Archive of Our Own

[This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and the incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or deceased, or actual events is purely coincidental. Opinions expressed by characters do not reflect the author's views. Thank you for reading, and please enjoy the story as creative exploration, not a reflection of reality. PS, let's keep this fic a secret.]

Chief Antonio Luna was a good and strongly principled man. Sometimes, it feels like only his nephew knew this.

His name has been blanketed by the cause of his death, covering his decade long legacy in Manila City Police Department in where he cracked down the corrupt system created by his predecessors. He was close to making an infallible system for the Philippine National Police including rotation systems, transparency systems, anti-corruption rules, and police surveillance system that will monitor police behaviors via body cams and police car dashcams. It was simple, but the Philippine president that time did not like how Luna ran the Department and how he wanted the National Police to be. The PNP chief that time also did not like Luna’s direction. They said, “You’re making it seem that our Police need discipline.”

They do, actually.

Crimes involving one or two policemen were rampant that time. Notorious syndicates were protected by a Metro Manila Police department, and it might be a stretch to declare, but for Gregorio Del Pilar and a few Filipinos who has become victims of crime that the police never acted on, the police has not been doing what they were meant to do; and that is to protect the people and enforce the law. They are meant to uphold justice. Their symbol is supposed to be a relief. Their insignia is supposed to inspire hope.

That has not been the case, especially in poverty-ridden communities where the phrase “the police is coming” is a declaration of danger. If they were just there to apprehend ‘criminals’, it wouldn’t be a problem, yeah? But oh, if they do not find any ‘suspicious person’ to point an operation to, they will simply create one. How many apprehended ‘criminals’ had died on the road to prison because the police shot them, saying they tried to steal a policeman’s gun in the privacy of the car? Goyong didn’t even need backdoor access to know these kinds of information. All he had to do was watch the news and hear the phrases, “Nanlaban umano” three times a week.

Antonio Luna was not like the others, and his appointment was made by a spark of luck in the sea of a system that craves and harnesses more corruption. One good egg rising the ranks inspired the good ones hidden in the shadows. Don’t get them wrong, there are many good policemen and women who studied Criminology for the sense of heroic duty, to serve the public, and to be people’s beacon of hope.

A few of them are Jose Alejandrino, Eduardo Rusca, Paco Roman, and Manuel Bernal. They were Chief Antonio Luna’s most avid admirers and followers. Gregorio knew them as they are his uncle’s closest officers. The four of them visited the Luna household numerous times before—asking him about school and giving him ensaymadas as a way of greeting him by the door—to hold a hushed meeting around their humble dining table where he was not included. Sometimes, his uncle would give him money to play at the computer shop or visit Officer Eduardo Rusca’s ward, Vicente Enriquez.

Gregorio knew that adults have their own talks about their own worlds, and he knew he was just a young teenager who didn’t have to know anything. He has his own world, too. He had series episodes to wait, games to play, schoolwork to do, guitar chords to learn, and a girl to court. Ah, he’s too busy, too busy indeed.

“Kuya Ed said there was a death threat sent to your uncle.” Vicente said one afternoon as they play Mario Kart.

Goyong reacted violently, only because Vicente blue-shelled him, “Nothing new. It’s probably just a scare tactic.”

“Do you ever wonder why they would hate a police chief?”

“Nah. My uncle is a disciplinarian. Many weak men can’t handle discipline.”

“Greg, it’s more than that.”

And it really was more than that.

His uncle was bringing big change in his precinct and quite possibly the entire national police, dismissing every corrupt officer. Many did not like that. Suddenly, there was evidence that Police Chief Antonio Luna is the Ripper of Roxas Boulevard, and that his four closest officers and nephew are accessories of the decades-long series of murder. Suddenly, six officers tied to a drug syndicate entered their peaceful household and shot Antonio Luna in front of his innocent nephew. Within next few weeks, a port mafia freely entered the country via Navotas port. The good police officers cowered in the shadows again or were forced to swallow their good principles to survive the den of vipers that resurfaced once more.

And the rest is history.

He was taken in by the nice attorney who is unfortunately dating the fucking Ripper of all people.

The Ripper helped him exact revenge.

He ran away from the Ripper’s household in fear of his life for knowing his real identity.

And he found his uncle’s letter addressed to him.

The letter simply says that he loves him, that he can run to his brother in France in events of his death, and that he might die in the hands of the Ripper for simply knowing the Ripper’s identity.

No part of the letter ever mentioned the corrupt officers in his station; his Uncle will never be afraid of those losers. He’s more afraid of the unpredictable and over-powered demon of Roxas Boulevard. What his uncle never thought was that the Ripper will not kill him by his own hands. As the Ripper said, Agent Andres Bonifacio wasn’t the first person he killed by gun. Agent Andres Bonifacio was not the first good person he killed. It was his uncle.

