Chapter One

I only recently saw Coco and was so enthralled with it I naturally started browsing the fandom immediately. Of course, my first thought was "Let's make a fic nobody asked for based on one of the characters that got barely any development!" Because of course the Rivera family member that interested me the most was the one with all of maybe five lines in the whole film.

(Some of this work is also on AO3. I will aim to add a chapter to this website once a week, up until I reach the same point I am on there. From that point onward, I'm still writing it :))

If this scenario had appeared in any of Victoria's novels, it would have no doubt been described as "starting as a day like any other". The corny opening sentence to any cheap paperback adventure book that she'd buy simply more out of boredom than anything else. Besides, it wasn't like there were many other pursuits she could follow that were both edifying and creative when…it wasn't allowed within the Rivera house.

Victoria straightened the account books underneath the counter. She was responsible for managing the front of the shop for today; she was the only one Mama Imelda ever seemed to trust enough to do it. Julio would always clam up whenever the conversation deviated from a strict, business-like path and Rosita, ever her brother's polar opposite, would gossip on with the customers for ages and take at least half an hour to get so much as an order off them.

Patience and a no-nonsense attitude were the two traits Victoria prided herself most on. They made her incredibly effective at her current job, even if working on huaraches was something she considered to be much more worth her time.

She pushed the box of needles to the side, picking up loose scraps of leather from the bottom of the shelf and tossing them into the small waste basket behind her. Would it kill Oscar and Felipe a second time if they picked up after themselves or something? True, they'd had to start hiding their newest inventions away from Imelda after a recent incident involving seven oranges, a chimpanzee alebrije and Rosita's pressure cooker. But if they moved the invention (or to be more precise, the remains of the invention) elsewhere, it wouldn't hurt for them to tidy up a bit afterwards.

The ringing of the bell on the door told her a customer had entered. Silence followed, which was in and of itself rather unusual. Typically, there'd be the sound of footsteps as the person approached the counter, or some form of shuffling. A cough or sneeze, even. But…nothing. Complete silence.

She fixed her dress as she made to straighten up, realising only then that the only thing she could properly hear other than the usual noise of the workshop was a faint humming, similar to radio static.

What a ridiculous thought.

Mama Imelda would soon butcher Pepita for meat than buy a radio. Anything even remotely related to music was purged from the family vocabulary. When she was still alive, Victoria had once snook out to the mariachi square, her insatiable urge to understand the forbidden fruit spurting her on. Her sister Elena had always been the least rebellious of them, desperate to uphold the family matriarch's rules and naturally telling the woman exactly where she'd gone.

It was the angriest she'd ever seen her grandmother and she never went back again.

Tossing the last remnants of leather scraps into the basket, she turned around to see what the deal was with the new customer. It as a good job she'd already died, otherwise she may have just suffered a heart attack.

It was a man, stood stock-straight and leaning so far across the counter he was practically kissing her. He was tall and gaunt, clad in a blood-red suit that had suffered the grime and dirt of the ages. A jacket, waistcoat and a black dress shirt and bow tie were the most eye catching of his attire, accompanied by a rusted gold watch chain sticking out of his right-hand pocket. The tails of the coat reached the back of his knees (one of the trouser legs were badly patched over, its plain design highlighted by the suit's original pinstripe tones), accentuating a dirty pair of spats on his feet that were slowly coming apart around the toes.

She studied his face closely, especially the eyes – or lack thereof, to be more precise. Rather than eyeballs, the sockets opened up to gaping blackness with single white pricks inside at an indescribable distance. They were most almost inhuman in nature, never blinking or wavering from her. They were unnatural, unnerving. It was like staring directly into the abyss.

What few distinguishable facial markings he had consisted of two black swirls on his cheekbones and a single, ornate "x" right in the middle of his forehead, very algebraic in appearance and looking a lot like a target. The shape of his mouth seemed normal enough, but his smile was just…off. The teeth seemed almost comically elongated and the lips stretched to the tops of the teeth, allowing her to see the inky black spaces that would have once been his gums. And just like his gaze, it never wavered. Despite only knowing him for a couple of seconds, she was confident in putting money on the fact that he couldn't stop grinning even if he wanted to.

If she looked shocked at his bizarre appearance, his face gave no indication of it. Chances were he was used to such a reception.

