A Life of Secret Love

This Agnes, Agnes-1702, is a little highborn brat. She's your classic spoiled human brat, the kind that walks through the world like every stone, every leaf, every miserable mortal exists only to applaud her antics. And who could blame her? This lovely little vampire girl has plenty of reasons to believe she's the shit. Because her daddy, Du la Font, isn't just some third-rate bloodsucker. No, sir. He's not like that poor bastard who turned my little Liora. Du la Font is a whole different story. He plays in a league where gods piss on kings, and monsters like him don't ask for permission—they take what they want and smile while the world bleeds.

Bastien says to Agnes-1702:

"Madame, I don't understand a thing. Is this some kind of test?"

"Don't call me Madame, dummy. I'm just a girl. A pretty, young girl. I'm sixteen, okay? Well... nineteen, if we're talking about my human years. But as a sexy, perfect little vampire, I'm sweet sixteen, fresh out of the oven. So no more 'Madame,' got it?"

Bastien looks at her, mouth half open, like he's just seen a mermaid taking a shit right in the middle of the plaza. The poor bastard feels like his head's about to explode from all the questions crashing into each other inside. He's a walking disaster. I get you, Bastien. I really do.

And then I think: What if right now, a future Zico is spying on me, cracking up, watching how the current Zico struggles to make sense of Bastien in this circus from the past? What if that future bastard is taking notes, like I'm some fucking lab monkey? Just in case, I send him a message: Go fuck yourself, buddy. And while I'm at it, I leave him a task: I hope you're a god by now. Don't screw it up, future Zico. Don't you dare disappoint me, you son of a bitch.

Bastien talks. Agnes-1702 listens. Poor bastard. He tries to tell her everything that's happened since Agnes-from-the-future, "the Madame," showed up in his life. And he does it the only way he can: stumbling, sweating, slipping on every word like he's running from an executioner.

"You're crazy," says Agnes-1702 with a little snort of contempt. "You're a lying, crazy human. But hey, I'm not gonna lie—you are pretty damn entertaining."

"I swear it's the truth, Madame. You know it," Bastien says.

"I've never come near you in my life," she snaps back.

Agnes-1702 stares at him. Bastien holds her gaze for a couple of seconds and then, with a shaky voice, asks:

"Are you going to detonate my head, Madame?"

Agnes-1702 jumps back, hands flying dramatically to her mouth. Pure theater. Pure Agnes. The same gestures I know by heart—only now filtered through the body of a spoiled, dangerously playful teenage girl.

"And how the hell do you know I can blow you up?" she shoots back.

"You told me yourself, Madame. And you've already made me bleed from the nose, the ears, and the eyes... like you were just dying to have some fun watching me lose my head. But you held back."

Agnes bites her lower lip. She sighs. I know all too well those girly gestures. Gestures that scream: "Boy, I'm ready to take this all the way. You hit that ball out of the goddamn stadium, handsome. Home run." And right there, right in that moment, Agnes-1702 starts to fall. She starts feeling it. She feels a crazy, reckless pull toward that pathetic human bastard: Bastien. Sweet, stupid Bastien. Her Bastien. Mad. Murderer. Respectful. Handsome, goddammit. Everything a spoiled, horny little vampiress in full hormonal meltdown could ever want.

She tells him, her voice thick with emotion:

"If this is how it's going to be, we have to get out of here, my love."

"And where are we going, Madame?" Bastien asks, more lost than a blind man in a shootout.

"You're going to be mine. My eternal love."

Bastien can't think anything except this: This girl is crazier than a fucking goat high on speed. Of course, Bastien doesn't have the faintest idea what speed is, because in 1702 that shit didn't exist. The whole 'speed' thing? That's mine. Zico's own creation. Just like all the other little modernisms I've been tossing into this story that, in case anyone forgot, still takes place in 1702.

And so, the little brat Agnes turns Bastien into a vampire and carries him off to Lisbon. Yeah. Carries him off. Just like that. No asking, no nothing. Bastien doesn't get a say. Bastien—let's be honest—starts to remind me of someone. Of me. Of the Zico fresh out of the egg. Baby-Zico-vampire, the goddamn pet in Agnes's hands. But that—listen up, everyone—that's never happening again. Those days are over. Buried. Gone for good. I swear it. By my blood. By my fangs. By the heart that beats inside my immortal body.

