Diplomatic Lawyers are the guardians of the Law in Mãe Ceres. Called lead lawyers, they are inflexible, impenetrable, and at the same time deeply human—which is both their greatest virtue and their inevitable flaw.
Endowed with high moral standards, they always dress in dark gray, with the emblem of Mãe Ceres' face on their chests. They have unrestricted access to armored trains, are authorized to pilot wheeled tanks, and may enter and leave the country without restrictions. They are among the few who know the rot of the world beyond the borders: they have seen children on fire, child killers, forgotten holocausts, and silent genocides.
Their mission is to observe, report, judge, and ratify. Every action carried out within Mãe Ceres is previously validated by their reports. They are entrusted with the most sacred of pillars: knowledge. And in Mãe Ceres, knowledge is power.
Freedom, they say, is a childish delusion—the desire for self-destruction disguised as choice. The world embraced Ceresianism, but Mãe Ceres perfected it. Meritocracy works. And that is why she does not destroy the continent, even though she has the power to do so.
Under Martial Law, Mãe Ceres could, with the simple approval of her lawyers, close accounts, suffocate economies, and dismantle alliances. But she does not—not because she lacks the desire, but because it would contradict her own principles. She knows that the chaos outside is her greatest internal argument.
Hearing 44-M: Ratification of Exile
Diplomatic Lawyer: Amós X4O1
Location: Civic Convergence Auditorium
Date: 44th lunar cycle of Year 19 of the New Era
Classification: Ultra-Restricted
Amós X4O1 crossed the armored corridors of the Central Dome with the steady steps of a man who had already witnessed the end of countless civilizations.
Every ten meters, cameras scanned him through retinal recognition, thermal patterns, and voice signatures.
Nothing there was casual. Not even the silences.
He wore the regulation uniform of the Diplomatic Lawyers: lead-gray, straight-cut, almost military, with the face of Mãe Ceres engraved in relief across his chest.
A uniform that commanded respect—and fear.
In the Auditorium, three members of the High Council of Ethics of Horizontal Citizenship awaited him.
No face was visible. The voices came from behind panels of pale light.
— Lawyer Amós X4O1, as representative of the Law and diplomatic observer of the neutral zone of influence, you have been summoned to ratify the judgment of citizen Fabe 1F13 for insubordinate conduct, questioning of the maternal structure, and dissemination of radical ideas concerning subjective autonomy. — The central voice was as dry as a skeleton.
Amós nodded.
He had read the reports. Fabe 1F13 was not merely a heretic.
She was an idealist.
And idealists, in Mãe Ceres, were more dangerous than murderers.
— There are records indicating that she wrote, on paper, the following phrase:
“The world I love does not recognize me, and that is why I love even more what destroys me.”
— said the second member of the Council.
A poetic crime.
And poets were watched closely.
— Do you confirm that the sentence of perpetual exile does not violate the principles of Ceresianism, Meritocracy, and Stability?
Amós took a deep breath.
In his mind, a persistent memory: a child covered in blood, in a refugee camp in southern Kálidor.
The girl was smiling. And she spoke of freedom as one speaks of the sky.
He killed the memory, as he had done so many times.
— I confirm.
The citizen's conduct compromises the balance of Mãe Ceres.
Exile is not punishment—it is necessity.
The survival of order requires that doubt be exiled.
A ritual silence settled over the room.
Then the red light on the central panel came on.
— Ratified.
Fabe 1F13 will be transferred to the Cold Zone at dawn.
Her name will be removed from the civil records within twenty-four hours.
As he left, Amós showed no sorrow.
But inside, a thought slowly gnawed at him:
“What if one day doubt is all that remains?”
Appendix I — Expansion of the Legal System of Mãe Ceres
1. Superior Legal Body
Diplomatic Lawyers (DLs):
Neutral figures who observe, report, and ratify.
They have no final decision-making power, but possess legal veto authority.
Council of Ethics of Horizontal Citizenship:
An invisible and absolute jury. No faces. No names.
Its decisions carry the weight of final law.
Central Dome:
Headquarters for high-risk trials.
Located beneath the city.
2. Trials
Classification by degree of risk:
LB: Low Risk
MR: Medium Risk
HR: High Risk
TR: Total Risk
Only MR+ cases undergo ratification by the DLs.