How ironic. Police Chief Antonio Luna can make strategies upon strategies to lead the police to excellence, a state of peace, competence, and moral duty. Whoever expected that he will die in the hands of a politician from Cavite who has no business in his benevolent goal?

Oh, not to fear! Antonio Luna, ever the strategist, has means to give himself justice! He planted evidence around the house that will point to Emilio Aguinaldo being the Ripper. Too bad his dear nephew understands that the country needs the Ripper, whether the demon knows it or not. How can he be loyal to a country that forsake him? How can he be loyal to man who can and will kill him? He’s like a dog. He almost wants to bark.

And so, he burns the house down, hoping he burns in it, too.

In his hands is his uncle’s letter that caught fire amongst the flaming furniture of the living room.

“Are you fucking with me?!” Former SP01 Eduardo Rusca shouted after pulling him out of the burning house.

He gasps for more air, breathing in cool oxygen to replace the smoke and soot in his lungs. “Ku… Kuya Ed? Why are you…” He coughs harshly, “…here?”

Eduardo Rusca looks around the commotion. People are clamoring to put out the fire that has already burned the house completely. There’s nothing they could do about it, nothing they can retrieve. Perhaps they are only trying their best to prevent the fire from spreading throughout the small city village.

Amid panic, nobody ever thought that somebody could be inside, only former police officer Eduardo Rusca who might have wanted to recover something from his late Chief’s house, and was instead outraged upon seeing Gregorio Del Pilar in the middle of it, about to be burned down. He pulled him out of the house through the back door, using the dark alleyways to run away from the prying crowd.

While Gregorio Del Pilar regains his normal breathing, Kuya Ed carries him discretely to an unassuming old jeepney that is actually heavily tinted.

“Why are you…? Why is the house…? Tangina!” Kuya Ed starts the car instead. “Are you alright?”

“Don’t bring me to the hospital. He shouldn’t find me.”

“Who’s he!?”

“The Ripper.”

Eduardo Rusca grips the steering wheel. “What do you mean? Aren’t you protected by that Attorney? And his congressman lover? The only reason why I decided not to take you in as another ward is because I’m sure you’ll be safer with those two. They’re powerful enough to protect you!”

“Congressman Emilio Aguinaldo is the Ripper.” He says as he still rasps for clearer air. It amazes him how his body still wants to breathe in and out, still wants to live, when all he wanted minutes ago was to burn with the house and his Tio Antonio’s final message. Great, he lost everything, and he lost everything again, and whatever is left of his life is now burned to ashes, all of that while he is still here, alive for no reason. “And I lost uncle’s letter.”

Eduardo Rusca silently drives along the narrowest roads that he’s too emotionally compromised to care. Goyong’s eyes are wide open, but tears block his sight as he quietly whimpers. The roads go narrow and narrower until the pavements are replaced by uneven and muddied walkways that no cars should use, rocking them viciously.

“This isn’t the way to your house.” He finally says when a deep pothole rocked them enough that if not for the seatbelt, his head would have kissed the windshield. “Where is Vicente?”

“We moved out after your uncle’s death.”

“To here?” When the car parked, Goyong open the door and was greeted by an old warehouse instead of a normal settlement. The thought of Kuya Ed and his friend moving here, scraping by day-to-day, horrified him.

“Don’t judge it too much.” Eduardo Rusca chuckles as if reading his mind. He walks towards a hidden door beside it and Goyong follows without question. He wants to see his old friend well and in good condition.

When he opened the rusty door, he sees an empty, dusty, and dark warehouse. There are one or two stray cats around, maybe a big rat, and a puddle of liquid that looks very suspicious. Eduardo Rusca only motions for him to follow further in, and for the lack of somewhere else to go, and for the curiosity about their situation, he follows without question.

The man confidently strides to a pile of rusty drums. He steps behind it and shows Goyong a secret door with a camouflaged equipment beside the knob. It lit up when Eduardo presses his thumb over a glass interface, and with a low voice, he says: ensaymada.

Oh, of course. It’s a two-way biometric with a code word.

The door clicks. He pushes it, motioning him to follow again, now with a smile.

“This is our safehouse.” Eduardo Rusca tells him as he walks further to a well-polished room with chairs, quarters, and proper ventilation. It’s a better situation than the faux warehouse leading to this area, but it is far to being a normal home still.

