#SuperViral, Ch 4: The Serpent's Tongue of San Cristobal Pt. 4

Aisha kept her voice steady. It took enormous effort. "I met with many people in San Cristobal, Señor Ramirez, from all parts of society, as any responsible journalist would. My analysis of the Governor's language was my own, based on my professional skills and publicly available information. I have no 'script' other than wanting to understand."

The truth was more complex. Her linguistic ability—what the propaganda would soon call her "unnatural influence"—allowed her to hear the emotional undertones in every word, to detect the careful construction of lies, to sense when language was being weaponized. During the interview with Rojas, she had also drawn on that same power in reverse, choosing her words with surgical precision, letting her questions carry just enough weight to crack his composure. She could feel the resonance of meaning beneath meaning, and when she spoke, others felt it too. It was a gift that had made her an exceptional journalist. It was also what made her dangerous.

She knew it was pointless to deny visiting Pukarumi if they already knew, but she would not get Sofia or the elders into trouble.

"Publicly available information?" Ramirez sneered. "You expect us to believe that? You made up these… these interpretations to deliberately hurt our government, to create chaos! You are an agent trying to cause instability, Señorita Khan, and you will be treated like one!" He slammed his fist on the table. Aisha jumped, even though she tried not to. "Tell us who you are working with! Tell us who fed you these lies! It will be much easier for you if you cooperate."

The threats continued—a relentless flood of accusations: spying, ruining reputations, endangering national security, causing public disorder. Rojas himself did not appear. Maybe he thought it was beneath him, or maybe his anger was still too raw for even this kind of controlled intimidation. Ramirez was his attack dog, relentless, probing for weakness, for any admission, for the names of her sources.

Aisha locked her hands in her lap, her spine rigid against the chair. The flood of accusations washed over her, and she held her ground. She repeated her position: her analysis was about language, her sources were academic and from her own observations. She stated her rights as an international journalist, knowing the words were probably meaningless in this room, but saying them anyway. A tremor started in her hands, cold fizzing beneath her skin. She fought it back, focusing on the grain of the wood on the table. Giving them names, getting the K'anchay into trouble, would be a betrayal she couldn't live with. She had walked this tightrope, and if she fell now, she would fall alone.

After what felt like forever, but was probably no more than two or three hours, Ramirez seemed to run out of energy. Or maybe he received new orders. His tirade faded into muttered threats and angry silences. Finally, another, more senior-looking official entered the room. He was older. His face showed no emotion. His uniform was immaculate.

"Señorita Khan," the new official said, his voice without inflection, "you are to be released."

Aisha blinked, surprised. It felt too easy, too sudden.

"Your visa is currently being reviewed by the Ministry of the Interior," he continued. His eyes were like chips of ice. "You are… strongly advised… to remain at your guesthouse. We understand you were scheduled to leave San Cristobal in a few days. Due to unexpected problems with regional transport, the next available flight might not be for a day or two. We trust you will make the necessary plans and wait for further instructions about your visa status."

He gestured to her confiscated equipment on the table. "Your personal belongings will be returned to you. We trust you will make no further… public statements… that could be misunderstood or cause additional trouble during your remaining time in San Cristobal."

It was a release, but also a clear, unspoken threat. A gilded cage had just become a slightly more obvious one. They were letting her go, but she would be watched. Her movements would be tracked. Her communications would almost certainly be monitored. They wanted her contained, isolated, while they decided what to do with her—whether to quietly deport her, publicly discredit her further with their own propaganda, or perhaps something worse if she stepped out of line.

Her phone was handed back to her. It felt foreign and possibly compromised in her hand. As she was escorted from the plain room, back through the silent, polished corridors of the Palacio Regional, the air outside the Palacio was no freer than the air inside. Her steps on the pavement felt tracked. This new freedom was a leash, long but securely held. The game had only shifted to a wider board.

***

The ride back to the guesthouse was in a polite, unmarked car. Two silent, stone-faced men from the Palacio drove. Aisha felt their eyes on her in the rearview mirror, cataloguing every breath. The bright streets of Villa Esmeralda, once full of promise, now felt narrow, the colorful facades pressing in. Every person who glanced her way might report her movements.

