Reborn as the Dictator's Son [English] Chapter 3: The Cockatoo

Ti was no longer asured in hours, but in cycles of tension.

The cycle began with Father’s arrival. The residence would stiffen, servants moved faster, guards straightened their posture.

Then ca the etings in the library—voices that occasionally rose, followed by silences more dangerous than shouting.

After that, Father would leave again, taking the tension with him, leaving behind air that felt like the aftermath of a storm—lighter, but fragile.

In the middle of that cycle, I found an unexpected escape: the Palace Library.

The room was as large as a hall, with dark wooden shelves reaching all the way to the ceiling. The scent of old paper, dust, and decaying wood filled the air like a complex perfu.

These books were not decorations. They were real archives—legacies of previous regis, so untouched for decades.

This was where I spent most of my days. Eleanor had her fish pond, Isabella had her new piano, and I had stacks of outdated docunts on colonial-era agricultural policies.

One morning, Mother joined between the shelves.

“Looking for sothing specific?” she asked, her eyes scanning the titles.

“Just reading whatever I find,” I replied honestly. “It’s interesting to see how people in the past solved problems.”

“What kind of problems?”

“Irrigation. Land taxes. Rice prices.” I shrugged. “Boring things.”

She smiled faintly—the warst smile she’d given since we moved here.

“Most children your age would be looking for adventure or war stories.”

“Wars are ssy,” I said, turning a page of a 1905 coffee harvest report. “And often the solutions are hidden in boring things.”

She studied for a long mont. “Sotis I forget you’re still a child.”

“Sotis I forget too,” I muttered.

She let out a short laugh, brittle, like a cracked bell.

Cody within the palace was often unintentional—and usually involved Eleanor.

Case in point: our first state ceremony as a family.

We stood on the balcony, waving to the crowd below, gathered either by order—or curiosity.

Eleanor, in a white lace dress that made her look like a misplaced wedding cake, chose that exact mont to ask loudly:

“Why are they waving little flags? Are they cheerleaders?”

Isabella hissed beside her. “Be quiet, El. They’re showing support.”

“But they don’t look happy,” Eleanor protested. “Look at the man in front with the square mustache. He looks like he has a stomachache.”

I glanced down. Eleanor wasn’t entirely wrong. The crowd was quiet, their movents chanical. So faces were blank. Others tense.

“Maybe they’re nervous,” I whispered to her. “eting a new leader.”

“When I’m nervous, I want to use the bathroom,” Eleanor muttered. “Not wave flags.”

Mother, who overheard us, placed a slightly firm hand on Eleanor’s shoulder.

“That’s enough, dear. Smile and wave.”

Eleanor waved with excessive enthusiasm, like she was swatting a giant invisible fly.

I noticed a few people below smiling—real smiles, this ti.

Perhaps the only honest mont of the entire ceremony.

Not all cody was harmless, however. So of it turned into hard lessons.

That lesson ca in the form of a bird.

More precisely, an old cockatoo nad Coco—a leftover from Father’s predecessor, sohow forgotten in the palace gardens.

The bird lived in a large cage inside the greenhouse, ignored by everyone except an elderly gardener who still fed it.

I found Coco by accident while exploring the neglected back areas of the palace.

If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

He perched calmly, his colorful feathers slightly faded, one eye watching with suspicious intelligence.

“Hello,” I said.

“HELLO!” the bird squawked, his raspy voice eerily similar to a forr president I’d once heard on old radio recordings.

“IN THE NA OF THE PEOPLE! IN THE NA OF THE PEOPLE!”

I froze.

This… was bad.

“Who taught you that?” I asked carefully, stepping closer.

“PROSPERITY! UNITY!” Coco scread, followed by a sound like a creaking door.

“ORDER! ORDER!”

I looked around. No one else. Just tropical plants and the distant sound of a fountain.

This bird was a living ti capsule, repeating slogans from the old regi.

Under the new order Father was trying to build, Coco was a walking—or flying—liability.

“You need to learn new sentences,” I whispered.

The bird tilted his head. “Small boy. Quiet.”

“Agreed,” I said. “But you also need to be quiet about certain things.”

I returned to the palace with my thoughts racing.

The bird was dangerous. Anyone could hear him and report it—or worse, use him as evidence that our family was still tied to the old regi.

But killing him? That was cruel—and risky. The old gardener would ask questions.

The solution ca the next day, when I sneaked back with a small bag of sunflower seeds and a children’s poetry book.

“Listen,” I said, sitting near the cage. “We’re going to learn sothing new.”

The next two hours were a painful lesson in interspecies diplomacy.

Coco was a difficult student. He preferred political jargon over poetry.

But sunflower seeds were powerful motivation.

“The sun… sets,” I read slowly.

“SUN!” Coco shrieked. “RISES! PROGRESS!”

“No. Sets. Golden sky.”

“GOLD! FOREIGN RESERVES!”

This was hopeless.

So I changed tactics.

If I couldn’t teach him poetry, I would teach him silence.

I only rewarded him when he stayed quiet for a certain count. Basic conditioning. Like training a dog.

