Daydreams of a Traitor and Shattered Hearts - Part 6 Final

Bloody Sunday

The cafeteria was full of voices, cutlery scraping against trays, people coming and going. The routine pretended to be normal.

But not for them.

Ceres was isolated in a corner, like a ghost programmed to chew, swallow, breathe. Her eyes fixed on nothing, noticing no one — not even those who watched her from the corner of their eyes. As if she were a newcomer who had just arrived, indifferent to the world.

Theo too. On the other side of the hall, sitting with his back to everyone, as if existence itself bothered him. A stranger that morning. A stranger to the others — perhaps a stranger to himself as well.

Daime merely watched, a glass of juice in his hand. A depressing spectacle, he thought. Two people who had once liked each other so much now hated each other like spoiled children. They did not even look at each other — as if the mere presence of the other were poison. He sighed, biting into a piece of bread.

Ana, on the other side, was watching them too. When she noticed Daime looking at her, she discreetly raised her middle finger with an almost invisible smile.

Daime laughed to himself.

— I taught her that — he muttered to himself. — Fucking proud.

He finished his juice in one gulp, slammed the tray down, and left. He wasn't going to waste time on that depressing little play.

In the corridor, the morning silence was calmer. The cold breeze carried the scent of the flowers from the empty field outside, mixed with the faint metallic taste of Mother Ceres's air. Everything routine. Everything calm.

Too calm.

He stopped at the main door, crossed his arms, and stared at the horizon — that thin line of gray earth three kilometers away, where Arcadia or Silencium began. No one ever knew for sure.

It was beautiful, he admitted. The open field beneath the clear sky. It almost gave the impression that the whole world was good and peaceful.

He let out a dry little laugh, so no one would hear.

Funny how people could hate each other so much without needing a single shot.

Sunday — and it already seemed bloody enough.

Daime crouched down on the grass, watching the calm horizon of that clear morning. The breeze stirred the flags on Ceres's towers.

He sighed, smoothing his pants out of habit. He felt moisture.

He frowned. “Shit... did the diaper leak?” he thought, with a nervous little laugh.

He ran his hand over it. Then brought his fingers to his nose.

The metallic smell rose into his nostrils like a stab.

Blood.

And that was when the sky roared.

A sound none of them had ever heard — sirens.

A mechanical, hellish scream tore through the entire school. Windowpanes trembled.

He looked up and saw, among the white clouds, a rain of dark dots slowly descending, opening like black flowers:

Paratroopers.

Armed men were coming from the sky.

Daime's heart raced. He fell backward and crawled.

He tried to run toward his wheelchair, his legs shaking, his pants stained.

— They're here... they're here...! — he shouted to no one.

The sirens wouldn't stop.

He ran toward the cafeteria, stumbling over his own feet, nearly crashing into the doors. He threw them open.

— THEY'RE HERE! COMING DOWN FROM THE SKY! THEY'RE HERE! —

Everyone stopped to look at him.

And they saw his condition.

His pants soaked in red up to his knees.

His hands red. Blood spattered across his collar.

He looked as though he had walked out of a massacre.

And no one understood anything.

Not even him.

Before he could say anything else, arms grabbed him.

Theo.

Without a word, Theo lifted him into his arms.

Daime trembled, sobbing, trying to explain:

— They... they're coming down... I saw them... they're coming...!

And then Theo answered, dryly:

— I know. I saw them too.

At that same second, the loudspeakers echoed:

— Everyone to the shelters. Red Code. Red Code. Underground bunkers. Everyone to the underground bunkers immediately.

Trays were abandoned, chairs fell.

Ceres raised her head in the corner. She remained motionless for a moment. Then, finally, she followed the flow like everyone else.

The entire school was swallowed by silent panic.

Only the sirens and the sound of boots running echoed through the corridors.

Daime, in Theo's arms, could only cry.

And in his mind there was only one thought he dared not say aloud:

“It's the end.”

The sirens were still howling.

The school was already collapsing into chaos, screams, boots pounding.

The cafeteria emptied in a stampede of children and teenagers heading toward the underground bunkers.

Theo remained there, standing in the center of the empty hall.

Cold. Firm.

As if the metallic touch of the siren had switched off every emotion inside him.

Only discipline remained.

He looked at Ana, who was helping Daime, now half-conscious.

In a dry, non-negotiable tone, he shouted:

— Take care of him. Don't let him die.

He took two steps and roared, his voice echoing against the tiles:

— GO TO THE BUNKER. NOW!

Ana did not dare argue. She simply nodded, carrying Daime outside.

Theo spun on his heels, his eyes sweeping across every corner, every familiar face.

