Miguel mira el diario de la cocina en su celular y sabe que Manuel estará esperándolo para almorzar a las tres, a menos que alguna tontería le impida llegar al sitio de encuentro que ambos usualmente usan. Va tranquilo, porque su diario no se equivoca casi nunca y además Manuel es tan estirado que se enorgullece en cumplir todos sus compromisos y llegar puntual a todos lados.

Eso sí, a Miguel le toma una hora preparar el almuerzo, media hora salir de casa y otra media hora más llegar al punto acordado. Para cuando llega, la cara de fastidio de Manuel es épica, pero la disimula jugando alguna estupidez en su celular.

—Ni gastes aire en disculparte, llegué recién —refunfuña Manuel —. Mi diario me avisó que tenía dos posibilidades. O me dejabas plantado o llegabas tarde.

—Bueno, casi me quedo dormido en el bus —Miguel se rasca la cabeza sin un ápice de vergüenza y toma asiento junto a Manuel. Comienza a desempacar la comida preparar y en un rato, ambos están comiendo en silencio.

—¿Tu diario sólo te informa sobre lo que vamos a comer? —para sorpresa de Miguel, Manuel rompe el hielo. Ya casi termina su comida y parece aburrido, recorriendo algo ido las entradas de su celular. Miguel no distingue casi nada porque la letra es muy chica.

—Sí, pues —suspira satisfecho, sobándose la panza —. Me dice lo que voy a comer en el día. Mira el lado positivo, si me dice que comeré tres veces quiere decir que aún no me han matado.

Miguel ríe y Manuel entorna los ojos.

—Pero no entiendo el tuyo.

—¿El mío? —Manuel alza las cejas —. Yo tampoco.

—¿En serio?

—No sé, tiene puras tonteras —Miguel se acerca a su hombro, para tener mejor vista de la pantalla de su celular, y Manuel puede sentir su aliento tibio cerca de su cuello. Casi automáticamente, su piel se pone roja como un tomate y peor aún, cuando Miguel navega a través de las entradas de su diario.

—¡Poemas! —exclama entusiasmado y antes de que Manuel pueda quitárselo, Miguel se pone de pie lejos de él, colocando una mano en su cara para que no lo alcance —. ¿Este es sobre mí? Oh, eso es genial.

… Manuel se pregunta seriamente por qué su diario pone en display las entradas más vergonzosas.

(Oh, cierto. Porque es el Diario de las Vergüenzas.)

Miguel wakes up when the blankets are coldly ripped off from his body and the curtains let the sun shine through the window and straight into his face and that’s when he typically knows the day has started and there’s nothing he can do about it, because once it starts it doesn’t end until noon and the only good thing is breakfast because—-

“Up, up, up you go” He hears the voices of his servants and groans as they begin to help him get out of bed, wash and dress in that order, so quick that, as soon as his ready he gets dragged to the dining hall of the castle. Still half asleep, he stuffs himself as much as he can during the breakfast and then whines when he gets dragged to the throne. And then it’s that time of the day, chatting with peasants, which doesn’t suck so much because talking to them is fun and some of them are really cool—-

“Your majesty” His knight chimes in, clearing his throat, and Miguel whines again.

“What do you want, Manu?” He pouts as Manuel looks at him with disapproval, in the middle of a conversation Miguel was having with an old man that needed space for his animals. (They were talking about how chickens are evil.)

“Sir, I believe you are getting sidetracked” Manuel raises an eyebrow and Miguel rolls his eyes at him because the guy is so bored het bets he had fun once and It was probably awful. “I’m going to ask you to focus.”

“Fine.” Miguel grumbles and only when Manuel is distracted, he calls him a spoilsport.

(Manuel hears him, of course, and he bites his tongue because working for the royal family sometimes it’s a real pain in the ass.)

—Oh, no, no, no —es lo único que Miguel puede decir cuando siente el golpeteo en su ventana, un día viernes por la noche a las cuatro de la madrugada. Porque la vida es injusta y nadie toma en cuenta que estuvo trabajando de sol a sol toda la semana en la sala de emergencias del hospital. Como si ser médico sólo fuese sentarse a jugar con juguetitos de escritorio, carajo.

De mala gana, amontona el cobertor y las frazadas a un lado (tres de ellas, porque no logra aclimatarse al frío de Santiago) y camina medio dormido hacia su ventana, arrastrando los pies y rascándose el trasero. Apenas quita el seguro y la desliza hacia arriba, un hombre cae al suelo de su habitación, haciendo ruido de saco de papas al azotar el piso. Es indistinguible tras la capa negra que lo envuelve.

—Manuel —Miguel gruñe, ayudándolo a sentarse en el suelo. Lo primero que ve en el pecho de su traje es el símbolo del murciélago con un tajo largo atravesándolo, manchando la tela con sangre—. ¿Y ahora qué mierda fue?

—Contrabandistas en el puerto —Manuel se quita la máscara, revelando su rostro moreteado y jala a Miguel del cuello de su pijama para acercarlo a él. En respuesta, Miguel le jala la oreja y antes de que Manuel pueda reaccionar, lo toma de las mejillas para plantarle un beso brusco.

—Si serás conchudo, ¿cómo se te ocurre? —murmura Miguel contra sus labios, apenas un momento, sus dedos rozando la herida en el pecho de Manuel. Se separa de él sólo para ir en busca del botiquín y su maletín médico—. Eres un estúpido, Manuel, no tengo ni idea de por qué tienes que insistir en seguir con esta mierda. Hay otras formas de ayudar, ¿sabes?

Manuel lo sigue con la mirada, en silencio, demasiado cansado y adolorido para discutir el sermón de Miguel.