"Welcome to la zapateria Rivera" she spoke up, forcing herself to re-adopt her cordial tone. "How may I help you today?"

The man spoke with an exaggeratedly happy voice, so much so that Victoria temporarily wondered whether he was having a joke at her expense.

"Yes, I was wondering if I could possibly have these shoes of mine repaired, my dear."

Pausing only to bristle at the pet name, she leaned across the counter and studied them. They were falling apart, yes, but they looked quite cheap anyway. Dress shoes, built for style rather than practicality. Nothing a little glue and some nails couldn't handle, though she had to give them credit for seemingly lasting so long.

"I think it should be a fairly easy job" she surmised, opening up the account book to the next available slot. "That'll be fifty pesos, mister…?"

A gloved hand was run through his hair before he answered. It was in no way fixed; black strands remained sticking out at random angles as if it couldn't decide which way it wanted to grow.

"Doucet. Anton Doucet."

Victoria mulled the name over in her head as she wrote it down. Definitely not Spanish in origin. French, most likely. Either a French family or a Frenchman who had lived in Spain for most of his life. He had to have been, to have died and ended up down here.

"Interesting shop you have here."

Victoria raised an eyebrow, but decided she had the time to engage in some light conversation for civility's sake.

"It's been part of the family for decades" she said, feeling a rare sense of familial pride build in her chest. "As we've always said, a Rivera is a shoemaker through and thr- "

"Oh no, I gathered that it was a family business just by looking at the name. I was referring to your rather bizarre work regulations."

He pointed to the wooden sign on the wall, labelled "NO MSICA" in bold letters painted red.

Victoria resisted the urge to sigh exasperatedly. Not a week went by without someone asking about it. Some saw it as a joke, returning on their second visit and bursting into chorus. A quick encounter with Mama Imelda's boot quickly put a stop to that.

"It's our manager's rule" she explained briefly, no longer feeling the need to be civil. The sooner this person placed his order and left, the sooner she could get back to doing what made her happy – even if it was just sorting out the supplies.

"I see. Did a bloodthirsty clarinet happen to murder you all in your sleep one night?"

"…no."

"Then I'm afraid I don't understand the reasoning behind such a rule."

Neither did Victoria, not really. All that she'd ever learned from her mother, Coco (who was still in the living world and approaching the ripe old age of a hundred) was that Mama Imelda believed her old husband was a good-for-nothing músico that abandoned the two of them years before she was even born.

"You'll have to take it up with her." Victoria decided to say, giving it a deliberate air of finality. The topic was finished with; the man would have to know that.

His response was little more than an amused hum, his lips not even moving as he did so. His silky voice was slightly distorted, as if it were coming through a filter.

Victoria looked back down at the account book, deciding she'd have to be the one to break their impromptu staring contest.

"Your shoes should be repaired by tomorrow, senor Doucet. Will you able to collect them around, shall we say, eleven?"

The man's grin remained ever-fixed as he bent down and untied his shoes.

"Yes, of course."

Even the simple affirmation sounded like she'd promised him every Christmas at once.

"May I ask you your name, dear?"

Victoria immediately tensed. Her aim was nowhere as perfect as her grandmother's, but this man would leave the shop with his tail between his legs one way or another if he even dared attempt to flirt with her.

"Victoria" she replied simply, the word sounding as if it caused her physical pain.

"Good to meet you, Victoria! Now then" he slammed his shoes down on the counter with an unnecessary amount of force. "Will that be all?"

Victoria adjusted her glasses, feeling a familiar sense of irritation rise in her, though on this occasion she couldn't pinpoint exactly why. This wasn't one of those snobbish customers who believed they were entitled to everything they lay eyes on, nor the loudmouths who complained about their shoes being the wrong size despite never even trying them. This Doucet man seemed charming enough, but exaggeratedly so. Every word sounded measured and precise to an unnatural extent, giving the impression that each sentence that left his mouth had been thoroughly planned beforehand. Like an extraterrestrial trying to pass as a human.

She mentally slapped herself and made the promise to lay off some of her sci-fi novels. Her imagination was running away with her to some place she didn't need to be right now.