Ah, Lisbon. Lisbon, 1702. A city that stank of salt, rotten fish, and unanswered prayers. Streets that twisted like old guts between crooked shacks perched on the hills, where drunken sailors puked out their sorrows and priests promised redemption for a few coins and a little fear. The port was a swarm of masts and screams, loaded with goods and souls doomed to cross the ocean. In the squares, the rich paraded in imported silks, pretending not to see the filth licking at their shoes. And in the alleys, where the sun died before its time, knives and prayers sounded equally sharp. A city alive. Filthy. Beautiful in a fucked-up kind of way. In short, the perfect place to start a new life—a life of secret love.

Agnes and Bastien spend five years together in Lisbon. Five long years of golden boredom, where Agnes is Agnes—spoiled, exquisite, high-end brat—and Bastien is Bastien: a dumb toy, a dog they pet now and then so he doesn't curl up in a corner and cry. And then, of course, Du la Font shows up. Du la Font doesn't waste time: he signs Bastien's death warrant and sends him to roast under the sun. And yeah, fuck, Bastien suffers. He screams, he writhes, he squeals, he kicks. The full goddamn menu. And then? The wheel turns again. Four times. Four fucking déjà vus that reek of defeat. Until finally, I show up.

First, I'm a filthy Russian, and my name is Dmitri. A cold, dirty bastard who could barely string two thoughts together without freezing mid-sentence. A human rag lost in the ice, dreaming of something better and crawling like a worm through the snow. And to top it off, dreaming once again of becoming a painter.

Then I'm a fucking Yank, and my name is Jesse. A cocky hillbilly who thought he was a king just because he could shoot straight and spit in a straight line too. A moron with muddy boots, cheap dreams, and damp gunpowder. Oh, and a notebook full of crappy poems he kept hidden so no one would call him a faggot.

Then I'm a miserable English piece of shit, and my name is Miles. A starving worm who dreamed of getting rich writing screenplays. He lived in a filthy hole in London with nothing but two sets of clothes and sold his ass in secret, because in that hypocritical England of the forties, fucking another man could get you thrown in jail.

Then I'm a flea-bitten bastard, born in São Paulo, and my name is Caio. A deadbeat who dreamed of being a painter while rotting away in a sweaty boarding house, walls soaked with mold, cockroaches dancing, and the stench of burnt oil sticking to everything. He spent his days scribbling the filth of Brazilian society, convinced some rich asshole would one day pay a fortune for his so-called art.

And finally—finally, goddammit—I'm born in Miraverde, Nueva Brisenia. My name's Fabrizio. Zico, if you want to get cozy.

The first two times, it took me longer to come back. Don't ask me why. The last three, I came back fast. Like a bullet. Like a vengeance that just couldn't wait. And yeah, I had plenty of other lives before I became Bastien. But those lives don't matter. They're so tiny they don't even deserve a single fucking line in this story.

And here's something that needs to be crystal clear: Every time I was reborn before—every time I became a vampire and ended up roasted under the sun—Agnes from the future always played her part. She pulled me out of the gutter. She gave me a better life. She polished me up and handed me over like a gift, nice and shiny, so the Agnes of that time could find me and turn me. But this last time, she didn't show up. This time, being who I am now—being Zico—Agnes from the future never showed up. And according to what my dear creator—that professional liar—"informed" me, she didn't find me by accident. Oh no. According to her, she had been there all along. Watching me. Guarding me. Knowing full well who I was even before I did a single wicked thing. Is it true? Or just another one of her games, another one of her traps wrapped up in "eternal love"? The only thing I know is that this time, the one who pulled me out of the hole wasn't a vampire. It was a human. Irene. My Irene.

Did Irene break the endless cycle of failure?

I don't know. And honestly, I don't give a flying fuck. Why? Because from now on, I'm gonna do whatever the fuck I want. Understanding what all this means? To hell with that. If I'm supposed to figure it out, I'll figure it out along the way. And if not, then who gives a shit? I'm not gonna twist myself into knots trying to make sense of it. I'll do what I feel I must. Follow the voice of my intuition. And if that voice drags me into the abyss, then so be it. And if my choices tear space and time apart and blow the universe into a million fucking pieces, I couldn't care less. We'll all blow up together. We'll all go straight to hell. Fuck it all. Because I, Zico, am going to do whatever the hell I damn well please. Now, come on—It's time to get the fuck out of here. Out of this cursed little shithole called the Gloaming Inn.