On one corner, several computers are hooked to a mini-data center, one corner consists of beds surrounded by medical supplies, the mezzanine above them is filled with doors, probably private sleeping quarters, and in the middle of it all is a huge table under a singular light source. This light source, a dim led lamp hanging from the ceiling, is the only thing that illuminates the whole ‘safe house’, aside from the running monitors of the computer area.

“Greg?” A familiar voice utters from the med bay. He looks at the owner of the voice, and upon seeing him, he rushes forward.

“Vicente!” As Goyong was about to hug him, he recalls his hands to his side upon seeing his friend, who is not in hugging condition. His right arm is in a sling, his torso is wrapped in bandage, and his right cheek has multiple abrasions. “What… what happened to you?”

“Oh, this?” He chuckles, “This is nothing. Just a little accident.”

Goyong raises his eyebrows at that, then looks around the safe house; especially at the mezzanine since several footsteps can be heard from above. Familiar faces slowly come out of their private quarters to stare over the metal railings of the mezzanine, looking down at him in shock.

“Gregorio Del Pilar?” Whispers former SP02 Manuel Bernal. He keeps his eyes on the boy as he walks towards the stairs leading to him. The two others, namely former SP02 Paco Roman and former SP03 Jose Alejandrino follow suit.

They gather close to him, with Jose Alejandrino walking slowly, admonishing his very presence. “Why did you bring him to our safe house, Rusca? This is not a place for kids, and I’m yet to forgive you about bringing Vicente here.”

“Hey, I’m helping in your operations!” Vicente chides.

“And I’ve never required you to.” Jose Alejandrino replies quickly, while still glaring at Kuya Ed.

That irritates Goyong, who rolled his eyes. They should not test a kid who has nothing else to lose. “If you want to kill me for finding your secret base, then do so. Fuck you. You don’t want me knowing anything about you, then don’t let me know them. If you hate that so much, then fucking kill me.”

The safe house went silent. He can see Vicente gasp, Kuya Ed looks at him in great worry, Jose Alejandrino in shock, and the other two in confusion. Eduardo Rusca scoots closer to Alejandrino’s side to whisper something audible.

“Couldn’t retrieve the files you wanted, long story short, it’s ‘cause Greg burned the house down and plans to burn himself with it. So maybe, tone down the unwelcoming glare.”

“I… I’m sorry.” Jose looks at him guiltily and then to the floor.

For some reasons, that irritates Goyong more. “And I’m tired of everybody’s pity. You know what, I’d be glad if everybody just leaves me alone.”

“Before that,” Eduardo Rusca interjects then pulls him to the med bay, “Let’s get your lungs checked out.”

Paco Roman, who he knows has some knowledge in first aid, follows suit. Vicente runs after them, too. Goyong guesses that it’s because he’s supposed to be resting in the med bay in the first place with all the injuries he sports on his body. He wants to ask him more about that, but for now, he lets Paco Roman fuss over his vitals. The way he operates around the machines looks like beyond first aid knowledge, though.

“Since when are you a full-pledged medic?” He starts.

Paco smiles at him, “You know, you don’t need degrees to learn things. You just need access to information and a dedication to learn.”

“So, you’re like, the team doctor now?” He looks at the piles of computers on one corner, “Who’s the computer expert now?”

“That would be me.” Eduardo raises his hand. He leans on the wall with arms crossed over his chest, looking over at him as Paco Roman places an oxygen mask over his face. “I’m still studying it. What’s important is that we’re updated on PNP intelligence and syndicate activities. Nothing too fancy.”

With the limit to speak brought upon by the face mask, he looks at Vicente who is sitting crossed legged on the nearby bed. He stares at him up and down, stopping on the areas of his body with obvious injuries. “I’m on missions.”

Goyong quirks his brows at that.

“Stealth missions. Then they caught me, got into some encounters with a syndicate. Nothing new.”

The boy simply nods at that, but he files that information for another day.

“Hey,” Vicente calls, “I still have Mario Kart. We could play later. Oh, we should be roommates!”

He nods again, feeling the throes of sleep slowly darkening his vision.

In his medicine assisted sleep, he dreams about his uncle, whose warm hands reaches over his head to give him gentle pats. The world knows Antonio Luna as a strict disciplinarian who hates corruption with a burning passion, but for him, for his little Goyong, he is ever so gentle and indulgent. He still taught him discipline, but Goyong is not much of a difficult child to need an iron-fist upbringing. Antonio Luna even shared his concern over Goyong’s over-obedience. However, in his dream, he can see his uncle smiling at him, with his ridiculous mustache and police uniform. He looks so proud of him. Does he know what he did? Does he know of the blood in his hands? Does he know that he chose to protect the Ripper than give him justice?

“I believe in you, Goyong.” Antonio Luna says in his dreams. “And I will always be proud of you.”

