Daydreams of a Traitor and Shattered Hearts - Part 4

In the Courtyard — Theo and Ceres

The courtyard was crowded as always, but there were only two worlds there.
Theo's world.
And Ceres' world.

He could feel her eyes burning into his back from the moment he sat down, with his back to the tower. As if she were a sentry of Mother Ceres herself, ready to judge him.

But it wasn't only her.

It was Her.

Mother Ceres, through her.

Always her. Always watching.

Theo remained motionless, his hands intertwined in his lap, but inside, a turmoil was raging:

“My thoughts are mine... They're mine... Are they still?”

Ceres, impassive, standing a few meters away from him. Her body rigid. Her hair tied back perfectly. The shadow of the tower reflected at an angle that almost touched her feet.

Her gaze — black, voracious, inquisitive — met his whenever he dared raise his head.

And it was like hearing the mantra again:

“Thank you, Mother Ceres, who feeds us, who educates us, who devours us...”

But something inside him screamed:

“And who takes care of me? Who gives me back to myself? Who loves me without devouring me?”

And then he saw a spark in her eyes.

Not tenderness.

But doubt.

Maybe she wasn't so blind after all. Maybe she also felt the weight of lead in her veins.

Or maybe it was only him.

Maybe she was only there to crush his doubt.

Maybe she was only an instrument.

Her lips moved, almost a whisper. He couldn't hear the words, but he knew exactly what she was saying without saying:

— If you dare... I myself will turn you in. I myself will burn you from the inside.

Theo bit the inside of his mouth until the metallic taste of blood filled his tongue.

The side of him that wanted to run trembled with fear.

And the other side, the side that accused itself, that wanted to surrender and beg for forgiveness... that side smiled, sadistically, enjoying the pain.

A long, heavy silence stretched between them, even with the city's murmuring all around.

And in that silence, Theo spoke only with his eyes:

— You may be Mother Ceres incarnate, but I am still my own.

Ceres stepped back — almost imperceptibly — but Theo saw it.

And that was enough.

He rose slowly, took a deep breath, and as he passed her, said nothing.

For the first time in a long time, she also remained silent.

But in her eyes he saw it:

She wanted to devour his soul.

And he wasn't going to let her.

Ceres did not move. Not a muscle.

She remained there, standing in the courtyard, her eyes fixed on the direction in which Theo had disappeared.

Inside, a strange flame burned.

It wasn't anger — not exactly.

It was something else.

Something she did not recognize. Something she had never been taught to feel.

Something even Mother Ceres would not know how to name.

She felt her breathing grow heavy in her chest.

— I saw it. I saw it in his eyes. He dares... dares to think outside of us. Outside of me. Outside of her.

Her hands closed into fists and then slowly opened.

One side wanted to run after him and squeeze his throat until she tore the truth out of him.

The other side... only wanted to understand why, when he looked at her that way, she felt smaller than she had always believed herself to be.

And deep down — very deep down — she knew.

He carried a pain she couldn't decipher.

And that pain fascinated her as much as it frightened her.

— If I am weak... he will escape. He will escape from me. He will escape from her. I cannot allow it.

Ceres took a deep breath, straightened her posture, and murmured to herself, like a vow:

— Thank you, Mother Ceres, who feeds us, who educates us, who devours us.

But this time...

This time, the mantra sounded hollow.

Almost false.

And that made her even angrier.

Not at Theo.

At herself.

Then, beneath the shadow of the tower, Ceres closed her eyes and repeated the motto that had always been plastered across the school walls, on a white background with black letters:

— The world is constantly at war; peace is merely an accident.

And she decided that she would not allow any accident.

Not with him.

Not with her.

Not while she could keep watch.

When she opened her eyes again, a warm tear threatened to fall, but she swallowed it as if it were poison.

Because no one — no one — would see that she too was rusting on the inside.

Not him.

Especially him.

On the Simulated Guerrilla Warfare Field

— Pay attention, because today is not a day for games, you little shits — the teacher's voice echoed through the gymnasium, firm, loaded with strategically placed profanity meant to educate and humiliate at the same time. — Today you're going to prove you're not just well-dressed little monkeys. Today is a simulated field.