Señora Elena was waiting at the guesthouse door. Her kind face was etched with worry. She wrung her hands as Aisha stepped out of the car. The two men watched without expression from the vehicle until Aisha was safely inside. "Señorita Khan! ¡Dios mío! Are you… are you alright?" she whispered. Her eyes were wide with fear. She quickly led Aisha into the small lobby, where it was more private. "The things they are saying on the television… about the interview… about you…"

Aisha managed a weak smile. "I'm okay, Señora Elena. Just… a misunderstanding. A substantial one." She knew the woman was terrified, not just for Aisha, but probably for herself, for having a guest who caused such trouble. "Thank you for your concern." She didn't dare say more. Even the walls might have ears now.

In her room, the sensation of being watched was oppressive. She checked the small space for obvious listening devices—a skill she'd learned from a cautious journalist friend years ago. She found nothing obvious, but it didn't matter; she assumed the worst. Her own phone felt like a live wire in her hand.

After a tense moment, she turned it on. She immediately disabled its normal network connections and activated a heavily encrypted, secure messaging app she and Chloe only used for emergencies. The moment it connected to the guesthouse's weak Wi-Fi, it exploded with messages from Chloe.

CHLOE: AISHA! ARE YOU OKAY?! The stream cut! WTF HAPPENED?! CHLOE: Media is going crazy. #WhereIsAisha is #1 trending worldwide. #RojasMeltdown is close behind. #SanCristobalTruth is picking up steam. CHLOE: Human Rights Watch just put out a statement. International Press Institute is demanding answers. Your embassy is 'watching the situation' – which is diplomatic talk for 'we're trying not to upset anyone yet.' CHLOE: Aisha, talk to me! Are you arrested? Are you safe?

Aisha's fingers trembled as she typed a brief, coded reply: "Palacio visit over. Told to stay at GH. Visa being reviewed. Phones likely bugged. Need different way out. Details later via P2P if possible. Am okay for now, but situation precarious."

She risked a quick look at a popular social media site. Her stomach churned. The #WhereIsAisha hashtag was indeed a massive storm of activity. But alongside the genuine concern and anger at Rojas, another, more insidious narrative was rapidly spreading, pushed by a bewildering number of anonymous, newly created accounts and news outlets that seemed legitimate but were unfamiliar.

This was the work of a sophisticated machine.

Grainy, subtly altered clips from her old streams, taken out of context, made her look arrogant, unstable, and prone to emotional outbursts. Expertly crafted deepfake videos showed her saying things she never said, supporting extremist political views, and even appearing to use her linguistic abilities in a coercive, almost hypnotic way. Well-produced articles, designed to rank high in search results, questioned her journalistic integrity, her mental health, and, most insidiously, how trustworthy a "Super" with such "unnatural" influence could be. They didn't defend Rojas directly. Instead, they attacked Aisha, painting her as a reckless provocateur, an emotionally unstable individual whose "strange abilities" made her a dangerous, unreliable narrator. The propaganda was surgical—designed to create doubt, to muddy the waters, to give those who might want to dismiss her revelations about Rojas an excuse to write them off as the ravings of a "hysterical Super."

A sick heat bloomed in her gut. Not Rojas. Not just his men. This was a machine. Coordinated. Global. The attacks came from everywhere at once, a swarm of anonymous accounts and polished, unfamiliar news sites. The scale of it made it harder for official organizations to offer clear support. It gave them an easy out: maybe she was just an unstable individual who had gone too far.

Aisha felt the familiar tingle in the back of her mind—her linguistic ability responding to the deliberate distortions of meaning, the careful manipulation of narrative. She could sense the emotional architecture behind each fabricated quote, the calculated rhythm of the disinformation campaign. Her power let her see the strings being pulled, but knowing how the puppet show worked didn't make it less effective.

The "unexpected scheduling issues" with flights out of San Cristobal suddenly felt far more ominous. Rojas wouldn't let her leave peacefully after such a public humiliation, not now that she was being painted globally as a dangerous provocateur. He couldn't afford the risk of her speaking freely once she was beyond his reach. The "visa review," the "advice" to stay at her guesthouse—it was all building toward something. She was being trapped, her options disappearing by the hour.