He wakes up on the same bed, but with a fresh batch of tears on his cheeks. His view to the ceiling is obstructed by several heads hovering over him with worried glances. He stands up slowly then removes the mask from his face. His breathing feels better now, but his mind does not. His mind is still in that burning house, guilty, grieving, and resigned.

“I burned my uncle’s letter.” He starts, lamenting the last evidence of his uncle’s love.

Manuel Bernal looks at Jose Alejandrino, then scoots forward carefully, as if afraid to trip on the various eggshells surrounding him. “If you don’t mind me asking… what is in the letter?”

“Just personal things for me, not like you have to know.” He grunts.

“How about some incriminating evidence against the current police chief?”

Goyong laughs darkly with the images of the current (late) police chief flashing in his mind. Oh, they don’t have to worry about that one. The exchanges of worried glances between the four former police officers and one teen are undeniable through his peripherals, so he quickly reverted to a neutral expression and stares at them seriously. That, apparently, heightened their countenance to fear.

He decides to add, “He also mentioned who wanted him dead, though it is not any of those losers in his station.”

All of them shifted in their positions, giving him all their attention.

“It’s the Ripper.”

“Ho… how? You were there when it happened. You saw it was the current police chief.” Manuel Bernal says.

Jose Alejandrino now perks, possibly remembering something, “Rusca said you think Emilio Aguinaldo is the Ripper. He was our schoolmate in Ateneo, but we did not communicate much. I’m still not sure how he’s connected to our station, but we unearthed a call recording. We’d like you to verify.”

Eduardo Rusca lifts his phone for all eyes to see. After several clicks, an audio file blasts.

[He’s coming for you.] Says a voice that is unmistakably Emilio Aguinaldo.

[What do I do?] Replies another voice.

Eduardo Rusca quickly explains, “That’s the current police chief.”

[I suggest you do what you usually do, and that is to incriminate him with a false crime.]

[What crime? He’s clean and…] The police officer says, panic obvious in his voice.

[Just like a certain criminal friend we know]

Eduardo Rusca turns off the recording. They already know the rest.

Jose Alejandrino starts, “There are sea of evidence we’ve been dealing with, this recording is only one of them. But of all Luna’s letters, there is one missing link. We think it’s tied to this call.”

“We’ve been calling him the Man on the phone.” Paco Roman says, “Do you know this voice?”

Goyong nods, “That’s him. The man on the phone is Emilio Aguinaldo.” He closes his eyes as another wave of tears fall silently. So, this has been the missing link between the Ripper and Antonio Luna’s shooters. Now only a few questions remain, and Goyong is down to learn more about this desperate collaboration to bring his uncle down.

He wipes his tears away in one swipe and breathed once to get his mind together. Forcing his body to stay stable, he gets out of the bed, Vincente swiftly getting on his side for a possible assist, then walks towards the table that looks like a planning area. There are papers and blueprints scattered around it.

“I know you have questions,” He starts after stopping in front of the table, picking the papers with familiar handwriting, “So I’m going to answer them all, and I want you to answer my questions, too.”

“Are you sure you’re…”

“Yes! Do you want to ask why Emilio Aguinaldo did it? It’s because my uncle knows he’s the Ripper. It’s as simple as that. Unfortunately, there is no grand scheme, no business, no underlying motives, it’s not about corruption either. My uncle died not for fighting for his country, but because one man wants to stay in his personal comfort zone. It’s the truth and it’s ugly. Any more questions?”

“But isn’t the Ripper killing corrupt politicians?” Vicente asks.

“They just happen to be corrupt politicians, but his main motive is to satisfy his God Complex. It just happens that the most irritating people in the room are the greedy ones.”

Manuel Bernal now asks, almost challenging and suspicious. “And how do you know this?”

“I lived with him for a while, remember? I told him I knew, and he allowed me in his world. Even told me he killed Agent Andres Bonifacio, which is not a good thing for me because I’m pretty sure I’m next to his list for knowing too much, but I can’t, for the life of me, stop his undeniable good cause, intentional or not.”

Paco Roman sighs sadly, “Luna and Bonifacio. Both good men. Both would have done so much for the country. More than what a punisher could do.”

“He’s not even a punisher.” Goyong laughs bitterly, “He’s just a bitch.”

He looks at the papers he gathered in his hands, slightly crumpling it with the sheer power of fondness over them. They are his uncle’s letters addressed to each person in the room, even Vicente. However, he lost his, and he hopes the members of this small group hidden in a secret safe house would let him have them, but he could not possibly ask that of them. These letters are filled with evidence, instructions, warnings, and the likes. For Vicente, he wrote to stay connected wherever he goes after his death.

