Chapter 29: Heart in the Darkness
The battle raged on in the shadowed alleys of Plaridel, where Hustisya clashed with the oppressive Kastilas, her resolve burning like a wildfire. In the midst of her fury, Ifugao descended once more to halt her vengeance. He landed before her, his white hair shimmering under the moonlight's ethereal glow. "Enough, Hustisya!" he cried, his voice resonant with unwavering determination.
Hustisya's eyes blazed with rage, twin flames in the night. "Why are you here again? Are you truly set on opposing me?" she roared, her voice thundering through the darkness.
"I am not your enemy!" Ifugao countered, his hands poised for action. "We both seek to aid our fellow Filipinos. I support your cause, but not your misguided methods! This is not the justice Plaridel needs!"
"Don't lecture me!" Hustisya snarled, challenging him to stop her. "If you dare, try and restrain me!"
Their clash reignited, a fierce dance of warriors who knew weapons were futile against each other. Only raw physical strikes could wound their resilient forms. Ifugao seized Hustisya's arm and hurled her to the ground, her body striking the pavement with a resounding crash.
Yet, even as she lay there, Hustisya swept Ifugao's legs, toppling him beside her. She aimed a stomp at him, but he blocked with his forearm, shoving her back.
As Ifugao rose, Hustisya charged, landing a fierce punch to his chest that forced him to stagger, though he refused to fall. Balancing himself, he lunged forward, striking Hustisya's face, sending her reeling to the street's edge.
Swift as lightning, Hustisya used her telekinesis to seize a piece of metal from the ground, swinging it at Ifugao, who parried with his hand. Their determination shone in their eyes, neither willing to yield. They traded blows and kicks, their movements a warlike ballet, each attack met with a counter.
Hustisya managed to pull Ifugao with her telekinesis, slamming him against a wall, but he sprang back swiftly. He's formidable, she thought. Ifugao landed a kick to her stomach, knocking her to the ground. He noted her vulnerability to physical attacks, as other strikes failed to pierce her defenses. Hustisya summoned nearby stones with her mind, hurling them at Ifugao, who dodged with a leap. The battle raged on, their bodies marred with bruises and cuts, yet neither would surrender. The woman they had saved from the Kastilas had long fled, but Hustisya and Ifugao's struggle seemed unending.
"Hustisya, there's still time to stop this!" Ifugao pleaded, his voice heavy with anguish. "Is this truly what you want?"
"You're the one who chose this fight, siding against me instead of helping me save Plaridel's people!" Hustisya roared, landing a punch to his face that staggered him. But Ifugao rose swiftly, grabbing her and throwing her again, her body crashing to the ground with a thunderous impact.
In the midst of their fray, police sirens wailed, forcing them to pause. "This isn't over, Ifugao!" Hustisya shouted, fading into the shadows. "The next time you interfere, I'll ensure your end!"
"I won't give up, Hustisya!" Ifugao called after her, his voice brimming with courage.
Left alone in the alley, Ifugao's body was weary, but his heart burned with resolve. He knew this battle was merely the prelude to a greater war.
Georgia's POV
The morning in Plaridel dawned with a gentle radiance, the sun's rays caressing my skin as I arranged our market stall. Beside me, Erik was busy organizing crates of fish, his hands careful yet swift. Seven days we had spent together, and with each passing day, a strange warmth grew deeper in my chest. I couldn't quite explain it, but every time he smiled or lent me a hand, a flush would creep up my cheeks. Now, as I watched him work, I noticed the sweat glistening on his brow, and before I could stop myself, I reached for my handkerchief to wipe it away.
"Erik, you're all sweaty," I said, trying to mask the tremor in my voice. I held the handkerchief close, but he glanced at me, his eyes a mix of surprise and a soft smile.
"Thanks, Georgia," he replied, his tone as casual as ever, devoid of any deeper emotion. He took the handkerchief and wiped his face himself, as if my gesture meant nothing special. I looked down, suddenly shy. Why am I like this? Why did I even do that? I felt foolish, clinging to every little thing he did, but to him, I was just a friend by his side. His kindness, his care—it was all so natural to him. But to me, it carried a weight I couldn't fathom.
As we sold our goods, I noticed every small detail about him—how he arranged the fish to look more appealing, how he bantered with customers with that easy smile, how his eyes lit up when I cracked a joke, as if he genuinely enjoyed my company. At one point, a young girl approached our stall, clutching a five-peso coin. "Kuya, just a small fish, please, for our dinner," she said, her voice timid.
Erik's smile warmed as he picked out a small fish from the crate. "Here, it's on me, okay? Eat it well," he said, handing it to her. The girl's face lit up, her eyes sparkling with gratitude.