The screen behind him illuminated the briefing: a succession of images of foreign weapons, detonators, improvised devices, explosive artifacts with colored ribbons indicating safety and disarming. Between one explanation and another, the teacher kicked a case into the corner or slapped the board to emphasize his point.

— This isn't a board game! You have one and a half seconds, ONE FUCKING ONE AND A HALF SECONDS, to identify and take down a stationary target! Whoever can't do it can already ask mommy Mother Ceres to hold them, because on Sunday they'll swallow you without even chewing!

The sixty best were arranged in rows. The others, under fifteen, still mentally unprepared for that, watched from the stands. Among the sixty were Theo, Cors, Vanks, Dru, Ana, and Ceres — all attentive, each with their own particular tension.

Ceres did not blink.

She hunted Theo with her eyes like a dog trained to sniff out blasphemers. Every breath he took seemed to her a crime, a secret affront against Mother Ceres. Somewhere inside her, there was a trace of fear, a tiny part begging: Theo, no... not him... — but it was buried beneath a fierce, almost religious jealousy. Theo was not Mother Ceres. He was not hers. He could not be.

When the fury was almost making her heart beat in her throat, the teacher's voice pulled her out of the trance:

— Ceres. Front.

She straightened her spine like a whip.

— You lead the girls.

A heavy silence.

— Theo, you lead the boys.

A shiver went through the gymnasium.

Her eyes met his for a second, like two blades crossing. Theo did not retreat, did not smile, did not blink. Neither did she.

— You'll divide the teams, coordinate the bastards, and mediate when necessary. The field won't wait for you.

On the simulated field, an enormous fifty-by-fifty-meter maze stretched out before them. Movable walls of wood and metal, markings on the ground, stationary targets in random positions, all painted white with red dots.

Paintball guns checked, magazines, light uniforms, face protection.

The orders were given: each leader received a clipboard with the names. They divided into four groups of fifteen, spread across each corner of the maze. Everyone wore black ribbons on their arms, except one group — those designated to simulate the traitors, marked with red ribbon around the biceps.

And, of course.

Theo was placed in the traitors' group.

Red ribbon, pulled tight around his arm, like an open wound.

For Ceres, there could be no coincidences.

Not with him.

When the whistle blew, the groups began moving like snakes between the walls of the maze, firing paint shots that ricocheted with dry snaps, hitting targets, missing, reorganizing.

The teachers, from the tops of the observation towers, shouted orders and comments:

— Faster, Vanks!

— Cors, you shot an ally, idiot!

— Ana, focus on the target, not your tits!

— Theo... — and a pause. — ...Theo, you already know. Don't disappoint me.

And Ceres, already inside the maze, sank deeper and deeper into that resentful, almost sick jealousy, becoming more tense with every shot he fired, every movement, every breath.

Because at that moment, in that maze, with that red ribbon, he wasn't just Theo.

He was an enemy.

And inside, she already felt it: if necessary, she would not hesitate to pull the trigger.

The Maze

The maze was becoming quieter and quieter.

One by one, they fell.

The paint guns emptied their magazines. Black ribbons accumulated on the ground, alongside exhausted bodies.

Only he remained.

Only she remained.

Theo moved slowly, breathing controlled, eyes alert at every corner — as if he could sense a traitor just by smell.

The teachers were no longer shouting above.

Now it was only him, her, and the pulse of Mother Ceres echoing through the walls of the maze.

A corner.

A narrow corridor.

And then... he stopped.

His instincts told him the enemy was close. So close he could hear the light footsteps on the plywood, the scratching of fingernails against the wood.

Theo leaned against the wall and slowly turned his head to peek — nothing.

Nothing but silence.

He didn't know it, but on the other side, only a few meters away, she was also leaning against the wall.

With her back to him.

She could sense him by his smell, by the warmth suspended in the stuffy air of the gymnasium.

She hated that smell.

She loved that warmth.

Theo took a deep breath, closing his hand around the gun's grip.

Ceres smiled.

And ran.

Her feet struck the side wall of the maze like two whips. One, two, three ascending steps — the tips of her fingers found the upper edge, and she, with the mastery that made her Mother Ceres' fiercest daughter, propelled herself over the maze.

Up there, for only an instant.

On the other side, Theo only had time to hear the soft thud behind him.

When he turned, it was already too late.

A sharp POP!

Red paint exploded across his shoulder blade.

A direct hit.

