#SuperViral, Ch 1: The Serpent's Tongue of San Cristobal Pt. 1
Influencer Aisha Khan came to translate a language. She stayed to unravel a conspiracy. Welcome to San Cristobal, where "perfection" has a price.
Aisha Khan knew seventy-three languages, and more were always coming. Going from the bright, loud neon of a Korean night market to the expected peace of the San Cristobal Highlands was just another Tuesday for her. Or so she thought.
Her phone screen, wet with steam from a bubbling spicy rice cake stall, showed Aisha’s smiling face. “…and that, my wonderful Passport Pack, is how you handle Gwangjang Market after midnight! Jinjja masisseoyo! Seriously delicious!” She made a finger heart with her hand. The bright Seoul signs blurred behind her. Thousands of comments and heart emojis scrolled by, with many calling her “Queen Aisha!”
“Okay, Polyglot, finish up! People are loving this,” said Chloe’s clear, business-like voice in Aisha’s small earpiece.
“You heard the boss!” Aisha grinned at her phone. “Thank you, Seoul, for the food, fun, and all the language puzzles! Next stop, somewhere a bit… quieter. Annyeong! Saranghae!” She blew a kiss, tapped the screen, and the live video ended.
Aisha let out a long breath. The energy from her show faded, leaving her feeling good about her work. She leaned against a market stall. The smell of spicy gochujang sauce and grilling meat was suddenly strong without the video stream. “Nailed it, right?” she murmured, taking out her earpiece.
“You didn’t just nail it, you amazed everyone,” Chloe’s voice, now a bit tinny from the phone speaker, sounded dry but proud. “Seriously, so many views. The spicy tteokbokki eating contest was a great idea, even if I thought you might explode from the spice.”
Aisha chuckled, wiping her mouth. “The things I do for real content. So, where is this ‘quieter’ place you’re sending me, wise producer?”
“San Cristobal Highlands,” Chloe said. Aisha could hear papers rustling. “It’s hidden in the Cordillera Esmeralda mountains. Think misty peaks, old traditions, ‘untouched beauty’ - you know. Their new Governor, Mateo Rojas, is apparently charming. Young, energetic, and wants responsible tourism. He wants to open up the area while keeping its special culture.”
“Does culture include language?” Aisha’s eyes lit up. That was what she loved.
“Oh, definitely. The Cristobali dialect is supposed to be a real language puzzle. Perfect for you. Very few outsiders speak it well. They’re hoping someone like you will come and, you know, respectfully help people understand them.” Chloe paused, and the rustling sound stopped. “A heads-up, though. He’s got some international watchdog groups a little nervous with his ‘cultural purity’ talk, but for now, it seems to be just rhetoric. On the surface, he's all about preservation.”
Aisha grinned. “Challenge accepted. My show is all about real connection, Chloe, you know that. If Governor Rojas truly cares about preservation and respect, this could be amazing. A chance to show a unique, rarely-seen culture in a good way.”
“That’s the Polyglot Passport spirit,” Chloe said. “Flights are booked. A local guide, Ricardo, will meet you. The basic info is in your email. Just… try not to learn the whole language before you even land this time? It ruins the ‘first impressions’ a bit.”
Aisha laughed. “No promises!”
The next two days were all travel. The clean hum of Incheon Airport changed to the quiet of a long flight. Aisha wore headphones, not listening to music, but to downloaded sound files - bits of Cristobali folk songs and faint radio clips her team had found. Her tablet showed notes on the local people, history of the Cordillera Esmeralda, and the few available guides on the dialect. She frowned, not with anger, but with deep focus as she started to take it all in. It wasn't just memorizing; her mind was already feeling the basic rhythms, the sound patterns, and hints of older languages.
The small propeller plane that took her from the capital city to the highlands felt like a metal bird flying through a sea of clouds. Below, the Cordillera Esmeralda spread out - a stunning, jagged landscape of greens so dark they were almost black, with peaks covered in mist. It felt wild and ancient. Aisha pressed her face to the small window, excited. This wasn’t just another spot on her map; it felt like stepping into a secret.