Trials are not public.
All records are kept in encrypted internal archives.
3. Sentences
Neuronal Reeducation (NR):
Applied to deviant youths.
Uses cerebral stimuli for cognitive reintegration.Exile (EX):
When there is no possibility of reintegration.Silencing (S):
Termination of physical and digital existence.Productive Redirection (PR):
Forced labor outside the walls, until further evaluation.
4. Fundamental Laws
Law of Stability:
Questioning the system is an injury to collective stability.Law of Natural Merit:
Each person occupies the place they have earned.Law of Supreme Knowledge:
Authorized knowledge is superior to individual experience.Law of Mãe Ceres:
Everything that protects the city's womb is sacred.
Limbo, Sublevel 3 — Encounter between Amós X4O1 and Gene SL23
Location: Limbo, Sublevel 3
Classification: Silent Interrogation (SI-17)
Time: 02:17 — no civil record
The steel door slid open with a muffled sound. The smell of oxidized iron, sweat, and disinfectant burned the nostrils. The walls of the room were smooth, damp, and cold as tombs. A single concrete bench in the center held the prisoner.
Gene SL23.
Seventeen years old. A student at the East Arcadia peripheral school, less than three kilometers from the border with Silencium. His wrists were marked by restraint rings, and his eyes were sunken, the eyes of someone who had spoken with pain for long enough to no longer fear it.
Amós entered with slow steps. His gray leather boots gleamed beneath the dull lamp. He carried a clipboard, but did not look at it. He stopped before the boy. Watched him in silence for long seconds.
— You were handsome — he said coldly. — Intact skin, well fed. All your bones covered in flesh, all your words still intact in your throat. Mãe Ceres gave you that. And you spit in the plate.
Gene slowly raised his head. There was dried blood at the corner of his mouth.
— Mãe Ceres fed me lies.
Amós ignored him.
— The cassette tapes with forbidden music... You know, that didn't even have to amount to anything. Adolescent curiosity. We all had it. But... you went further. You wrote on the cafeteria wall: “Mãe Ceres, filthy whore. Mãe Ceres, your Fucking Whore and Mãe Ceres your filthy harlot.” In red. Three times.
Gene did not answer.
— Blasphemy, Gene. Direct, venomous. You understood nothing. Mãe Ceres does not hate those who are different. She loves everyone. She loves those with diverse sexualities, those with doubts in their blood, those who fell and rose again. Mãe Ceres does not judge character. She goes beyond character. She judges facts.
Amós crouched down. They were face to face.
— And the fact, Gene, is that you attacked the structure that formed you. The order that kept you alive until now. Freedom? What is that? An empty scream? A drawing on a wall? A delusion of someone who has never known hunger?
He moved even closer. His voice became a blade.
— You feel the hunger now, don't you? It hurts, doesn't it?
Gene held his gaze. His ribs, marked beneath his thin skin, rose and fell with effort.
— It hurts. But it hurts less than kneeling.
Amós stepped back as though Gene had spat in his face.
— Revolutionaries... libertarians... messiahs... redeemers... — he shook his head with contempt. — All debris among debris. Mosquito shit. The freedom you people talk about so much has never filled a belly. It only serves to sink into the mud and say it died trying.
Gene smiled. Blood ran across his teeth.
— Then why do you still come here to talk to me, Amós?
Silence.
The diplomat looked for a moment at the camera in the ceiling. He knew they were watching. Everything there was theater—but not all theater is a lie. Sometimes, it is simply the only place where truth can bleed.
— Because... — Amós murmured, almost to himself — ...some seeds, even rotten ones, need to be buried deep so they cannot germinate in anyone else.
He turned, walked to the door, and touched the panel. Before the locks opened, Gene whispered:
— ...one day, hunger will catch you too.
Amós did not answer. But for one brief second, he hesitated. One second that should not exist in Mãe Ceres.
The ceiling light flickered, as though even the electricity were afraid of what was being said there.
Gene remained motionless, his thin body wrapped in a rough, dirty jumpsuit. His gaze shifted between anger and emptiness.
Amós stood before him like a monument to power—a man in dark gray, a stone expression, and words sharp as decrees.