Waiting for help from diplomats, for Chloe to work miracles from afar, felt like waiting for an execution. The anonymous efficiency of the propaganda machine attacking her, combined with Rojas's very real, very local power, created a snare from which escape seemed increasingly impossible.

She had to disappear. Not just from the guesthouse, but from Rojas's control entirely. She needed to go dark, to find a way out of San Cristobal that didn't involve an official airport departure and a smiling escort from the Guardia Civil. She needed to become one of the "old threads" herself, slipping through the cracks of the "perfect" tapestry before she was completely cut out of it. A cold certainty settled in her bones. Staying here was a death sentence. Her eyes flicked to the door, then to her pack. Disappear. The word was a hard, smooth stone in her mind. She had to go dark, find a crack in the wall of their control.

***

Every tick of the guesthouse clock reminded Aisha that her time was running out. She forced herself to act normally. She ordered a small meal from Señora Elena that she couldn't eat. She made polite, brief conversation. All the while, her mind raced, calculating and planning. She knew the guesthouse was being watched. She had seen the same plain car parked down the street since she returned. The people inside weren't trying to hide.

Her escape couldn't be a desperate dash. It had to be quiet and precise, using the hidden moments of the night. She had a small amount of emergency cash hidden in her travel backpack—enough for bribes or supplies, if needed. Her disguise had to be simple. She packed away her more conspicuous Western clothes. Instead, she chose a dark, locally bought shawl she could pull over her head, a long, plain skirt, and sturdy, unobtrusive walking boots. She hoped she would look like just another local woman moving in the pre-dawn shadows.

The greatest challenge was getting out of Villa Esmeralda itself. The town was small enough that unusual movements, especially at night, would draw attention. She needed help from someone who knew the terrain, someone who could navigate around the watchers. Her thoughts immediately went to Ricardo. She knew he was terrified and deeply conflicted. But he also had a quiet integrity, a sense of ayni—the Quechua concept of reciprocity and balance—that she hoped might be stronger than his fear.

Contacting him directly from her compromised phone was impossible. Instead, she relied on Señora Elena. Pretending she wanted some local herbal tea to calm her nerves, she discreetly passed a small, tightly folded note to the guesthouse owner, along with a generous tip. The note was simple, written in an archaic Cristobali phrase she hoped Ricardo would recognize as from her: "The condor seeks a hidden nest before the storm. Sunset, by the old ceiba tree, market square's edge." It was a long shot, dependent on Señora Elena keeping her secret and Ricardo being brave.

As evening deepened into true night, painting the sky in shades of purple and charcoal, Aisha slipped out of her room. She had arranged a small, timed distraction—her laptop was set to play a language lesson loudly at a predetermined moment, hopefully drawing the attention of anyone listening in. Her heart hammered against her ribs. She moved through the guesthouse's shadowed back garden, over a low stone wall, and into the labyrinthine alleyways behind the main street.

The old ceiba tree at the edge of the empty market square stood like a gnarled sentinel in the darkness. Aisha waited, hidden in the deep shadows of a recessed doorway. Every nerve screamed. Minutes stretched like hours. Just as she was beginning to lose hope, a figure emerged from the deeper darkness near the tree. It was Ricardo.

His face was creased with worry, but he gave a curt nod. "Señorita," he breathed. His voice was barely a whisper. "This is… madness."

"Madness is staying, Ricardo," Aisha whispered back. "They will not let me leave. I need to get to Pukarumi. I need to find Sofia."

He hesitated. His internal struggle was visible even in the dim light. "Pukarumi is watched now, more than ever. Because of you. Because of what you did." There was no accusation in his voice, only a statement of grim fact.

"I know. And I am deeply sorry for the danger I've brought. But Sofia… the K'anchay… they might be my only chance. Can you get me out of Villa Esmeralda? Just to the foothills? I can make my own way from there if I have to."

Ricardo looked up at the star-strewn sky, then back at Aisha. The quiet strength of the mountains seemed to settle in his eyes. "The K'anchay… they remember kindness. And they remember courage," he said softly. "I cannot take you all the way to Pukarumi tonight. It is too dangerous for both of us. But there is an old shepherd's track, over the western ridge. It bypasses the main road checkpoints. It will lead you towards the valley of the whispering river. From there… Pukarumi is another half-day's hard walk, if you know the signs." He paused. "I will take you to the start of that track."

