Martha
He didn't know much about the last Deputy, other than that this fucking office was a nightmare. Maybe it was the military man in him; maybe it was the middle son energy he had. But all of these things up and around in this way drove him fucking nuts. Which is why, of course, like any other sane man, he was up half past what *Should* Have been a well-placed bedtime, rummaging around in this little desk-office-combination thing trying to make a space for himself. Just like he was doing with that cottage in the woods. Just like he had done with anyone and anything that had come his way after his discharge.

Just like he was doing with... Well... *Them.*

"Them," Were, of course, a pair of dogs that obediently slept curled up next to each other in the floor, either ignoring or deafened to their father's rummaging. Huffing quietly, Rafael began to move papers around, looking through some of the things that had been left behind. Notes, reports, ledgers... The Jailhouse had plenty of space, and, if you were to ask him, looked nothing like the jailhouses in Columbia. His father always had a saying: *Empty jail cells either meant the sheriff was a great sheriff, or a horrible one.* And given the warm reception he was offered upon his arrival by not only his employer but also his fellow townsfolk, he figured it, frankly, was more of the former.

But there was, unfortunately, no way Rafael was going to organize all of the things he wanted to do by the end of the night. While tonight may be a perfect night to stay up half into midnight (which, frankly, he may expect anyways), he worried it would make him look like a brown-noser. He wasn't trying to kiss ass, all things considered; he was just a bit... Twitchy, when it came to things that were supposed to be under his responsibility and yet not organized in a way he liked. He hoped that the clerk, or the sheriff, or anyone in between, didn't mind his detailed levels of organization. 

"*Ay, dios mio,*" He mumbled under his breath, looking at the paper in his hand that had not one, not two, but three dried coffee rings on it. Taking a break, Rafael sat in the chair behind the desk, knowing that keeping this desk was to be one of his responsibilities in the near future. The papers get set down, hands over his eyes. The star that hung on his breast pocket felt like a weight pushing against his fourth and fifth rib— and the sound of the jailhouse door opening was a sound he wasn't expecting so soon. Both dogs - a black Laborador and a German Shepherd - poked their heads up from their snuggle on the floor, and Rafael stood up.

"Hello?" He called around the corner. "Can I help you find something?
Barbara
It seemed like a good idea to investigate the town's shambling equivalent of law enforcement, which as it turned out, was really not a whole lot beyond a lone sheriff's deputy. It'd certainly been bemusing information to discover. Why a deputy without a sheriff wouldn't have just taken the title for himself was beyond Blanca, both out of vanity and utilitarianism. Didn't it make sense to assume the role, with no one else to fill it? It was what she would have done – but then, not everyone could be as enterprising as her. 


_ _

Boc: Blanca had a politician's mind. She was not inclined to reveal much about herself unless it suited her to do so, and because of this, not one of her new acquaintances knew a thing about the encroaching decay on the Ochoa hacienda. The little stream to the south had gone black with some inextricable *Gunk.* Blanca and her cousins had resorted to building new stone walls, cutting off their back pastures from the stream and forcing them into what had become a rather heated debate about water troughs versus the labor it would take to dig a natural stream from the river. It was a lot of work to mitigate such a mystery, and had changed the structure of workflow on the ranch. More importantly, it posed a threat to her animals. 

To solve the problem of the black water was a task worth undertaking in that it would accomplish two things: first, it would keep her family and their livelihood safe; second, to be the one to fix this problem would certainly earn her a brilliant gold star on her campaign for head of the family business. As such, she was prepared to recruit whomever she needed. The doctor was one avenue. The deputy was another. Plus, if someone was trespassing and poisoning her water supply, she wanted to know where they lived. And when they were home.

As she pushed her way into the sheriff's office she found herself displeased by the smell of dogs. Blanca, who had been raised around horses and donkeys, had never really spent much time around dogs, given the donkeys' proclivity toward kicking said dogs in the head. It just so happened that the dogs' presence here was, ultimately, serendipitous; quick as she was sometimes to dive headfirst into an idea, the dogs tempered the pace of her gait into something even, smooth, respectable.

By the time she heard the deputy's voice, Blanca was delivering her best performance of cool and collected behavior. She followed the sound of the inquiry, taking a few steps forward and scanning the dim corridor.
_ _

"Hello!" She called back. Then, because she couldn't help herself:

"Are you the sheriff?"
Martha
Rafael was very cognizant of who he was, what he was, and what he could have been. Alas, the war had taken far too much out of him - he used to be a man who did not expect danger at every doorstep. He used to be a man who did not visibly relax when he found there was no criminal, no thief, just a girl. A gentle smile passes over his lips, and he laughs a bit as he barks two commands quietly down at the dogs - *¡ven aquí, acá!* - who then trot off behind their owner, pleased with the attention and the presence of a new face. "Ay, no. Not the sheriff, just the deputy. He's away at the moment, but if there's something you need, I will be happy to help you. You'll have to forgive my boys - I think it's part of their soul to be as in the way as they can be."