Five days later, progress appeared. Coco still occasionally blurted out “Stability!” or “Sovereignty!”, but less often.

He even learned a harmless phrase: “Nice day.”

I considered it a major victory.

But nature has a dark sense of humor.

One afternoon, while Father was holding a small eting near the greenhouse—with Colonel ndez, of course—Eleanor decided to show Isabella her “discovery.”

“I’ll show you the talking bird!” she shouted, dragging a reluctant Isabella along.

I was reading nearby when I heard her voice.

My heart stopped.

“Eleanor, wait—”

Too late.

They reached the cage just as Father’s guest passed through the garden.

“Look!” Eleanor shouted. “The bird is smart! Coco, say ‘Nice day’!”

Coco puffed out his chest, noticing the audience. His sharp eye locked onto ndez’s military uniform.

Then he opened his beak.

“PURGE! TOTAL PURGE!” he scread with horrifying enthusiasm.

“REMOVE THE OLD! THE NEW RULES!”

The air froze.

ndez stopped walking. His eyebrow rose slowly.

Father stood rigid, his face a stone mask.

Eleanor smiled proudly.

“He said ‘purge’! That ans cleaning, right? Like when Mom tells us to clean our room?”

I stepped forward, my mind racing.

“He hears the servants talking,” I said quickly, my voice too high. “They’re always talking about cleaning things.”

ndez stared at the bird, then at . A thin smile appeared.

“An interesting bird. Still holding on to mories… from the past.”

“Just an old bird,” Father said flatly. “He’s been here a long ti.”

“Yes,” ndez replied. “Sotis old creatures should be… relocated. So they don’t disturb the new atmosphere.”

A threat. Clear as day.

“Oh, but he’s funny!” Eleanor protested. “Coco, say ‘Nice day’!”

Coco chose chaos.

“RESISTANCE! EXECUTE! EXECUTE!”

I wanted the ground to swallow whole.

Isabella grabbed Eleanor’s arm.

“Co on, El. Mother’s looking for us.”

“But the bird—”

“Now.”

They left.

ndez stepped closer to the cage.

“Impressive intelligence. But uncontrolled voices are dangerous—even from mindless creatures.” He turned to Father.

“General, allow to handle this. I know a suitable place for… rehabilitation.”

I knew what that ant.

“No,” Father said suddenly, his voice sharp.

“The bird is innocent. He only repeats what he heard. Killing him won’t change the past.”

“But it will prevent misinterpretation in the future,” ndez pressed.

“I decide,” Father replied.

“The bird stays. But everyone will know he is an artifact, not a symbol. And the children will train him with… more appropriate material.”

He looked at .

“Isn’t that right, Mateo?”

I nodded quickly.

“Yes, Father. I’ll teach him poetry. Or multiplication tables.”

ndez studied us, then nodded.

“As you command, General. Still, living mories sotis need stronger cages.”

He turned and left.

Father and I stood alone before the cage. Coco was silent now, as if he finally understood.

“What exactly have you been teaching him?” Father asked quietly.

“To be quiet,” I said. “He’s a stubborn student.”

Father made a sound halfway between a sigh and a chuckle.

“Like most creatures in this country.” He stared at the bird.

“He reminds of soone. The forr president. Sa voice.”

“Is that dangerous?”

“Everything is dangerous now, Mateo. Even old birds.”

He walked away, then stopped.

“Train him. Make him useful. Or at least… not lethal.”

Why were there always unwanted variables?

***

The next day, Coco’s training beca my personal covert operation.

I realized my mistake. Poetry ant nothing to a bird.

I needed sothing that turned him into an asset, not a liability.

I tried the national anthem. If he could sing it correctly, he’d be seen as patriotic.

Coco refused. Too complex.

Then I had a ridiculous idea: teach him a foreign language.

If he spoke in a language few people understood—English, for example—his shouting would no longer be politically dangerous. He’d be a curiosity, not a threat.

I brought a basic English phrasebook.

“Hello,” I said clearly.

Coco eyed the sunflower seeds.

“Hello,” he repeated, thick with local accent.

“Good bird.”

“Good… bird.”

“Sunshine.”

“Sun… shine.”

It worked.

Within a week, Coco had basic English vocabulary:

“Good morning.”

“Thank you.”

“Very nice.”

One day, when a group of foreign delegates visited, I “accidentally” brought them to the greenhouse.

“We have a unique resident here,” I said innocently. “He likes greeting guests.”

“Hello! Welco!” Coco squawked enthusiastically.

The delegates were impressed.

“Amazing! A bird that speaks English!”

“Yes! Very nice!” Coco added, followed by a harmless whistle.

The rumor spread. Coco beca an unofficial mascot.

Even ndez, when hearing about it, rely shook his head. The threat had been neutralized—by turning it into a joke.

Eleanor, of course, claid credit.

“I introduced him to everyone!”

“Yes,” I said dryly. “And almost turned him into soup.”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

Not all problems could be solved with sunflower seeds and deception.

So ca in human form.

Like my cousin, Diego.