The relief that washed over Aisha was immense, though it was quickly tempered by the understanding of the danger ahead.

Their escape from Villa Esmeralda was a masterclass in stealth. Ricardo's intimate knowledge of the town's sleeping patterns guided them. They moved through unlit back alleys, past shuttered windows and sleeping dogs. Their footsteps were muffled on the ancient cobblestones. Twice, they had to press themselves into deep, shadowed doorways as Guardia Civil patrols passed. The men's voices carried clearly in the thin air—casual complaints about the cold, the creak of leather holsters, the metallic clink of equipment. One man's cigarette smoke drifted past their hiding place, acrid and sharp. Aisha's heart felt like it was trying to beat its way out of her chest.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, they were beyond the last houses. The smell of woodsmoke was replaced by the clean, earthy scent of high-altitude wilderness. The shepherd's track was just a faint depression in the rough ground, invisible to anyone who didn't know what to look for.

Ricardo stopped. "From here, Señorita, you are on your own. Follow the ridge until the track descends. The river will guide you towards Pukarumi's valley. Pachamama qhawasunki. May Mother Earth watch over you." He pressed a small, rough-spun pouch into her hand. "Dried coca leaves. For the altitude, for strength. And water."

"Ricardo… Diospagarasunki. I don't know how to thank you." Aisha's voice was thick with emotion.

He simply nodded. His eyes were already turning back towards the sleeping town, like a silent guardian returning to his post. Then, he melted back into the darkness.

Aisha was alone. The vast, indifferent mountains were her only companions. The path to Pukarumi was a treacherous, uncertain thread in the darkness. Her objective was clear: find Sofia. Sofia walked between worlds. She understood the K'anchay's hidden networks. She might know a way to navigate this dangerous new reality, a way to move further from Rojas's tightening grip. The journey was perilous. The terrain was unforgiving. But the thought of Sofia's courage, of Mama Nati's storytelling q'aytu, pushed her onward. Each step was a gamble. Each rustle in the undergrowth was a potential threat. But going back was no longer an option.

The moon was bright and the stars were like scattered diamonds. Aisha had never felt so small in such an immense, uncaring world. She was a thread in the vast woven pattern of the night, a fragile thing against the mountains and the wild. But she kept walking, holding onto her memories of Pukarumi, the warmth of its fires and the kindness of its people, to keep the creeping loneliness and fear at bay. She followed the stars, hoping their light would show her a safe passage through the darkness.

***

The journey on the shepherd's track tested every limit of Aisha's endurance. Sustained by adrenaline and the coca leaves Ricardo had given her, she pushed through the frigid pre-dawn hours and the punishing high altitude. The "whispering river" was her only guide, its faint murmur a lifeline in the vast, silent wilderness. Just as the sun, a fierce orange eye, began to appear over the eastern peaks, she stumbled, more dead than alive, into a small, hidden valley. A thin line of smoke rose from a carefully concealed fire.

Sofia was there. Her face was etched with worry. Two serious-faced K'anchay men with sturdy staffs stood beside her. Relief, so powerful it nearly buckled Aisha's knees, washed over her. Sofia had clearly been expecting her, or at least hoping. Ricardo's network, or perhaps just the ancient K'anchay way of knowing things in these mountains, had worked.

"Aisha!" Sofia rushed forward, grasping her arms. "You made it! Pachamama guided you!"

The K'anchay, even though Aisha now represented enormous risk for them, took her in. There was no debate, no hesitation she could detect. There was only a quiet, solemn acceptance of duty. They knew what she had done at the Palacio. News, even in these remote valleys, traveled on the wind, through whispered conversations between shepherds and weavers. Her act of defiance had shone a bright light on their struggles. But it had also painted a massive target on their backs, and on anyone who helped the foreign woman who had dared to unmask the Governor.