A call from Manuel Bernal breaks him off from his spiraling thoughts. “Then how come you ended being a temporary ward of the Ripper of all people?”

That’s a good question. That’s a really good question that he almost wanted to give the heavens a clap, because who else would have thought that all of this would be funny? He gives off one breathy chuckle, his smile reaching his ears. “Divine comedy.”

They look at one another in silence, so Goyong follows with, “Any more questions?”

Jose Alejandrino raised his hand, “Why did you burn your house?”

“’Cuz it would be funny. Any more important questions?” He offers to the crowd with arms wide, “None? It’s my turn to ask…” He raises the wad of papers, “My uncle gave you all the evidence, the list of syndicates, their operations, the very people in the police force who are connected to them, even the reason why the acting police chief wanted him dead. Please tell me you haven’t just been dropping leads, hoping that justice will do its thing?”

Another bout of silence fills the room; while the rest was looking at the floor guilty, Jose Alejandrino was beginning to clench his fists in discomfort as he looks at his face. Discomfort for him or at him, he doesn’t care.

He gestures to Vicente as continues, “Why were you on stealth mission?”

“We… we wanted to make sure the new drug syndicate in Novotas stay in the extraction point before the police arrives.”

Goyong widens his eyes in disbelief, “You called the… punyeta. Okay, I’ll bite. What happened? And how did you get your injury?”

“Well, the police did not arrive.” Vicente grits his teeth. “Said it was traffic. Then some members found me and almost killed me.”

He could stop right there and yell at the men that sent his best friend to his near death. It’s not that his friend was bad at stealth missions. He knew him. Even as a normal boy, Vicente is the go-to student to retrieve their confiscated phones and comic books at the faculty office. He even went undercover by joining the theatre just so Goyong could have real time updates about his then crush, theatre group president, Remedios. The stealth mission for a drug syndicate is a damn high stake, and for the end goal to be just a lead is simply infuriating.

“Gentlemen, these letters are not just information to give to authorities. Don’t you see it, with my uncle’s death, the good is not the authority anymore. Manuel Bernal,” he raises the letter addressed to the man, “…he wants you to keep in contact with the uncorrupted officers to keep their morale in check. Good cops become the target of bullying in departments operated by a corrupt chief. He understands these are the cops who might snitch their illegal operations.”

“You think we don’t know that. We’ve been suspended. Tell me that isn’t the epitome of precinct bullying.”

“Then why are you not recruiting them?”

“What? What do you…” And the rest of the former officers reacted in bewilderment. “… We’re not forming a gang here, Goyong. We may not be on duty anymore but…”

He shrugs his shoulders, “Whatever. And Kuya Ed, he gave you admin access to PNP intelligence. So far, you’re the one with the brightest idea to study hacking because you knew the admin access will be blocked eventually. But, why not amp it up and keep up with the police comms?”

Rusca, being one of the sensible ones, nods in agreement. “The comms, huh? That’s doable.”

“Paco Roman, uncle gave you the access to his assets and accounts. To finance this cause, maybe, but it’s dwindling, isn’t it? We’re not the richest family in Manila, unfortunately.”

Paco Roman nods.

“But he gave you something more than that.” Goyong lifts the part of the letter that only lists several series of numbers. “What do you think are these accounts for?”

“Those are all debit accounts. I checked them all out, and only one has cash.”

Paco Roman stops speaking, for maybe, that’s the only information he could say. He gestures him by eyes to encourage him to speak more. It seems, however, his creativity ends to cash retrieving. So, he rolls his eyes and answers for him. “These are untraceable accounts. When I was the ward of the Ripper, he shared how he keeps multiple debit accounts in different names when buying his equipment. It’s for in case the NBI gets the bright idea to trace the purchases he used for his murder tableau; it wouldn’t lead to one account. We can use the same concept for cash inflow.”

“Cash inflow from where?” Jose Alejandrino asks, and it’s so fitting that he’s the one to ask that. Goyong flips the papers and shows the letter dedicated to him.

“From here.”

Jose Alejandrino’s eyes widen, “No… Goyong… You’re not saying…”

“Yes, I’m saying that. List of syndicates and their operations? Come on, there’s a lot of money in there. It’s not too bad to commit crimes against criminals, yeah?”

Jose’s fist clenches more, and with the way he stares at him, he can finally say that his discomfort is directed to him. Is it fear? He does not know, and he does not care. He calms himself down by sighing, “Goyong, I don’t know what the Ripper taught you, but the main goal of this operation is to get the department back before it turns to Mafia state, not to be another syndicate.”