— Out! — one of the officials shouted from the towers, as the siren echoed immediately afterward.

Ceres slowly lowered the gun, her eyes fixed on his.

Theo raised his hands, surrendering, but without taking his eyes off her either.

She came down from the small jump lightly, her eyes flashing with triumph and... something else.

Something deeper. Darker.

She approached close enough for him to hear her breathing.

And then, in a whisper meant only for him:

— I told you that you are not Mother Ceres.

And she turned her back, marching through the maze toward the meeting point, leaving Theo alone with his defeat and the paint running down his shirt.

Theo left the maze with the fresh paint still staining his shoulder.

Ceres was already with the other winners — serious, arms crossed — but she couldn't hide a faint breath of pride.

He walked toward the officials' table, his gaze burning.

— That was cheating — he snapped, pointing at Ceres. — She climbed over the maze. She didn't follow the route!

The teacher — a tall man in a dark uniform with a hard expression — slowly raised his eyes from the clipboard.

Theo did not back down.

— The instructions were clear. The rules...

He didn't finish the sentence.

The teacher dropped the clipboard onto the table, walked toward Theo with heavy steps, and, in one sharp movement, grabbed him by the collar.

Every student, even the younger ones, stopped to watch.

The silence on the simulated field was almost absolute.

The teacher brought his face close to his and said, his voice rough as sandpaper:

— In a war, boy... there are no rules.

And he released him, pushing him slightly backward.

Theo stood there, feeling his collar crumpled, his cheeks burning, his pride more wounded than his painted shoulder.

Ceres did not look at him.

She merely adjusted the black ribbon around her arm and raised her chin — as if she already knew what the teacher would say.

And deep down, Theo knew it too.

Mother Ceres never had rules — only winners and losers.

Theo said nothing more. He remained there, collar crooked, his breath caught in his throat.

The teacher was already returning to the table, shouting orders to collect the paint guns and reorganize the teams.

Ceres, meanwhile, went toward the winners' corner without even casting a glance at him.

And that hurt more than the reprimand.

Theo sat on a bench nearby, alone, his fingers still clenched into fists. He could smell the paint powder in the air, mixed with sweat and the cold cement of the floor.

A knot in his chest. An uncomfortable heat in his face. But he would not let it show.

He looked at the maze in the center of the simulated field — now silent, empty.

The paint marks on the wooden panels looked like fresh scars.

And in each one, he saw her face, the jump over the wall, the snap of the paint against his back.

He heard the teacher's words again in his head: "there are no rules."

Theo rested his elbows on his knees and stared at the floor, his gaze hard, trying to contain the tightness in his throat.

Inside, a mixture of frustration, anger, shame.

But buried deep — very deep — there was something else too.

A pang of respect. Against his will.

He raised his eyes. There she was, in the distance. Her back turned, the black ribbon still tied around her arm, her hair firmly tied at the nape of her neck.

And there, in that silence that belonged only to him, Theo promised:

one day, he would climb even higher than she had.

Even if, for that, he had to forget all the rules.

—

When he left the locker room, the field was already almost empty. Paint was still dripping from the panels and the acrid smell still hung in the air.

Daime was there, leaning against a wall, his wheelchair stopped in a dark corner — as if he had only been waiting for that moment.

And he didn't waste any time:

— It's four to zero for the doll over there, huh, Theo! — he said loudly, his voice echoing through the corridor, loaded with mockery and derisive laughter. — On the simulated field... in the courtyard dribble... in that sweep that made you fall like a sack of potatoes... and today, again, on the simulated field!

Theo walked past him without looking away.

But Daime didn't stop:

— Champion again... what a shame, man. And you used to be my substitute in Flagball, remember?

You're not the same anymore, Theo.

You're not the same.

The last sentence was spoken in a lower tone, almost intimate. Like a razor driven between the ribs.

That one, Theo felt. Felt it deeply.

He stopped for a second, as if he were going to answer... but didn't.

He merely hardened his expression, took a deep breath, and kept walking.

— That's exactly it — Daime added, now to himself, as if grumbling just for the sake of grumbling, while the little wheels of his chair squeaked against the polished floor. — You're not the same anymore.

Theo disappeared at the end of the corridor without looking back.

And Daime's laughter remained echoing — with that taste of poison and truth at the same time.