The landing strip was just a short piece of pavement on a high, flat area. When she got off the plane, the air hit her - thin, cool, and smelling of pine, damp earth, and something else… a faint, almost metallic smell she couldn’t name. It was thrillingly different from the warm, spicy air of Seoul. Her local guide, Ricardo, greeted her with a quiet nod and a surprisingly firm handshake. He was a man whose quiet gaze seemed to take in the entire valley at once, his face weathered into a map of the surrounding peaks.
The jeep ride to Villa Esmeralda, the main town, was an adventure. The road was rough and clung to the sides of steep valleys. They passed terraced fields on incredibly steep slopes, small stone villages with smoke curling from chimneys, and sometimes, a single person in brightly colored woven clothes leading a llama. Aisha took it all in, her phone mostly forgotten. This first experience, without the camera, was important for her. She noticed how sunlight came through the trees, the calls of unseen birds, and the quiet dignity of the people they passed, who looked at her with serious, curious eyes.
When they finally drove onto the cobblestone streets of Villa Esmeralda, Aisha felt a change. This wasn't merely untamed land; it was a site rich with history. She saw it in the pastel-colored old buildings, the big stone church in the main square, and the fancy iron balconies. It was beautiful, but also very still and reserved, different from the loud welcomes she’d had in other places.
“Okay, Ricardo, thank you so much,” she said. Her Spanish already had a new sound from listening to his quiet directions. “Wish me luck!” She jumped out of the jeep and took a deep breath of mountain air, now mixed with the faint, sweet smell of woodsmoke and baking bread. This was it. Time to connect. She held up her phone, feeling the usual thrill mixed with new curiosity.
“San Cristobal: First Steps in Paradise!” The title appeared on screen.
“Hola, mi Passport Pack!” Aisha’s voice was bright, but maybe a little softer than in Seoul, showing her awe of the place. “We’ve made it. The famous San Cristobal Highlands. And… well, just look at this.” She moved her camera slowly, showing the buildings and the mountains behind them. “The air here… it feels like it holds stories, doesn’t it? Let’s see if we can get it to share a few.”
Her first real talk was at the tiny airport’s information booth. With a warm smile, she went to the woman at the counter. “Buenos días,” she started, then paused on purpose. “Uh… do you speak English?”
The older woman, with lines around her eyes from sun and wind, shook her head politely but firmly. Perfect. This was where the real work, the real fun, began. Aisha pointed to a pretty, hand-painted welcome sign. Under the Spanish, the flowing letters of Cristobali were written. “Ah, Cristobali… is it… ‘K’ayllallapi’?” she sounded out the local greeting, her pronunciation careful, respectful, trying out the new sounds.
A flash of surprise, then something like happiness, softened the woman’s reserved face. A real smile appeared. “K’ayllallapi, señorita! Welcome! Imaynalla kasanki?” Her Cristobali was quick, sounding like the mountain streams Aisha had seen.
Aisha listened, her head tilted, not just hearing the words but feeling their rhythm and politeness. Soon, as she moved through customs and met Ricardo again, the basic sounds of Cristobali, its polite phrases, and the gentle way questions were asked, began to settle in her mind.
At the guesthouse, she greeted the host, a young man with kind, smart eyes. “Napaykullayki,” she offered, the greeting feeling more natural now. “Shuk habitación, por favor. Sutiyqa Aisha Khan.” (Good day. One room, please. My name is Aisha Khan.)
The young man answered with a rush of happy Cristobali. Aisha nodded, smiling genuinely, her mind quickly putting together the new sounds and meanings. “Ah, sí… I understand a little…” she murmured, a practiced modesty, even though she was learning very fast.
Her live chat, which had been quietly watching her first scenic shots, now burst with comments.
User_Wanderlust_77: She’s barely been there five minutes and she’s speaking it!!
KCultureFan: It’s like she just downloads languages! Aisha, you’re amazing!