“Tiyo Jose, listen.” He slams the papers down the table, keeping his hands on top of them for emphasis. “These letters are not just information. And I don’t know what uncle really wants to happen, we all know he’s a righteous man, but if you want to be more creative, perhaps a little bit more artistic, you will use these letters to their full potential. Gentlemen, this is not for justice, this is for power.”

Vicente walks to his friend’s side, very determined. “I agree with Goyong. Justice is not on our side, you know that. How many leads had failed already? We’re just wasting our resources.”

Rusca scoffs, “Are you really saying you want to go against several syndicates?”

“I can’t do that on my own, you know that, Kuya Ed.” He says softly, “I need your skills, and I need you to train me to be skilled enough.”

Jose gruffs again, “But we can’t do it your way, Goyong. What would your uncle say?”

“Absolutely nothing. He’s dead.”

“Oh, really,” Jose Alejandrino now walks closer to him, but Vicente—with his very injured body and bravery—stands in between, not knowing what to expect. Goyong appreciates this greatly, though he’s not worried. “You’ll be okay with stealing from gangs, using fake accounts… I don’t know what else you want to do, to what end you can stop, to how low you can stoop, and Goyong, I’m getting scared of you.” He abruptly snatches the letters from the table away from Goyong. How dare he, he has no right to do that! Though he already memorized the contents of those letters (The Ripper taught him a technique to memorize quickly), those are still his uncle’s letters.

Jose Alejandrino walks away to the direction of his private quarters, followed by Manuel Bernal, and very hesitantly, by Paco Roman. He gives him worried glances, as if he’s just a child who saw a disturbing movie that changed him. Eduardo Rusca stayed, but maybe only due to the big brother duty etched in his blood. At least Jose Alejandrino was right to fear him.

Jose Alejandrino has every right to fear him. And they should. They all should.

Because no matter what they think, he will continue his uncle’s legacy in ways that is most effective.

Inevitably, it was time to rest. The men went to their own separate quarters, which are only enough for the five who have been living here. Vicente offered a half of his room for Goyong to use, promising him that it will be a temporary arrangement. The room is clean and simple, with a comfortable bed, centralized air-condition, a laptop, and a gaming console with two controls. Goyong appreciates the sentiment that perhaps Vicente has been wistfully wishing they become brothers under Eduardo Rusca’s wardship. His Tio Antonio had written to Vicente to always stay close, anyway. It’s somehow calming to know that he was anticipated somewhere.

“It must have costed to run this place.” Goyong starts as he looks at the air-condition.

“It also costs so much to hide it.” Vicente plops on the bed then scoots further to the wall to give him a portion of it. Goyong carefully lies on it, and awkwardly, since he’s sleeping with a heavily injured guy. Not to mention, he’s quite injured himself.

“I’m sorry for taking your space.”

“Oh, come on. Like you’ve never slept over my house a hundred times before. Hey, do you remember when we would play video games until 3 AM and Kuya would barge in my room and drag us to bed? Fun times.”

Goyong can hear Vicente, but his mind is too preoccupied with nothingness, added by spatial discomfort, that his brain could not show him some snippets of such memories. He continues to look at the ceiling, and he notices Vicente looking at him worriedly.

He continues, “Do you know that Remedios became an actress? She starred in an indie film! Yes, it was a minor role, but she nailed it! It’s in Cinemalaya, or something. We should watch it tomorrow.”

“Cool.” He says blankly. He’s proud of her, he just could not process it right now.

“Do you remember Joven Hernandez? That feature writer in our school newspapaer? Still a feature writer last time I checked. Still quite naïve. His stupid round eyeglasses are still the same. Who still wears that kind of design? That dork only, I tell you.” Vicente looks at him again, hoping for a reaction. “I like that guy. Can’t take my eyes off him sometimes.”

Goyong looks at him now with a certain stare that maybe his best friend could read.

Vicente chuckles sadly, “You know, of all the kinds of stares I’m expecting from you, I’m certainly not expecting pity.”

“What? You think I’d be judgmental?”

Vicente shrugs.

“I’ve known you’re gay for that guy. I don’t care.”

“Woah, really? You don’t mind?”

“I don’t in that sense. But I minded that your pick-up lines were horrible.”

“Hey! He blushed a lot!”

“Of embarrassment, I’m sure.”

“We’re they really that horrible? Come on dude, what if he really found me corny? Ah, ‘nyeta, I’d hate that. Oh damn, whatever, we’re not meeting again.”

“Why not?” Goyong asks, and with that, Vincente pauses. He looks at the ceiling now, too.

“It’s ‘cause…” Vicente gingerly starts after a whole minute of silence, “… it’s cause I’m in this fight.”

