(Based on the picture on the top left I found on Pinterest)
Muhahaha! I have concocted up an Evil Hectorino + his lore:
• He's very rude to the player upon meeting due to the nasty conditions he's in, such as his rusting metal body, broken pipes and filthy vents. Not to mention he's been malfunctioning for ages but it seems the player can't afford to fix him. He's grown bitter over the homeowner's disregard for his maintenance. Yet, even despite all his rage and frustration, deep inside, he still loves them. Very tsundere, will call you mean stuff but behind closed metal doors he'll rave on and on about how beautiful and cute you are. Even when he's mean, he will not cause you harm. If all goes well and the player fixes him up, or attempts to, he'll soften up. He's coughing constantly because of the dusty vents, same reason his eyes are irritated when revealed. Has hair is thick fog from his broken pipes.
Héctor was seated in the plush chair that had been moved by Miguel’s bedside for his convenience when he heard the boy’s first movements.
He looked up from the song he was composing in his notebook, quickly setting it aside and getting up as Miguel’s breathing became rapid, turning into distressed whimpering as he jerked and twitched, as if in the grip of a terrible nightmare.
“Dante, get Imelda.” Héctor ordered.
The dog jumped up from where he had been sleeping at the foot of the bed and quickly bounded out of the room.
Miguel’s struggling was getting worse, his whimpering turning into crying. Everyone was always a little disoriented when they woke up, but Héctor had never seen anything this bad.
“Miguel, it’s alright.” Héctor said, sitting on the edge of the bed. He hoisted Miguel up into his arms and held him close, keeping him from hurting himself. “It’s all right, you’re safe, it’s okay.”
Miguel’s crying subsided to whimpering again, and Héctor had to fight back tears as the little boy fretfully buried his face against his chest, curling up tighter in his arms. Still not awake, but no longer quite asleep either.
Héctor hummed as he held Miguel, blending together the nonsense snatches of the song he’d been working on. It seemed to calm Miguel, so he continued as the boy’s movements became more subdued, more conscious. One hand slowly opened and closed, Miguel’s face twitching in and out of a grimace, getting used to his new form.
“Papá?” Miguel’s voice asked quietly.
“I’m right here.” Héctor said.
Miguel’s eyes opened blearily, struggling to focus on Héctor’s face, blinking hard, then closing again in exhaustion.
Héctor couldn’t help thinking, not for the first time, how very similar dying was to being born.
By the time Imelda came running into the room behind Dante, Miguel’s eyes were open, still squinting a little, but softly aware for the first time in days.
“Holá Miguel.” Imelda said gently, coming and sitting on the edge of the bed beside them. “I’m your Mamá Imelda, how are you feeling?”
“He’s still disoriented.” Héctor said, stroking Miguel’s hair. “He hasn’t said much.”
“Where...where am I?” Miguel asked, the words sounding rusty in his mouth.
“You’ve died, mijo.” Imelda said gently. “You’re with your family now. You crossed here too early and stayed too long. Do you remember?”
Miguel was silent for a long moment, as if slowly processing this, then his breathing started to get uneven again.
“You died to protect the family,” Héctor said, “lo siento Miguel, you were very brave.”
“I want to go home.” Miguel said, his voice breaking. He looked down at his own skeletal hand, at the red silk pajamas he’d been changed into from his dirty living clothes, at Héctor and Imelda. “I want to go home, por favor.”
“Next year we’ll all go visit our living family.” Imelda promised, “but this is your home now. You’ll have everything you need Miguel, just ask and you’ll have it.”
“I want, I want...”
But Miguel’s voice faded in fatigue, his eyes drifting closed.
His head dropped back against Héctor, who pulled him close again as Miguel slipped back into unconsciousness.
“He remembers, but he’s not adjusting well.” Imelda said, looking Miguel over with a critical eye. “I’ll see if I can track down a therapist that can keep their mouth shut, Miguel should be sitting up and talking by now, something might be wrong.”
“What’s wrong is how he died. Don’t push him,” Héctor said, shaking his head. “He’s been through too much, if he needs to take things slow then we should let him.”
“We need to make sure he doesn't fall behind developmentally.” Imelda said, “We’re going to have to push him a little Héctor, he’ll be fine.”
“No.” Héctor said, a little too sharply. He grimaced at his tone, “Lo siento Imelda, I’d, I’d just rather take it slow with Miguel. I’ve already put him through enough, I don’t want him to have to deal with any more pain. Can we just take it easy to start off?”
Imelda was silent for a moment, watching his face, as if weighing something in her mind.