Aisha saw the comments and gave a small, knowing smile to her phone. “No downloads, guys, I promise!” she said softly. “Just listening very, very carefully. And the people here… they have such a beautiful way of speaking, don’t they?” She turned the camera to the carved wooden shutters of her room, then slowly to the amazing view of the mountains outside. “Paradise found, I think. Let’s see what secrets it holds.” But even as she said it, a very faint trace of the metallic smell she’d noticed on the tarmac seemed to float through the open window, like a wrong note in the peaceful mountain air.
***
The afternoon sun was starting to go down, painting the mud-brick walls of Villa Esmeralda in shades of gold and pink. Aisha guided her video stream towards one of the nicer craft shops that faced the main square. This wasn't a simple market stall, but a special shop showing well-made crafts - shiny woodwork, detailed silver jewelry, and, of course, the best fabrics the area had.
“And for our final stop on today’s walking tour, Passport Pack, we’re visiting ‘El Legado de la Sierra’ - ‘The Legacy of the Mountains’,” Aisha announced.
The owner, a large man named Señor Valdivia with a loud laugh and a smooth, friendly way like a politician, greeted Aisha with a very warm welcome. A shiny Rojas pin was on his lapel. “¡Señorita Khan! ¡Bienvenida, bienvenida! It’s wonderful for our beautiful San Cristobal!” He shook her hand firmly.
“Señor Valdivia, a pleasure,” Aisha replied smoothly. “Your shop is wonderful.” She pointed around, truly impressed.
Señor Valdivia looked proud. “Only the best, Señorita! Showing the true spirit of our people, thanks to the great leadership of our Governor Rojas, of course.”
Aisha smiled politely, moving deeper into the shop. Her camera stayed for a moment on a display of beautifully stitched ponchos. As she turned to look at a carved wooden bird, Valdivia’s attention was caught by a nervous-looking man who had quietly come in through a back door. He was thin, his clothes simple, his skin rough from the sun and wind. He held a bundle wrapped in plain cloth.
Valdivia's cheerful act for the camera quietly became more serious as he turned to the new man. Though his voice could still be heard, it lost its showy warmth and became sharper. Aisha, pretending to be very interested in the carving, turned her body a little. Her senses were wide awake.
“¿Trajiste la encomienda?” Valdivia asked, his voice short and sharp. (Did you bring the order?)
The nervous man nodded, unwrapping his bundle to reveal well-made woven table runners. He mumbled something Aisha couldn't hear clearly, looking down.
Valdivia looked closely at one, then gave his order, his voice very clear on certain words. “Asegúrate de que los hilos viejos no enreden el telar nuevo. El Gobernador espera perfección. Y tú sabes lo que significa ‘perfección’ para él, ¿verdad?” (Make sure the old threads don't snag the new loom. The Governor expects perfection. And you know what ‘perfection’ means to him, don’t you?)
The supplier barely flinched when he heard the words “hilos viejos” - old threads. He nodded again quickly, took his money with a mumbled “Sí, patrón,” (Yes, boss), and almost ran out the back.
Aisha’s inner language alarm went off. The phrase hung in the air, plain and simple, yet it felt weighted, coded. Old threads. It sounded like a metaphor, an idiom she hadn't learned. Her mind raced through possibilities. Was this just the language of corporate takeover, mountain-style? A ruthless command to sideline traditional artisans whose methods were too slow for the "new loom" of Governor Rojas's tourist-friendly economy? It was a plausible, if cold-blooded, business tactic. But the supplier’s fear and the menacing way Valdivia invoked the Governor’s name suggested something more. It was a piece of a puzzle, but she couldn't yet see the whole picture.
Aisha turned back to her video, carefully controlling her face. “Wow, the work here is just breathtaking, isn’t it, Passport Pack?” she said, picking up a small clay llama. “Señor Valdivia, this is beautiful! Can you tell us a little about the artist?”
She continued the video for another ten minutes, but behind her professional look, the phrase “hilos viejos no enreden el telar nuevo” repeated in her mind, a dissonant chord in the beautiful melody of San Cristobal.