But instead of feeling grateful, Aisha felt the weight of their sacrifice pressing down on her chest like a stone. Each shared piece of bread, each whispered reassurance, made her feel smaller, more unworthy. They were risking everything for her—a stranger who had brought catastrophe down on their heads. The depth of their generosity only magnified her sense of being a burden they couldn't afford.

They didn't take her to Pukarumi itself. The village, they explained, was already under intensive surveillance. Instead, they led her deeper into the mountains, to a series of ancient, nearly invisible cave dwellings and hidden shepherds' huts known only to their people. These were places where their ancestors had sheltered from invaders and hardship for centuries.

Life as a fugitive began. Days blurred together in a pattern of careful movement, hushed conversations, and the constant, gnawing fear of discovery. The news that came back from the more accessible valleys was catastrophic. Rojas's revenge had been swift and brutal. The Guardia Civil, aided by his zealous Youth Vanguard, were sweeping through K'anchay villages. Curfews were imposed. Homes were searched roughly, under the pretext of looking for "subversive materials" or "foreign accomplices." Arrests were made—community leaders, outspoken elders, anyone suspected of K'anchay activism or having contact with outsiders. Pukarumi itself, Tayta Quispe reported through a young runner who had risked the journey, was practically under siege.

The K'anchay were forced to keep moving Aisha, and now Sofia too. Sofia's association with Aisha had made her a marked woman. They used ancient, forgotten paths, through dense cloud forests and over treacherous rocky slopes. Their knowledge of the land was their greatest defense. Aisha, despite being reasonably fit, struggled to keep pace. She was humbled by their endurance and their quiet strength.

She witnessed firsthand their profound connection to the land. They moved through it not like conquerors, but as part of it. They read signs in the flight of birds, the way grasses bent, the taste of the wind. They knew which plants provided food, which offered medicine, which helped them hide. Aisha's linguistic abilities, honed over a lifetime of study, now became a tool for survival. She quickly mastered the nuances of their urgent, whispered K'anchay. She understood their warnings about approaching patrols, their discussions about the safest routes, their quiet expressions of grief and anger. She learned the K'anchay words for different kinds of silence, for the specific sound of Guardia boots on stone versus a shepherd's step, for the subtle changes in animal behavior that signaled human presence.

But with each new word she learned, each gesture of trust they showed her, the weight of her responsibility grew heavier. These people were losing everything because of her. She could hear it in the careful way they spoke around her, see it in the extra guard shifts they took, feel it in the smaller portions they gave themselves so she could eat.

Fear was their constant companion. There were several terrifyingly close calls. Once, hidden in a crevice high on a mountainside, they watched a Guardia Civil patrol pass directly below. Their voices carried clearly in the thin air—orders barked in Spanish, the scrape of boots on shale. Another time, a spotter plane, likely dispatched by Rojas, circled low over their valley, forcing them to remain motionless under thick foliage for hours, barely daring to breathe, the aircraft's engine a mechanical wasp overhead.

Their supplies dwindled. The dried llama meat, a staple of their fugitive diet, became increasingly scarce. The nights were bitterly cold, the makeshift shelters offering little protection. The pressure mounted, not just from the physical hardship, but from the psychological strain of being hunted.

One evening, as the shadows lengthened into darkness and the temperature began to plummet, the two women huddled together under a thick woolen blanket.

Sofia, her face drawn and pale, looked at Aisha. Her smile was weary, but genuine. She squeezed her hand. "Thank you for not giving up, my friend."

"Thank you for not telling me to go back home," Aisha replied, squeezing back. "It's… I can't imagine how hard this is for your people. I wish I could fix it, somehow, make things better. I hate being a burden, and I'm terrified for you."

Sofia pulled the blanket tighter around them. "This is how things have always been for the K'anchay, since the Spanish came. The land was taken, and the people were pushed into the mountains. We were told our gods were false, that we had to pray to the one true God, that we had to stop weaving the ways of our ancestors, had to forget our traditions. We were not allowed to speak our language, not allowed to tell stories. The land, the rivers, the stones—they were not ours anymore."

Aisha had a sudden memory of Mama Nati's words: The stories are like the river. They are in us, even when they are hidden.