Goyong sighs, “You know why I looked at you in pity? It’s because you’re fighting this dangerous fight and the return isn’t even that great. Wasted effort. Who cares about the justice system anymore? It’s corrupt.” Goyong turns to his side facing away from Vicente. “If they’re forcing us away from our youth, it should at least be worth it.”

“Does this fight seem worthless to you?” Vicente softly asks.

“I’ll make it worth it. If God wants me alive, I’m going to make sure it’s worth it.”

*

According to one of the letters, a syndicate from Hong Kong is bound to enter Navotas port to sell drugs to a local syndicate. They will be dealing by exchanging US Dollar bank notes with the goods for untraceable transaction. The local syndicate is run by the Chief after his uncle, and since he’s gone, Goyong is absolutely curious who would be running the current operation.

And surprise, the one who led the transaction is an SPO4, the lieutenant under the current (late) chief and is currently the acting chief. They carried three brief cases of US Dollars, probably exchanged within the country, for a dozen of wooden crates of presumed drugs. Where the money came from, he would never know, not when he killed everyone he could ask. It’s not important to know much information about it.

Killing 20 men was not easy. Almost all of them were trained and larger than he is. His only advantages were his small and fast stature, and unofficial and short-lived Ripper training. He didn’t have a gun as a primary weapon, but he managed to snatch someone’s AK-47 and rained loud bullets throughout the cold air of the port warehouse.

Coming from an abandoned warehouse to come to another abandoned warehouse. It seems this will be his life now.

Silence footsteps came to the front door, which he rolled his eyes at. The sound of the hushed steps was rhythmic and professional, with one of them being quieter than the rest. He can tell this is the group that should have been here 5 minutes ago to interfere with the drug deal, but if their only plan was to enter the front door and shout ‘Freeze’, they would have certainly died, bringing his best friend down with their stupidity.

“Free—” Jose Alejandrino was about to raise his gun but paused with the sight of the warehouse.

He has injuries here and there, but he still stands in the middle of bloody dead bodies that surrounds him in a neat circle. There are splatters of red on the walls a sea of red on the floor, and the only clean area is a table where three briefcases are stacked.

Eduardo Rusca and Vicente come forward, looking at the bodies scattered around. The rest stared at him in fear and disbelief. Only the two had the decency, and the presence of mind, to check him for injuries. He puts in mind that they would be great allies.

“What’s the meaning of this, Gregorio?” Paco Roman gently asks, fear obviously laced in that trembling voice.

“I intercepted the deal.” He says a matter-of-factly.  “According to the plan.”

Alejandrino snarls at him, “The plan is to disarm them and surrender them to authorities!”

Goyong scoffs, “Please. You want to disarm them? They have AK-47s, for heaven’s sake. You’ll die before you could even shout ‘Freeze’. And what authorities?” He gestures to some of the fallen bodies, “The authorities are here.”

They probably mean bigger authorities, but his point still stands.

“Gregorio, son,” Manuel Bernal steps forward carefully, “… I don’t know what the ripper did to you, but this isn’t you. This…” he pointedly looks at the bloody carnage, then at him, who might be slightly injured but remains clean. “…this isn’t something Antonio Luna’s nephew would ever do.”

Goyong scoffs. He understands that Manuel’s words are meant to touch his sensitive heart and find it within himself to see the wrongs of his ways. Supposedly. Truly, only because they do not know what the Ripper did to him­­—or for him—with or without his knowledge. The Ripper did more than teach him some few killing lessons here and there before the night he killed the police chief. He taught him to reduce his conscience and to cut the thoughts of pity. He taught him to hide a body, or if you’re leaving it for everyone to see, at least send a message.

The bloody massacre he just did is the clearest message he’s ever sent. That he’s capable? No. The message is that he’s too far gone, and there’s no convincing him back to his innocent youth. It’s stupid for Manuel Bernal to even try.

Instead of feeding to a useless conversation, he decides to go straight to the point. “There is 100 million pesos per briefcase. I’m giving one of them to you. Kuya Paco, I assume you’ll know what to do.”

“We’re not getting that!” Alejandrino, ever the moralist, shouts. It’s beginning to grate Goyong’s nerves, though he understands his sentiments. He thanks God that he still understands the concerns of a moral man, it means he has a little bit of it himself.

“Your cause, however you want to achieve it, is dwindling. You will need this money, whether you admit it or not.” Goyong throws it to Paco Roman’s feet. While avoiding eye contact with Alejandrino, he gingerly gets it from the floor.

“And the rest of the briefcases?” Paco questions.

“For my own cause, of course.”

“And what is that?” Alejandrino challenges.