She forced her gaze upwards, staring right into his hollow excuses for eyes. On second examination, he looked quite young. There were no grey hairs, and his voice, whilst odd, sounded nowhere near tired from use. Maybe he'd been around twenty-four or twenty-five upon death, if she had to hazard a guess, though she had very little to go on.

"Yes, senor Doucet, that will be all. I'll see you soon."

"Likewise" he said pleasantly. Spinning on his heel, he strolled from the shop, whistling some tune and completely ignoring the sign he'd just pointed out. Victoria was tempted to stop him, but decided it wasn't worth the effort. The tuneless noise continued for a few seconds longer, before it was muffled by the bell dinging once again and the door shutting behind him.

"Victoria, mija, are you alright?"

Victoria turned as she entered the workshop, noticing Mama Imelda giving a slightly concerned stare. "Yes, of course. I'm fine. Why?"

"You look rather bothered about something. Was it a customer?" Her eyes narrowed dangerously. "Were they a músico?"

"No, they weren't a músico. Just a rather strange gentleman, is all." Victoria handed the pair of shoes over to her. "He's looking to have these repaired."

Imelda studied them, tutting to herself.

"Filthy things. What's he been doing with them? Rounding up pigs?"

She peeled back the loose sole and took a closer look at the damage. The family always found it best to let her do her own thing when it came to moments like these. Even the sheer mention of music seemed to make her need to rant about something.

"They look rather shoddily-made to begin with, if I'm being honest. If I were him, I would have just thrown them out and gotten a new pair."

If Imelda Rivera herself said that, then they must have been ragged.

"Is he wanting them polished?" piped up Oscar from the other end of the room, hammering some fabric.

"After all, you can barely even see the white parts" added Felipe, who, of course, was standing right next to him.

"It's more of a grey now than anything."

"Grey? Really? That's a bit generous. It's more of a mix of charcoal black and grey, with the odd spot of white for good measure."

"Perhaps it's a new trend. Speaking of which, did you get the extra plastic for a our light-up –"

He cut off when he noticed Imelda glaring at them.

"…our light-up not-an-invention."

Victoria figured their secret code could use some work. Oscar's eyes spun in different directions, obviously trying to find a way out of the hole they'd just dug themselves.

In the brighter light of the workshop, Victoria noticed something else about the shoes. There was something reflective along the top of the left one, looking a lot like-

"There's tape on that one" she pointed out. Imelda looked back down at them, scoffing as she slowly peeled it off.

"Obviously tried to fix them himself, the idiot." She prodded what it was covering. A sharp cut of some sort. Imelda stuck her finger through it, and it went through the shoe and came out in the inside. "I can see what you meant by him being rather strange. Has he been stabbing them?"

"Maybe one of his pigs did it" chuckled Felipe and immediately shut up the minute Imelda turned to look at the two of them again.

"When did you say he could collect them by?"

"Tomorrow at eleven o'clock" Victoria replied simply. Imelda never showed any outward worry when it came to a large number of demands, instead settling for subtler cues. On this occasion, she sucked the air noisily through her teeth.

"We've still got to finish off the order from the children's home. We've finished twenty-six, there's just twelve more need doing…" she peered at the clock. "We've got five minutes before we close. Victoria, mija, I hate to do this to you, but could you fix this pair for me? We're just too swamped at the moment."

"That's fine, abuelita."

She wasn't lying. Victoria saw no problem in a little extra work when the orders became a bit too much. Her relatives would often tease her for never taking any time off, but from her perspective, the extra toiling just made her eventual relaxation all the more enjoyable, anyway. She took the ragged things back from her grandmother and headed back towards the front of house, locking the door and flipping the "open" sign to "closed".

"Come on then," she sighed to the shoes, "let's get you fixed."

She couldn't get them fixed.

Every time she'd solve one issue, another would pop up. The knife slash gave way to peeling leather, gluing one end would open up the other – it was by that point midnight, and Victoria was starting to seriously lose her temper.

How was this so hard? She was a Rivera, dammit! To be beaten by such a cheap and filthy excuse for footwear was downright embarrassing.

The workshop door creaked open behind her and she spun around on her stool to see Julio standing there, hat in his hands. The others had finished ages ago and gone to bed, assuming she wouldn't be too long following them. Which just rubbed salt into the wounds, really.

