff pull of her shoulders, the way her hand gripped the dog’s fur, they told him everything.

The animal, calm and alert beside her, didn’t growl or bark. It simply sat, watchful. It must have been well-trained. More than a pet. It had the eyes of something smarter. Matias had seen dogs like that used in field units and by the cartel also. Half the time a pair of dogs were more effective than men, but but this one didn't seem bred for violence. It was bred for staying. That counted for something.

His eyes flicked briefly toward the girl’s hand on the animal’s head. “You’ve got good instincts,” he said softly. “That dog’s a better read of character than most men I know.” He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees. His voice was steady, even as memory crept in behind his eyes. 

“My uncle, who took over after my father's demise, hid out in Nuevo León. He must have thought the place would keep him safe. It didn't." He didn’t need to say the name Jay Carpenter. That story was only known in exclusive certain circles, but in the end, no safehouse, no loyalty, no blood could save El Tiburón.

“He died the way all men think they won’t. Alone. Cornered.” Matias let that linger a moment, not with satisfaction, but with finality.

“I won't ask what happened to you," his voice dropped, heavier now, but not apologetic. Honest. “I saw what happened to girls your age. Ones taken or the ones left behind. I let things happen I should’ve stopped. I didn’t then.”

He sat back slightly, squaring his shoulders. “Anger’s useful,” he said. “Everyone wants to call it a poison, but it’s not. It’s a tool. If you sharpen it right, it can cut the chains off someone else.”

His tone was hard, not cruel, but forged. The kind of voice that had once commanded men with guns, now used to shape something better. “You’re young now. That won’t last. So you train. You study. You fight the way smart people fight — with preparation. With patience. You make yourself into someone they can’t touch.”

He glanced once more at the dog — still seated, still watching — then turned his eyes back to the crucifix.

“You already survived what most people couldn’t. Don’t waste that.”

[Marta]

When Matias spoke of Splash, Marta smiled, but this smile wasn't the same as her previous ones. It was a smile that spoke of a secret that only she held.  Of course there were those that knew what Splash was, but it was always interesting to see the reactions of those who didn't know. They commented on how well behaved she was or how well trained she was.  Splash had no training - it was just her partner could communicate with her directly. She also hadn't chosen Splash - Splash had chosen her.

Marta listened as Matias admitted his connection to the cartels.  His father and uncle had been members.  A connection.  Her uncle had been one as well. He had sold her into slavery himself. His scent didn't change much.  He wasn't apologetic, but there were clues to indicate that he wasn't with them anymore. It was alright - she didn't need an apology from him.

His words helped though. Train, study, be patient. She was on the right track to doing what she needed to do. And it gave her more words to say, but not in this discussion. The only warning he gave was to not waste her gift of survival.  Don't get yourself killed was always good advice.

"Thank you," she said, her words sincere. A buzzing came from her wallet and looked at it. "That's my guardian.  I have to go now." she gathered her things. "It was very nice to meet you Matias. I hope to see you again sometime. Please - pray for my friend."

Marta stood and genuflected, crossing herself as she did so. She offered more words as she parted, her voice soft and conspiratorial "A secret...Splash isn't a dog," she smiled. "When you need truth, seek Oracle."

Marta left the chapel and pulled out her wallet and prepared to post to the Scroll. She sent it out, satisfied. She had trusted a lot to Matias, and didn't believe it had been in vain.  She left the church to find Ricky there and they headed home.

[Matías]

When she thanked him, the words rang genuine. He nodded once in acknowledgment. When she said his name again, there was something final in it. Not the kind of finality that closed a door, but the kind that marked a moment. He could tell she'd decided he wasn’t a threat. Or at least not her threat.

“I will,” he said quietly. “I’ll pray for him.”

She genuflected before the altar, crossing herself with the sure movements of someone still learning the shape of reverence but carrying it with conviction. He watched her silently, unmoving, until she turned back with a faint smile that didn't match the ones she'd given before.

There was something hidden in it. Part mischief but also part wisdom. Then her voice, low and certain. Splash isn't a dog. When you need truth, seek Oracle. And then she was gone.

Matias stayed seated, one hand loosely holding the edge of the pew, the other brushing the small crucifix beneath his shirt. The silence she left behind wasn’t empty. It hummed with questions. Her presence had been young, yes, but not small. And the words she left behind wasn’t the tone of a child playing with riddles. It was something heavier.

He glanced to where she and the animal had stood. Splash… not a dog. It hadn’t acted like one, not entirely. The eyes, the silence, the stillness—there had been something behind those movements. He couldn’t name it, but he’d felt it. And then there was that last word. Oracle.

He repeated it once in his mind, turning it over like a smooth stone pocketed on instinct. Not a name he recognized. Not from the streets. Not from the old world of cartels or codes. But it stuck. Something about it told him he’d hear it again.

Matias rose slowly, his coat settling against him as he stood. He gave one final glance to the crucifix. The same one the girl had stared at as if it might speak from on high, and inclined his head slightly. It wasn’t prayer. It was something like respect.

Then he turned and stepped deeper into the cathedral, leaving the small chapel behind. There were still icons to study. Chapels to pass through. Quiet places to weigh things too old for words. But even as the cathedral folded around him, cool and labyrinthine, he carried with him the strange weight of the girl and her not-dog.