Sofia continued. Her voice carried sorrow, but also a strength that made Aisha's chest tighten. "But our ancestors did not forget. We remember the ancient ways, in stories, in song, in the loom. In the mountains, we are still free. That is the real truth that Rojas is trying to hide."

But Sofia's words, meant to comfort, only made Aisha feel worse. Here was this woman, whose people had endured centuries of oppression, taking time to reassure her—the outsider who had brought fresh disaster upon them. The grace of it was almost unbearable.

Aisha hesitated. "But now, Sofia... because of me, you are not free. Your people are hunted, their homes are searched. They fight over the land, yes. But the real war is over the story of the land itself. Whoever controls the story, controls everything."

Sofia turned to her, her dark eyes shining. "You are right, my friend. It is a story we have told for a long time, in different ways. Our people are always on the run. We are like the threads on a loom, constantly pulled this way and that. We are not rich. We have no armies, no powerful friends. We have only the ancient stories and songs. We are a quiet voice, trying to be heard." She smiled sadly. "Maybe, one day, the whole world will hear us."

Aisha looked down at the small, battered notebook in her lap. She had taken it out of her pack without thinking, used to its presence, a small reminder of all the languages and places she had been, and the ones yet to explore. It felt comforting in the strange, dark mountains, a reminder that other people existed. She suddenly felt ashamed. "I'm sorry. I don't want to be another person writing a story about you. You have told me so much, shown me so many things, and I can't even show the world who you really are."

Sofia touched her arm. "Aisha, we do not do this because we are looking for fame or attention. We do this because we are K'anchay. We are connected to the land, and the land gives us the words. This is not a burden for us, or something that you must feel guilty for. Our stories are a gift."

But Aisha wasn't comforted. Sofia's words only made her feel smaller, more undeserving. The K'anchay's quiet generosity felt like an indictment. Each shared piece of dried meat, each whispered warning, was fresh evidence of her failure. A voice, she had wanted to give them. She had brought them a blade instead. Yet, they never blamed her. They protected her fiercely, sharing what little they had. Their calm acceptance of hardship was a profound lesson in courage. Sofia, especially, became her anchor, her quiet strength a constant source of inspiration.

But that only made it worse. Every act of kindness from Sofia felt like a weight added to the scale of Aisha's debt. How could she ever repay what they were sacrificing for her? How could she justify the suffering her presence had brought? The guilt was becoming suffocating, making her desperate to do something—anything—that might balance the scales.

The worldwide outcry over Aisha's interview and disappearance continued. Chloe confirmed this in one of the very brief, heavily encrypted messages Aisha managed to send, using a jury-rigged signal booster a young K'anchay tech prodigy had hastily constructed. But on the ground, in these isolated, hunted communities, that global outrage felt a million miles away. They were alone. A single wrong step on the trail, a single overheard whisper, and it would all be over.

Aisha felt her linguistic ability stirring restlessly in the back of her mind, like a caged animal. She could sense the careful way the K'anchay modulated their voices around her, the precise emotional weight they put behind each reassurance. They were managing her as much as protecting her, trying to keep her from feeling the full weight of the disaster she had brought upon them. Even their kindness was calculated, and knowing that made it both more precious and more painful.

The need to act, to use her power for something more than just survival, was becoming overwhelming. She was tired of being protected, tired of being a burden. She needed to send a more detailed, secure message out—to Chloe, to her emergency contacts. She needed to tell them her location, document the escalating attacks against the K'anchay, and coordinate some kind of help or rescue. But every attempt to establish a secure, sustained signal point was fraught with risk. It could expose them all.

And yet, as she watched Sofia sleeping beside her, saw the exhaustion etched in every line of her face, Aisha knew she couldn't keep letting others pay the price for her choices. Tomorrow, she would find that signal point. She would use every ounce of her linguistic ability to craft a message that would cut through the propaganda, that would make the world see what was happening here. She would risk everything to get word out, because staying hidden was just another form of cowardice.

The decision crystallized in her mind like ice forming on water. She would use the signal booster, regardless of the danger. She would craft the most compelling message of her life, using every nuance of her ability to make the world listen. It was her turn to take the risk, her turn to step into the line of fire. She owed the K'anchay that much.

The trap was tightening around them all. But Aisha was done being prey.

***