"Thank you, Kuya!" she exclaimed, scampering off. I looked at Erik, unable to suppress my own smile. But with it came a deeper confusion. Why did even his simplest acts of kindness make my heart race? To him, it was just helping someone out, being good. But to me, every gesture felt profound.
After selling, we decided to buy vegetables and meat for lunch. As we walked through the market, Erik paused at a flower stall. "Georgia, look at these roses, aren't they beautiful?" he said, touching a vibrant red bloom. "They'd brighten up your house."
I laughed, but inside, my heart pounded. "Come on, Erik, why buy flowers? We don't need those!" I said, trying to hide the flutter in my chest.
"Just to add a bit of color to our surroundings," he replied, smiling as he purchased the rose. He handed it to me, as if it were the most ordinary thing. "You can put it in a vase when we get home, alright?"
I nodded, but as I held the rose, a warmth bloomed in my heart. It was just a small gesture to him, but why did it feel so special to me? I couldn't admit it to myself, but I was growing too close to Erik, and I feared I was the only one feeling this way.
On our way home, I noticed an elderly woman struggling with a basket of vegetables. Erik hurried over. "Nay, let me carry that," he said, taking the basket and escorting her to her house. Watching him from afar, I smiled, but my confusion deepened. Why was he so kind, even to strangers? Everything he did, even for others, still sent a thrill through me.
Back home, we decided to clean before cooking. Erik grabbed a broom and started sweeping the yard, while I washed dishes in the kitchen. Every so often, I'd peek out the window, watching him work. His polo was damp with sweat, but he pressed on, tireless. He caught my eye and grinned. "Georgia, I'll help you in there when I'm done!" he called from outside.
"No need, I've got this!" I shouted back, but inside, his offer warmed me. Why was I like this? Every little thing he did, even a simple offer to help, made my heart flutter. But to him, it was just normal—I was just a friend.
When he finished, he came into the kitchen, carrying a bucket of water. "Georgia, let's fill a vase for the flower," he said, and together we searched for one. As we arranged the rose, we chatted about the market, our customers, and plans for tomorrow. In the middle of our talk, he burst into laughter at one of my jokes, the sound of his laugh like music to my ears. I stared at him, and panic hit when he noticed.
"What? Is there dirt on my face?" he asked, touching his cheek.
"N-No!" I stammered, quickly looking away. "I just thought your laugh sounds awful!" I teased, trying to cover my nerves.
"Oh, please, your jokes are the awful ones!" he shot back, and we laughed together. But inside, I was a mess. Why did I feel this way? I wanted to be near him always, but I was terrified he didn't feel the same. I couldn't admit to myself that I was falling too hard for Erik, afraid of the pain if I was wrong.
End of Georgia's POV
That night, as Plaridel slumbered, a sinister shadow loomed over Bulacan. In a sprawling factory on the town's outskirts, where workers crafted cabinets, tables, and other household goods, Filipino laborers endured untold suffering. Their wages were meager, barely enough for daily survival, and the Kastila overseers were ruthless, forbidding workers from returning to their families. The people were exhausted, their bodies worn from grueling hours, yet they had no choice but to obey.
Inside the factory, the clamor of machines echoed, punctuated by the overseers' harsh shouts. "Hurry up! Your work is pathetic!" bellowed one Kastila, slamming a worker's table for a mistake in assembling a chair. The worker, a man in his forties, bowed his head, his hands trembling with fear.
"Forgive me, señor," he whispered, but a sharp slap sent him sprawling to the floor.
"Don't beg for forgiveness! I need work, not excuses!" the Kastila snarled, continuing his rounds. At the factory's far end, a young woman wept as she sanded wood, her hands raw and blistered. "Stop crying! You're slowing down!" another Kastila shouted, shoving her, and she fell to the ground.
One day, the Heneral of Bulacan arrived, a tall Kastila with a chilling gaze. Flanked by his men, he inspected the factory, eyeing the sweat-soaked, weary workers. In one corner, he noticed a boy, barely twelve, straining under a heavy plank. "What's this? A child working here?" he asked, his tone devoid of compassion.
"Señor, he's an indio's son. We needed extra hands; the older ones are too weak," a supervisor replied, head bowed.
"Extend their hours!" the Heneral thundered. "We must produce more goods. Your pace is unacceptable! If you don't increase output, your families will starve!" The workers at their stations lowered their gazes, silenced by fear. They knew the penalties for defiance—imprisonment, beatings, or worse.
In another section, a worker erred in assembling a cabinet, and a Kastila overseer dragged him forward. "How many more mistakes will you make? You're worthless!" the Kastila roared, shoving the man against a wall. The worker cried out in pain, but no one dared intervene. "If you want to live, do your job right!" the Kastila threatened, walking away as if nothing had happened.