He looks her over, always a judge of character. The woman who's joined him, at face value, appears to be a no-nonsense, but kind, woman who appeared to have something on her mind. She reminded him a bit of his nieces - girls who took action first and asked questions later. In a way, that was comforting; the people of Briar Ridge were warm, kind, hospitable, but there was a *Kindness* That layered over everything that Rafael feared his too-hard touch would break. He approaches, pleasant, still keeping his distance. His hand is offered to her - his fingers callused and scarred from years of holding a sniper rifle, and currently laden with a couple papercuts from the foreign skill of administrative tasks.

_ _
"Rafael Aguilar Guerrero," He introduces himself, both last names heavy at the end - his mother's name and his father's name both were important to him, and his use of them in this moment made him feel like in a position of authority, he represented them both. (He wonders if, in some way, they know he's doing well. He wonders if they're proud of him.) "Feel free to call me 'Raf' or 'Deputy Guerrero', whichever fits your preferences more. Are you just looking around tonight, miss, or did you have business with the sheriff?"

Rafael, too, was a man of layered character, and if Blanca were to look him over as he had looked her over, she might find a man of high moral caliber, a man laden with some sort of problem that kept him up, and a man who believed that discipline and hard work got someone to where they wanted to be. All the same, there is no malice or anything other than genuine curiosity in his face, eyes, voice. If she has a problem, and he is able to help, he'd like to - especially if it took him away from the hell that was, as he had dubbed it, *Paperwork mountain.*
Barbara
The man behind the desk gives her the impression that he is at once older and younger than he seems. It's perplexing. Blanca sidles up with a cautious smile. The same hesitance is absent from her eyes; she openly analyzes him. There is something disarming about the weariness of his face, its passivity, something she can recognize in the older members of her own family. And, perhaps most interesting of all, his features belie an ancestry which she reckons can't be too far from her own. A smile blooms on Blanca's face. There's a familiarity in his accent that surprises her. Blanca's used to hearing it exclusively from her family. She lights up.

"Blanca Ochoa Cervantes," She responds proudly, beaming at him. *"Que haces* In a place like this? You lived here a long time?" *Mami will be thrilled.*

He looks tired and very comfortable here, in his element. She wonders how long he's held the position, and more importantly, how much influence he has over the sheriff. She takes his hand and shakes it vigorously – two shakes, strong and sure, a businessman's handshake. Like many things about her, the gesture seems like an oversized hand-me-down. 

She rummages around in the worn leather of her satchel. From somewhere within, she pulls another one of her vials. She's been collecting stream water from the infected spot near the creek. Like the vial she showed to Mitica and Dr. Olander, the water inside is inky black. 

"Don't want to waste your time so *Puedes llegar al papeleo,"* She continued. "I'll be quick. You have any new reports in that pile? Is this the work of a vandal?" She asks, dangling the vial out at arm's length.

She knows it's not, of course, but having another nose on the case can't hurt.
Martha
Rafael is the kind of man who thinks that the culture of his home isn't something he needs to survive. He likes to think he didn't need his mother's comforting hug or the sounds of his siblings running around, or their children - yes, Rafael Aguilar Guerrero is getting old, he thinks; perhaps maybe not too old to take a partner and have children if that's something he wanted, but if he didn't, there were many Aguilar Guerreros to continue on the name. He chuckles softly, nodding. "Ay, no. Not really- only a few months, really. I've been told I've come at a bad time, but it was the only place that would take a *Pavo* Like me, so here we are." 

He takes a seat at the desk, pointedly ignoring *Paperwork mountain* As he looks up at her, and the vial she's handing him. He takes it gently in his hands - perhaps if he were older, he'd slide on a pair of glasses and examine it, but a marksman has to have perfect vision, so the frames are unneeded. He turns it this way and that, his lip curling as the inky black bubbles and swirls inside the glass of the vial. 

"No reports of a vandal that I've seen here. Where'd you get this water? Surely not on your property?" He uncorks it, sniffing it - recoiling at whatever he expected but failed to receive, mumbling something under his breath and shaking his head as he corks it again, passing it back to her. "I can take a look through the files, but I think I'd be more help if I were able to look around wherever you've found this. Vandals leave traces behind everywhere, even if they do not know it. You have *Enemigos, senorita?* "