Amós broke the silence with a low, measured voice, heavy with calculation:
— Gene... have you ever seen a starving child?
The young man did not answer. Silence was his last dignity.
— Then look in the mirror, if you still have one. You are that child. A hungry child. — Amós walked in slow circles. — You haven't even become a man yet... and you already carry the stench of a traitor. A sad situation. But no, Gene. I do not pity you.
He stopped behind the boy and murmured, almost with disdain:
— One thing, however, I tried. I convinced the council to offer you reconditioning. A minimal chance. But they were unyielding.
Amós circled Gene again. Now he stood before his eyes.
— I met your friend. Theo. He understands. He loves Mãe Ceres. He loves the one who feeds us, educates us... and, if necessary, devours us. Theo will become someone. He already is. He is an honorable young man, nourished by the structure you decided to spit on. And therefore...
Amós removed a document from the folder. He read without emotion:
— Gene SL23, for direct offenses against the symbolic figure of Mãe Ceres, attacks against public morality, possession of subversive artistic material, and active rejection of the reintegration process... — he folded the paper. — You have been condemned. You will lose your name. From now on, you will be identified as SL23.
Gene trembled. His eyes were red.
— Two weeks from now — Amós continued — your “freedom” will be granted. In D Square. In front of the panels. In flames. You will be burned alive. By the city you tried to destroy. And then... you will disappear.
Mãe Ceres will have no mercy for your ungrateful soul, your expression without gesture. You will not be remembered. Not even by Theo.
The silence was broken by a desperate scream.
— I SAW MÃE CERES' FACE!
Gene rose, even though he was bound, his eyes burning with a fever of faith—or madness.
— SHE WAS CRYING! — he shouted. — YOU IMPRISONED HER! YOU TURNED HER INTO A GODDESS OF SMOKE! BUT I SAW HER! I SAW HER!
Amós stepped back, seized by a spasm of cold rage.
— No one — he said through clenched teeth — no one has ever seen Mãe Ceres' face.
— She looked at me! She touched me! And she was asking for help, Amós... she was asking for help!
The diplomat turned toward the soldiers at the door. His voice was dry, cutting, emotionless:
— Isolation. Immediate. Twenty-four cycles. No light. No voice. He blasphemed before the law.
Two guards entered. Gene was still screaming, but now his voice was being dragged out of the room like smoke through a tunnel. The sound disappeared.
Amós remained alone for a few seconds. Only him—and the void. He looked at the document on the table. The name "Gene" had already been crossed out. The code SL23 began pulsing red on the screen.
He closed his eyes. For one brief instant, he swore he heard something deep inside his mind.
A cry. Low. Feminine.
But he shook his head and left.
Orders are orders.
Faith was an ancient disease.
And Gene would be cured in the fire.
Black Marble Tribunal — Trial of Artus Kal
Location: High Court of Historical Justice
Structure: Central Hall of Black Marble
Classification: SAJH-9 — High Session of Historical Justice
Presence of Silencers: Confirmed
Diplomatic Observer: Amós X4O1
The sound of Amós' footsteps echoed alone across the cold black marble. The walls of the tribunal were smooth, monolithic, without ornament—only a suffocating austerity. The vaulted ceiling disappeared into the half-light. Above, surrounded by panels of opaque black glass, was the judges' chamber. No one saw their faces. No one had ever seen them.
Around the hall, at strategic points, stood the Silencers—motionless men dressed in tight military-gray uniforms, black gloves, and fitted helmets. Each helmet was enclosed by an oval dome of opaque glass, reflecting the room with distortion. They were shadows of the system. No word would escape without their approval.
At the center of the hall, beneath the circular light of a white, expressionless spotlight, stood Artus Kal. Seated in an iron chair embedded in the floor, he looked fragile—but not broken. The eighty-five-year-old Arcadian wore a neutral civilian robe. His eyes remained alert. He knew exactly where he was—and why he was still alive.
On the left, Amós X4O1 stood upright. He wore the dark-gray uniform of the Diplomatic Lawyers. On his chest, the emblem of Mãe Ceres' face seemed to glow beneath the artificial lighting. In his hands, he carried the most troubling dossier of his career.