As the Heneral continued his inspection, a police officer arrived, bearing a document. "Heneral, this is from Plaridel," the officer said, handing it over.
The Heneral read the paper, and his face twisted from calm to furious. "Incompetents!" he bellowed, crumpling the document. "Hustisya is just one woman, and you can't catch her? Her disruptions have gone too far!" His voice reverberated through the factory, striking terror into the workers.
"Scour every corner of Plaridel!" he ordered the police. "I won't allow that woman to continue her insolence! Mobilize all our forces for a sweeping search!" His men saluted and departed, ready to execute his command.
The next morning, Plaridel awoke to chaos. Dozens of police swarmed the town, from the markets to the squatter areas. Barricades were erected, and every home was searched. "Anyone found aiding Hustisya will face severe punishment!" a policeman shouted at a cowering crowd, frozen in fear.
In the market, where vendors sold vegetables and fish, police stormed in. An elderly vendor, Aling Rosa, was the first targeted. "Well, nay, know anything about Hustisya?" a policeman asked, his voice sharp.
"N-Nothing, señor," Aling Rosa stammered, her hands shaking as she clutched her basket of fish. "I'm just a vendor here."
"Don't lie!" the policeman barked, yanking the basket and dumping the fish onto the ground. "We know some here are helping Hustisya! Tell the truth, or we'll drag you to the precinct!"
Aling Rosa wept, her knees buckling. "I know nothing, have mercy!" she cried, but a policeman kicked her basket, scattering the fish into the market's filth. The onlookers stood stunned, but none dared intervene, fearing they'd be next.
At the market's other end, a young fruit vendor, Juan, was confronted. "You, Juan, we know Hustisya helped you once!" another policeman shouted, pulling him from his stall. "Where's she hiding?"
"I-I don't know anything! She only helped me once when I was robbed!" Juan pleaded, his voice trembling. But the policeman ignored him, dragging him to a police vehicle as he shouted, "I'm innocent!"
In a squatter area at Plaridel's edge, police invaded the shanties, smashing doors and ransacking belongings. A mother, Aling Nida, screamed as her twelve-year-old son, Ben, was seized. "Don't take him! He's just a child!" she wailed, reaching for her son, but a policeman shoved her, and she fell to the ground.
"Nanay!" Ben sobbed, dragged toward a vehicle. "I didn't do anything! Hustisya only helped me when thieves attacked me!"
"Stop lying! Many have seen you talking to her!" the policeman roared, slapping Ben, blood trickling from his lip. Neighbors watched in horror, but none dared help, cowed by the policemen's guns.
In another shanty, a young woman, Clara, was grabbed. "You, we know you're Hustisya's accomplice!" a policeman yelled, gripping her arm tightly. "Where's she hiding?"
"I know nothing! Please, I'm just a student!" Clara cried, dragged and shoved into a vehicle with other detainees. Her mother screamed, "My daughter! Don't take her!" but a policeman kicked her, and she collapsed, sobbing.
By the riverbank, where women washed clothes, police descended. A woman, Aling Mila, was targeted mid-laundry. "You, Mila, we know Hustisya helped you!" a policeman shouted, pulling her from the river, her clothes soaked.
"I don't know anything! She only saved me from drunks!" Aling Mila wept, but the policeman dragged her, and she stumbled into the mud. Her eight-year-old daughter screamed, "Mama!" and ran to embrace her, but a policeman blocked her, shoving the child to the ground.
"Stop crying! There's no place for tears here!" the policeman barked, hauling Aling Mila to a vehicle. The women by the river stood frozen, their hands trembling, but none dared intervene, terrified of the policemen's rifles.
In Plaridel's plaza, once a place for laughter and stories, now echoed with police shouts and Filipino cries. A ten-year-old boy, Kiko, wailed as his mother was dragged away. "Mama! Don't let them take you!" he screamed, clinging to her arm, but a policeman kicked him, and he fell, his lip bleeding.
"Help us! I'm begging you!" Kiko sobbed, pleading, but no one answered. The plaza's crowd stood petrified, their eyes filled with fear. Even those Hustisya had once aided—vendors, farmers, students—were arrested. Women begged, their voices raw with desperation, but no one listened.
Plaridel was shrouded in fear, its people's hearts heavy with despair. The Kastilas reigned supreme, and Filipinos were like slaves in their own land. Amid the turmoil, one question lingered: Where was Hustisya? When would she return to save those who waited? The people hoped, but in those moments, Hustisya's shadow was nowhere to be seen, and Plaridel drowned in the darkness of oppression.