“We have the same cause, kuya Jose. To get rid of the underworld and clean the justice system, as according to my uncle’s letters. We just have different approaches.”

“Gregorio, this method of yours is not…” Manuel’s stance finally relaxed, but not of calmness. Goyong sees sadness and regret in his eyes, “… it’s not safe. For you.”

“I don’t care.”

“You’re just being suicidal. You think there’s nothing left to lose, but you still have a life. Just… just come with us, okay?”

“No.”

“Greg­—”

“Enough. I know what I’m losing. And I’m not going to defend how noble I am, because I’m not. But I’m given a chance to live even when I don’t want to. I’m given a chance to give my uncle justice. To teach his killers a lesson. To continue his fight. And it just happens that I learned the most efficient way to do it.”

“So, killing it is?” It was Jose Alejandrino’s turn to scoff. “From how I see, you are not your uncle’s nephew. You are the Ripper’s son.”

Goyong wants to reel, but he could not afford to show emotional inferiority over words. Instead, he took the two briefcases filled with 100 Millio pesos each and walks normally towards the exit door behind him. He has no time for them. He’s not even coaxing anyone to follow him, but Vicente and Kuya Ed followed suit. He might have noticed Kuya Ed and the rest of the group give knowing glances to one another, but he didn’t care. He didn’t care if they gave a silent reminder to take care of the boys.

“You know.” Vicente starts after jogging to his side, “If you’re going to follow the leads of Chief Luna’s letters, that means we will encounter them again one way or another.”

“Let them.” He quips.

“We’re bound to fight them.”

“Most probably, but let them.”

“Why?”

“Because in a country where majority is beginning to believe that killing is an option to solve a problem, we still need people like them to remind us of our humanity.”

Vicente nods weakly, pondering, then he whispers to himself, “… dang I wanna write that down.”

Goyong rolls his eyes at that.

It is Eduardo Rusca’s turn to walk to his side, then takes one of the briefcases from his hands. Good, that was getting heavier. “So, what’s your plan with these money? We don’t have our own untraceable accounts.”

“We’re dealing them with another local gang.”

He can feel the two’s eyes meet one another in confusion. To spare their thoughts, he faces them with a smile, “My plan, gentlemen, is to be the most powerful crime lord of the ports. If you can’t beat them, join them, and then overpower them.”

And they looked at one another again in bewilderment.

They do not know, that in one year, Gregorio Del Pilar, the beloved missing ward of Apolinario Mabini and Emilio Aguinaldo, would make an elaborate scheme to kill himself, both to stop the annoying nationwide manhunt on his head, to devastate the lawyer, and to finally stop the nightmares filled with the Ripper finding him.

They do not know, that in seven years, Gregorio Del Pilar, now officially a dead man, leads Manila’s most powerful, most organized, and most elusive syndicate that controls the drug trade, intercepts human trafficking deals, steals from other gangs, and keeps the corrupt officials around Metro Manila in line. Any cop who tries to deal illegally are shot on the spot. Sometimes, they’re simply gone without a trace, sometimes they are displayed. Not in a Ripper murder tableau fashion, but Dimasalang once wrote that there is a clear influence there.

He wrote:

“… In the ports of Manila, there sits a king on his throne of blood and money. He has a mission, he sends a message, and he shows his enemies that he is constantly on the higher ground. Ironically, the streets of Manila have been safer with men and women in masks and eagle insignia on their jackets patrolling around to help civilians and stop crimes. Incidentally as well, this plummets the reputation of the police even further.

“Now, I do not usually write about another prolific killer other than the Ripper, but it is undeniable that this crime lord is equally compelling, victims profile-wise. There are still debates whether he is the first Ripper-influenced killer, but I digress. This mystery person soars to the sky, way detached from the politics of the Ripper and their nature. He is his own person, with his own mission, and with his own wings.

With the eagle insignia he’s been carrying around, I guess it’s creative enough to call him “Agila”

All we know about him is that he’s a mask-wearing young man who declared war against all the port mafias and the corrupt officials of the police departments of Metro Manila. His methods are effective; lower crime rates, lower police involvement in syndicate crimes, and get this, the wrongly suspended former lieutenants of Antonio Luna are now back on duty, with Jose Alejandrino to be quickly assigned as the new chief next week (after the death of another police chief), sparking new hope. Indeed, him and his gang operates in vigilantism, but it is never wrong to stay suspicious. They still control the drug trade, and they are still getting money by illegal means. They are powerful entities we should be wary of. You must always ask yourself, what do they get from this? Are they really serving the public? Are they just another power-hungry individual who like the feeling of being the scariest and the strongest?

As how I always remind you, as with the Ripper, we shall never consider them heroes until we know the full story."