The judges' voices echoed from above, filtered through hidden microphones. Deep. Feminine. Without identity:
— We hereby begin High Session of Historical Justice number 9. Defendant: Artus Kal. Charge: war crimes against the citizen of Ceres, Odre A12S, during the Silent Period of Arcadia.
Amós took two steps forward and began:
— Your Honors. Citizen Artus Kal, currently sheltered at the Golden Horizon Center under State protection, was responsible for systematic torture against agent Odre A12S—currently alive, lucid, and also residing at the same center. We have evidence. Medical reports. Testimonies. Reconstructed memories. These are not rumors. They are facts.
A pause.
— Despite this, the defendant was granted lifelong protection in exchange for betraying his countrymen and providing strategic information that prevented an Arcadian invasion. Agreement concluded. — He raised the sealed document. — But the price of that agreement was the body and soul of one of our own.
The silence was almost solid. The Silencers did not move. Motionless, like stones that breathed.
— This is not merely diplomacy — Amós continued, his voice firmer. — If Mãe Ceres is justice, then she cannot reward the executioner and forget the tortured. She cannot call “peace” what cost eleven months of agony and screams. Your Honors... this man lives under the same roof as the victim. There is no stability in that. There is irony. There is cold violence disguised as order.
The answer came without hesitation from the invisible voice:
— The agreement is legitimate. And unbreakable. The institutions of Mãe Ceres do not fail. They do not deny what they sign. Not even for justice.
Amós clenched his fists. But restrained himself.
— Justice that ignores the pain of the righteous is not justice. It is theater.
The voice answered with a calm that crushed:
— That is precisely why theater exists, Amós X4O1. So that the continent may see, clearly, that Mãe Ceres keeps her pacts. And that is why she is feared. That is why she is eternal.
Red lights came on around the marble.
— Artus Kal remains untouched. The case is closed. Leave.
Two Silencers advanced. They did not touch Amós, but their mere approach was enough. The threat there was silent and absolute.
Before leaving, Amós looked at Artus one last time.
The old man returned his gaze with a slight smile. It was the smile of someone who knew that truth had never been the most valuable currency in Mãe Ceres.
Gray Containment Room — Post-Trial
Location: Sublevel of the Black Marble Tribunal
Record: Unofficial
Monitoring: Deactivated by special authorization
The room was small, windowless. Light-gray concrete walls. Two fixed chairs. No visible camera—although Amós knew that every word spoken there would be heard by someone.
Artus Kal sat there, restrained according to protocol—but with the same haughty air as always. His eyes were dry, straight, as though they had already seen the end of every empire and decided to remain standing out of sheer stubbornness.
Amós entered, threw the documents onto the table, and remained standing.
Amós:
You knew. You knew Odre was alive. That he was there, four floors above you. And even then... nothing?
Artus (smiling):
And why would I do anything? He was alive. And I was at peace. Isn't that enough?
Amós (staring):
He screamed for eleven months. You were the conductor of it. You cut. Burned. Broke. And now you walk among our elderly as though you were simply another survivor.
Artus (calmly):
I am more than a survivor. I am necessary.
Amós:
You are a varnished cancer.
Artus:
I am the reason your city still breathes.
Amós approached the table, furious but controlled. The anger in his voice now tasted of blood.
Amós:
And if I told you I would do it for justice? That I would burn your history. Your name. Your pact. That I would trade my uniform for a knife if that were enough to balance this scale?
Artus (laughing softly):
Then you would be just like your father.
The silence was absolute.
Amós (clenching his fists):
Don't you dare...
Artus (interrupting, with contempt):
Your father. The horizontalist. The idealist. That filthy man... I thought Mãe Ceres raised children like that. But you still carry his blood. You know what comforts me?
If it were today, I would do it all again to him. All of it. And then some.
Amós (through clenched teeth):
Your agreement was with Mãe Ceres. But the debt is with me.
Artus (leaning forward, cynically):
A lead agreement, boy. Irrevocable. Unbreakable. Ratified by the Marble Council.
Even Mãe Ceres bleeds, but she does not break her word.
You think you are on the side of truth, but you are only an employee with wounded pride. And that... the city does not reward.
Amós (voice trembling with restrained hatred):
You have no soul.