"Uh, mija…" he began, "…do you maybe want to leave the shoes and come up to bed?"

There was the urge to snap back, but she instantly recognised it as a sign of tiredness. She could argue with her father, but she couldn't argue with logic.

"…yes. Yes, I'll be upstairs in a moment."

Julio nodded solemnly, no doubt thinking the same thing she was: tomorrow would involve the ever-rare occurrence of a disappointed customer. Still, whilst she was dedicated to the business, that didn't mean she was going to drop dead over it. At least not a second time, anyway.

No, those are not thoughts you want right now.

Flicking the lights off behind her, she carried the shoes (now in a spare cardboard box) up the stairs and into her room. It was simply designed; her walls a plain teal colour and every available surface crammed full of books. Her dresser, her windowsill, even her wardrobe had some form of literature in it.

Loosening her hair and slipping on a light blue nightgown, she began to feel sleep taking her. She dropped the shoes at the foot of her bed. The once-fixed toe sprung back apart again.

If she'd been any more awake, chances are she would have thrown them off her wall.

Now, however, unable to do anything other than feel a pang of resigned annoyance, she lay back and closed her eyes.

Half a second later, or so it felt to her, Victoriawas sat in the back garden. A small patio with a well-kept lawn and a row of blossoming flowers of all different sizes and colour thanks to Rosita's careful nurturing. But Victoria couldn't pay attention to any of that, because she was too busy chasing the damaged pair of spats, which jogged around the lawn despite nobody wearing them.

She dived at them, but they leapt aside just in time, giggling in a high-pitched voice.

"Get back here!" she snarled at them. The broken toe split further and a tongue poked out, blowing a raspberry. She made to give chase, only to lurch forward and realise one of her feet had become stuck in the grass. No matter how hard she pulled, it wouldn't budge.

Noticing her uncles by the back door, she called for their help. But they ignored her, instead focusing on a giant fruit they held in their hands; Felipe with a giant bunch of grapes, and Oscar, a massive strawberry. They didn't even look as something erupted from the ground beside her foot and grabbed her ankle, starting to drag her under. Her calling escalated to screaming as she felt her body being consumed by the ground, only for her to sit up in bed panting as her head was about to go under.

It took a few moments for her to regain mental control, reeling in her breathing. There was no need for panic, she didn't even a heart that could give out, let alone lungs to supply it with oxygen. And whilst her uncles had indeed had some bizarre ideas in the past, none of them had come remotely close to genetically mutated fruit.

She rubbed at her temples, feeling the beginnings of a headache as she checked her bedside alarm and saw the time. Two in the morning. It had been one of death's major disappointments to discover one could still somehow catch the common cold or occasional migraine even after being put six feet under.

She'd go downstairs, get some water and try to catch some more sleep.

Wrapping her arms around herself to keep warm, she tiptoed across the landing and down the stairs. She could hear a deep rumble above her head, knowing full well that Pepita had obviously chosen the roof as a place to sleep for the night.

Ignoring the way her nightgown sifted further into her torso via the gaps in her ribs (knowing about it didn't make it any less unsettling) she made her way into the kitchen, fetching a glass and turning the tap on as slowly as possible so the squeaking wouldn't wake anyone else up.

Moonlight shone a thin sliver through the window; there was deathly silence beyond that. Imelda had deliberately chosen a home as isolated as possible, away from the city centre and, god forbid, the arts district. Once again, Victoria couldn't have been happier with her grandmother's decision. It meant more time to be alone with her thoughts and to block out any of the bad ones.

She peered out onto the flowerbed, which wasn't the least bit different from her dream. Though she wasn't wearing her spectacles at the moment, causing everything beyond eight feet away to appear a dull blur, the lack of light made their abundance of colour a bit easier on the eyes. If it were any brighter, she may have suffered a seizure.

Somewhere in the distance, an owl alebrije hooted. And at the bottom of the path, stood –

Victoria almost dropped the glass.

At the bottom of the path, stood the shadow of a man.

There was someone standing in their back garden.

I'm not too sure how active the fandom is nowadays, but all comments and constructive feedback would be much appreciated! Even if you don't think your thoughts are particularly original or helpful, by all means leave them. It makes my day knowing you took the time to leave a message and also motivates me to write much more often.