***
The rich smell of mountain coffee filled Aisha’s guesthouse room. She had just finished her evening video, but tonight, a current of worry ran beneath the usual post-stream adrenaline.
She took off her dusty walking shoes, sat on the bed, and opened her laptop. First, she replayed the footage from Señor Valdivia’s shop. His sharp order to the nervous supplier: “Make sure the old threads don't snag the new loom. The Governor expects perfection.”
The phrase still itched at her. "Old threads… new loom." It felt too deliberate. What "old threads" could possibly get tangled in a "new loom"?
Aisha flicked on the small TV. After some enthusiastic local ads, the screen showed Governor Mateo Rojas at a podium, in front of a cheering crowd. It was clearly a recent, important speech. Rojas was a masterful orator, his Cristobali rich and persuasive. He spoke of a new dawn for San Cristobal, of unity, of reclaimed glory. Aisha listened, her linguistic senses on high alert.
Then, he said something that made her sit up straight, her half-eaten empanada forgotten.
“¡Amigos, compatriotas!” Rojas boomed. “¡Con su apoyo, con nuestra fe inquebrantable, con la fuerza de nuestras tradiciones! Debemos tejer un solo y fuerte tapiz Cristobaleño, libre de nudos enredados del pasado, para que el mundo vea nuestra verdadera gloria!” (Friends, people of our country! With your support, with our unbreakable faith, with the strength of our traditions! We must weave a single, strong Cristobali tapestry, free of tangled knots from the past, so the world may see our true glory!)
The connection hit her like a physical shock. Nudos enredados del pasado - tangled knots from the past. Hilos viejos - old threads. Valdivia wasn't just coining a phrase; he was echoing the Governor's ideology. Rojas made it sound inspiring, but now Aisha’s initial, more benign interpretation—that this was just about business—evaporated. What if those "tangled knots," those "old threads," weren't just outdated business practices? What if they were people? The quiet K'anchay women with their ancient weaving designs? The nervous supplier? The rhetoric of removing imperfections to create a single, "pure" vision suddenly felt chillingly clear. Chloe's warning about "purity talk" echoed in her ears.
Aisha muted the TV. Rojas’s smiling, successful face remained on the screen. She picked up her tablet to make notes, but instead found herself scrolling through international news headlines, a traveler's habit. A headline about growing tensions in the Superhuman Rights debate caught her eye. She tapped it. A short video in the article started to play—a clip from a polished, aggressive anti-Superhuman propaganda piece. It showed stylized graphics: a gleaming, "pure" human silhouette standing strong, while shadowy, "aberrant" figures representing Superhumans encroached upon it. A calm, authoritative voiceover spoke of "purifying the gene pool" and "securing humanity's future" from "unpredictable, destabilizing elements."
The rhetorical framework—the stark "us vs. them," the obsession with "purity" versus "contamination," the framing of difference as a threat—felt sickeningly familiar. It was the same logic, the same coded language Rojas used, just scaled for a different target on a global stage.
She quickly pushed the thought away. It had to be a coincidence. San Cristobal’s issues were local, ancient. She was exhausted, her brain over-indexing on patterns.
Still, the feeling of unease stayed. The "paradise" she was broadcasting felt more and more like a carefully constructed facade—a beautiful and welcoming stage, but one where certain people and uncomfortable truths were being quietly labeled "old threads" and "tangled knots," ready to be combed out.
Aisha got up and walked to the window, pushing aside the heavy woven curtains. Below, Villa Esmeralda was bathed in the cool, silvery light of an almost full moon. It looked peaceful, perfect. But the feeling of being in a gilded cage grew stronger.
She knew then that her plans for the next day had to change. She needed to understand those "tangled knots." She needed to find the "old threads."
She took out her phone and messaged Chloe. “Change of plans for tomorrow. Forget the scenic vistas. I’m going to try and find some of the more traditional villages, the ones further out. The ones who might be the ‘tangled knots’ Rojas is so eager to smooth over. I need to hear their side of the story.”
***