Artus:
No. I sold it. And bought peace with it. You should try it.
Amós:
The difference is that I don't sleep well with monsters.
Artus (raising his shackled hands):
But you protect them. Whether you like it or not.
Silence.
Amós placed both hands on the table, leaned toward the old man, eye to eye.
Amós:
You taught me today that justice in Mãe Ceres has a price. And now I know what it is.
But I also learned something else, Artus...
Artus (ironically):
And what would that be?
Amós:
That even you do not live forever. And when your time comes—and it will come—
I will be there. To make sure not even your grave has a name.
Amós turned. The door opened. Two Silencers were waiting.
He left without looking back.
Artus (alone, smiling, almost whispering):
— What a beautiful fear, Amós. What a beautiful fear.
The Fissures of Lead
The black marble of the tribunal still echoed in his memory, like a heavy pendulum striking the bones inside his head. Amós walked through the silent corridors of Limbo, his dark-gray coat still smelling of the dampness of the trial, his gloves cold as oxidized metal.
Artus Kal.
The name was an open wound—and it pulsed.
Amós had always been proud of his ability to keep his hand steady. But now... now there was something new. A seed had been planted. Perhaps it was hatred. Perhaps it was love for his dead father. Perhaps it was simply the desire to set fire to whatever the system declared sacred.
“I would do it all again... to your filthy father.”
The sentence repeated itself in his head like an obscene confession.
Amós pressed his forehead against the opaque glass of an empty interrogation room. Outside, drones flew over the Golden Horizon, where old Artus lived—well fed, comfortable, saved by a lead agreement. Meanwhile, Odre, the tortured agent, still trembled on the floor above.
And his father, well... his father rotted in memory, his eyes filled with blood and silence.
“Lead agreement. Glass justice.”
He wanted more than a trial.
More than an official ruling.
He wanted something that would bleed inside Artus. Something the old man could not erase—not with medicine, nor with the lukewarm applause of routine.
“What is justice without pain, Mãe Ceres?
Justice without pain... is forgiveness.”
Amós did not want forgiveness.
He wanted to hurt.
He wanted Artus to watch what he loved most turn to dust—as his father had.
But what Artus loved most... was safe. Disappeared. Swallowed by the very system Amós served.
For a second, he thought about breaking everything.
About using his diplomatic pass to invade the sealed records, discover where Artus' family was—and not hand them over. Not to him.
Perhaps use that.
Perhaps corrupt the agreement.
Perhaps make Artus beg.
“Not for revenge...” he whispered, lying to himself.
“...for justice.”
The lie fell like a tear inside the lead uniform.
Between Mirrors
The keys of the typewriter still vibrated in the back of the room.
The sound echoed like a clock without time.
Tick-tock in lead.
The glass reflected Amós—but not as he was.
It reflected what he could become.
Lux C13G entered without knocking.
Like a verdict.
His lead-gray uniform was like the wall: impenetrable.
In one hand, a sealed folder.
In the other, a freshly typed sheet.
— Amós X4O1, A.D. — he began, placing the paper on the table.
— You insisted too much on the Artus Kal case. The trial is over, but you continue.
And we are here to make sure no one continues beyond what is necessary.
Amós did not answer.
Lux tightened his black gloves against each other.
— The world is constantly at war — he recited.
— Peace is an accident. Survival above freedom.
Amós swallowed hard.
— Mãe Ceres — he said, lower than he should have —
who feeds us, who educates us... and devours us.
For a moment, the two stared at each other.
Two men identical on the outside, divided within.
Lux approached Amós' typewriter and struck a single key:
"R" — for risk.
Or for rupture.
— You know what happens to diplomats who dare to speak words contrary to the doctrine before another lawyer — Lux said without emotion.
— One mistake... and Mãe Ceres' love becomes a tooth. Becomes a scythe. Becomes a decree.
Amós closed his eyes. He heard within himself the same voice that had guided him since birth—but now with a different intonation.
Could Mãe Ceres' love withstand the truth of a wounded son?
Lux stopped at the door and, without looking back, repeated:
— The world is constantly at war.
Peace is an accident.
Survival above freedom.
Amós completed, almost inaudibly:
— Mãe Ceres, who feeds us, who educates us...
and devours us.