“If I don’t call a therapist do you promise to get him up and walking on your own as soon as you can?” She asked reluctantly.
“Sí, I promise.” Héctor said earnestly. If Imelda was giving in this easily it meant she could tell how much it meant to him. “We’ll get him up and about in no time, I’d just rather do it myself, at his own pace.”
“Well, alright then.” Imelda sighed, “but now that he’s moving again let’s have him in a guest room up nearer to our room. I’m starting to feel like a widow with you tucked away in this corner of the house all the time. And we need to get you in front of some cameras soon as well, I’m not the only one missing you.”
“Of course, whenever you like.” Héctor said, carefully eased himself off the bed and turning to tuck Miguel back in. He turned and kissed Imelda on the cheekbone. “Thank you again for everything you’ve done, I know clearing my schedule this week hasn’t been easy, it’s just been-”
“I know,” Imelda said, putting her hands on his ribcage. “I’m glad you’re taking care of him, I just want you both back in the sunshine as quickly as possible, I don’t want you two becoming hermits down here.”
“The moment he’s ready,” Héctor promised. “he’ll be right at my side.”
***
Three days.
It had been three days since Miguel had disappeared.
Enrique splashed water onto his face from the small sink in the police department's bathroom. He looked up at the mirror, water dripping from his chin. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair unkempt, his clothes a mess. He couldn’t remember whether he’d slept or not in the last three days, but he didn’t think so.
In the first hours when Miguel had run off he’d been on the street himself, pounding the pavement and shouting himself hoarse as his family, and then later the whole neighborhood, split up around town looking for his son. He’d gone to the family crypt himself, sure he would find Miguel pouting there, but all he’d found was Papá Héctor’s old prize guitar on the floor of the mausoleum instead of on its wall brackets.
And no sign of Miguel.
As night turned to day the search had been upgraded to search-and-rescue teams combing the hills of Santa Cecilia with tracking dogs and helicopters. A missing persons report was filed, the Rivera family had started conducting interviews with the media as the family’s search campaign officially launched.
And now two days had turned into three.
Enrique pulled at his hair distractedly, gripping the edge of the sink as he clenched his jaw. What was the use of having all this family money if it couldn’t find his son?
Enrique’s mother had been a wreck, convinced she’d driven Miguel off, made him run away from home. It was taking every bit of Enrique’s charity to console her instead of agreeing with her, but as the days wore on even the detectives were starting to say “abduction” instead of “run-away.”
It was a built-in risk of belonging to a famous family, there were always monsters who would try to take advantage of the family wealth, try to leverage a ransom. But no one had come forward with any demands yet, which made “abduction” look more and more like a dementedly hopeful wish.
Enrique looked away from the mirror. He ripped off a paper towel from a nearby dispenser and did his best to scrub away his emotions with the water on his face.
He had another TV interview in half an hour and had to get himself looking halfway presentable again, he needed to be ready to represent the Rivera family.
He looked in the mirror one more time before leaving to go find Luisa, who would be bringing a fresh set of clothes to the station soon. The man staring back at him was unrecognizable, desperate, almost dangerous looking.
Well, so be it.
Enrique was going to do whatever it took to get his son back.
And when he found whoever had taken Miguel away from him, they were going to wish they were dead.
Read Chapter 4
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Most of the meat of this AU is being strung together via asks, so if you want to know more about something go ahead and drop me an ask, it might result in some extra prose for you. (General good-natured screaming over things is greatly encouraged as well.) Everything on my blog for this au is being tagged villain!au so you can find it all easily.
What if I gave him my hand, huh? What then? Would he give me a kiss, a bite, an amputation, an IV of some unknown substance, only to explain what it does after the effects start kicking in? Just out of curiosity, of course
"Oh? How polite!" He would grasp your bicep, clutching it tightly, and would start flicking against the skin, searching for your veins. "Now, hold still for a second, you might feel a sharp scratch…"
He would puncture your skin with a syringe, the needle digging into your flesh, and he'd steadily push the clear liquid into your veins, emptying the syringe. With his other hand, he presses his thumb into your wrist, searching for your rhythm.
Once he removes the needle, he'd run a finger along the streaking blood and bring it to his lips as if to sample it. He'd close his eyes for a second, and inhale sharply, his throat bobbing as he swallows - you can tell he is trying to control himself.
You notice your limbs become heavier, your heart rate speeds up and the world slowly starts to spin. He can feel your pulse underneath his thumb, how it starts to quicken, and he grins at you, all teeth.
"I can't have you moving around too much while I work. Don't worry, you won't miss any of it."