—Él me contactó, él me aprobó cuando supo de mí —cierra los ojos y por un instante, por un segundo, la imagen de Batman se le viene a la mente, con la capa al viento sobre el techo de un edificio, aquel día que lo hizo parte de su organización. Batman Inc es, a ojos de Manuel, más que un simple conglomerado de hombres y mujeres vistiendo capas—. Este es mi deber, Miguel.

—Manuel —Miguel se agacha frente a él, sus ojos usualmente amigables ahora severos por la preocupación—. Ya no eres un poli. Súperalo.

Manuel ríe.

—No, ahora soy más que eso. Soy un símbolo.

It was really stupid of him, really, he took the wrong alley after finishing his shift at the hospital and next thing he knew, there was a guy with a knife pressed against his throat and a raspy voice telling him to drop his bag on the floor and take off his shoes. And he would have obliged, really, because he’s not stupid and Miguel’s appreciates his life a lot, being a doctor can do that to you, mind you.

But he was in a bad mood.

He couldn’t think straight while being in a bad mood.

So he told the robber to piss off and hit him with his elbow, hit him hard on the stomach. And then the guy got mad, really, really mad and pressed him against the floor and then—-

And then he was gone. In the blink of an eye, he was gone and when Miguel got off the floor and went back to his feet, he could swear he saw a cape moving at the end of the alleyway.

“Manuel?”

He didn’t get an answer.

Micaela rides her dragon with pride, as she hatched her baby by herself, after finding the egg at the bottom of a river close to a volcano, engulfed by flames her iron armor successfully defeated. She has become a knigh and she has become a rider, and she’ll rescue the princess that lives at the bottom of the abyss, she’s sure of it.

At least, she thought it would be that simple. Getting to the abyss was a piece of cake, trying to convince the princess to come with her is—- not.

She offers her hand at her and she only frowns, hiding between the shadows. Micaela can’t see her face, the abyss is too dark and the shadows are even darker. It’s nothing like the stories about princesses being locked up in towers that she heard when she was a little girl. And she pities this princess for living in the dark during so long.

“Come with me” She says, gently, her dragon protecting her back as she waits for the princess to come out of her corner. “We won’t hurt you, just come with us.”

Micaela hears the princess take a deep breath and the next thing she sees is a small girl, thin like a ballerina, with hair short as a tiny fairy and a lovely face marred by a scowl. She takes her hand and Micaela rejoices.

“You’re just like in fairytales.”

The princess looks puzzled. (And annoyed, because she knows everything and she doesn’t like to feel like an ignorant.)

“Like a real princess, so… will you give me your name, your majesty?”

Her princess blushes and stays quiet as Micaela helps her to sit on the back of her dragon, as they stay close to ride. She gets even redder when Micalea holds her by the waist, when she feels the sky so close to her.

“Manuela” She whispers, as her knight in shining armor kisses her cheek. “My name is Manuela.”

Daniel rara vez pisa terreno y cuando lo hace, es porque alguien ha recibido una paliza tan épica que moverlo hacia el cuartel es demasiado arriesgado para su integridad física. Sus compañeros tienen un talento impecable para quedar completamente destruidos después de cualquier campaña para combatir amenazas y Daniel tiene el deber moral y la responsabilidad de parcharlos. Después de todo, ese es su don. No hay planta que no florezca ni herida que no sane cuando se trata de él, porque sus manos son capaces de solucionarlo todo.

—¿Mal día? —pregunta, apenas llega al sitio donde Sebastián yace en una camilla. Daniel se agacha a su lado y abre su camisa, para examinar la herida que cruza su pecho. Le advirtieron que sería grande, pero le alegra ver que es menos de lo que se imaginó.

—Pésimo —masculla Sebastián. Tose un poco de sangrar, lo cual lo hace arrugar la nariz en profundo disgusto. Daniel sonríe, porque ver que Sebastián sigue tan impecable como siempre es una buena señal. Le alcanza un pañuelo y limpia el borde de su boca, antes de ponerse a trabajar.

—Es bueno ver que aún tienes ánimo —extiende el pañuelo por el borde de sus labios, alcanzando también su mentón. Se detiene un momento y luego, con suavidad, acaricia la mejilla de Sebastián un momento—. Te vas a poner bien, yo me voy a encargar de eso.

—Sos un sobrado —bromea Sebastián, sus ojos cerrados al percibir la caricia. Daniel ríe.

—Lo sé.

The fog won’t let them see anything and it’s useless to even try to light up a candle or a lantern. Martín orders his men to be careful and stay wary of every noise as they navigate the waters. He closes his eyes and it’s the same as the fog, for when he opens them he’s still blind to what’s coming towards his ship. It frustrates him.

But as soon as he hears the voices, he knows they are lost. Voices on the sea are always a bad signal, and he tries to turn away and go back but it’s too late now, they are too close to them and they have them surrounded. He runs to the border of the ship and when he looks down they are there, the most beautiful creatures that the ocean holds for them.

Mermaids.

One by one, his men fall prey to their charms and soon enough, Martín is the only living soul on his ship. He holds a torch on his left hand and a sword on his right hand and he waits. He knows they want power, he knows they want him and he knows, they’ll come. They’ll come and they’ll grab him by the arms and the legs, they’ll come and they’ll his soul and they won’t rest until everyone is dead.

And then she’s there, smiling at him from the border of the ship. She has the most beautiful smile, and hair that frames her lovely face and falls over her back as if she were showering on the night. And her big, lively brown eyes seem to invite him to dance.

And so, he gets closer to her and drops his sword and his torch and lets her hold him close to her, her gorgeous lips moving against his, and her firm breasts pressed against his chest. His hands run over her waist and he asks, as he kisses her, what’s her name.

Luciana, she says, with a small laugh, and then she pulls him closer. And closer, and closer, and closer.

And then, there’s only water.