Then, in a single breath, he called out — like a general summoning his soldiers:

— CERES! CORS! VANKS! KOLS! JUDE! ANI! BEKS! TIRON! VINKS! TURKS! ORON! DEF! LUK! DAN! RIT! KAN! EVERYONE ON THE BEST LIST! COME WITH ME!

— DAGGER OF MOTHER CERES!

And they came.

One by one.

Faithful dogs, trained since childhood for this.

Each one dropped whatever they had in their hands and fell into formation behind him, without hesitation.

All of them. Without exception.

At that moment, they were not students.

They were not teenagers.

They were the city's claws.

The dagger of Mother Ceres.

At the door to the weapons corridor, the teacher was already waiting for them.

An old man, wearing a neatly pressed gray uniform, who still had in his eyes the hardness of someone who had killed far more than he had taught.

He extended his hand to Theo, passing him the leader's insignia.

Their eyes met.

And in that instant... something inside him changed.

There was no trace left of the boy who trained himself to vomit and went to sleep early to forget the pain.

There was no warmth, no doubt.

Only a frozen emptiness deep in his eyes.

The beast Mother Ceres had forged raised its head.

And Theo, now completely a machine, answered without emotion, his voice low, almost mechanical:

— Order received. Ready to execute.

And outside...

The carnage was already waiting for them.

The cafeteria corridor was hell.

Screams. Crying. Dry gunshots echoing outside.

The mass of students ran toward the bunkers — some tripping over one another, some pushing the younger ones forward so they could escape first.

Outside, the clear Sunday sky was already torn apart by black parachutes and gunfire coming from invisible directions.

The Best were already armed — rifles, pistols, short knives.

All without mercy.

Eyes trained not to see children, nor victims: only targets.

Theo raised his weapon and walked down the corridor like a specter.

A shadow appeared in the doorway.

Without hesitation, he fired — an invader dropped dead with a single shot to the chest.

Without pausing, he shouted for everyone to hear above the pandemonium:

— THIS ISN'T A PAINT-BULLET TEST!

(He raised the blood-covered pistol.)

— IT'S REAL! UNDERSTAND? REAL!

The orders came like whips:

— CORSSSS! HOW MANY MEN?

Cors, crouched against the wall, calculating while changing the magazine of his rifle, answered in a dry voice:

— EIGHTY MEN.

The boys of the Best widened their eyes for a second.

Eighty.

Theo did not react. He only clenched his teeth.

— Eighty... Very well.

The column advanced in coordination.

Two by two by two. Squads crouched in the shadows, sweeping the corners with the barrels of their weapons.

The noise in the courtyard was deafening — gunfire, shattering glass, metal against concrete.

When they reached the glass doors leading outside, Theo raised his closed fist: halt.

He looked at the courtyard.

Open field. No cover in the center. A true slaughterhouse.

Armed silhouettes ran around. Bursts of gunfire in the distance.

Crossing it at a run was suicide.

He slowly lowered his fist and, with quick, sharp gestures, signaled:

“DO NOT ENTER. CROUCH. UNDER THE SHADOWS.”

The Best pressed themselves against the walls, beneath the windows.

Shadows upon shadows.

Hearts beating like drums.

Shots still cracked in the distance, but no one knew where they were coming from.

Only the blood could be seen.

Bodies falling here and there.

And the smell of gunpowder had already permeated the air.

Theo looked at each of them — eyes without expression.

It was more than courage.

It was cold obedience.

It was Mother Ceres pulsing through their veins.

They were all grouped together, lined up, without breaking formation — like trained dogs.

They advanced beneath the courtyard's shadows, sliding along walls stained with blood.

Theo led from the front, cold and fast.

Then, amid the chaos, something broke his rhythm:

A teenage girl he knew well — a familiar face, perhaps from the dormitory, perhaps from the pool — fell a few meters from him, struck by a bullet.

Her body collapsing to the ground sounded to him like a trigger.

And then, inside him, something switched on.

Dark.

Red.

He felt the presence.

He felt Mother Ceres taking hold of his spine.

And for an instant he saw the abyss: the Red Prince, his hidden self, emerging like a caged beast tearing its chains apart.

The screams, the gunshots, the orders became a distant cacophony.

The enemy soldiers appeared only as quick flashes — throats opened, weapons torn away, bellies ripped apart, skulls split open.

He could see nothing but red.

And in the red, he laughed.

In the red, he reveled in blood.

In the red, Mother Ceres whispered:

“Go, my son. Go, my prince. Kill for me.”

When everything slowed down, Theo realized.

He was breathing like a cornered animal.

His hands trembled, but held a pistol and a knife crossed over his chest.

Thirty-nine enemy bodies lay scattered across the ground — he had killed almost all of them.

The rest had been taken down by the reinforcement helicopters that descended from the sky, spitting lead.

The remaining soldiers died too quickly to defend themselves.

But not all of them.

One enemy had broken away, running alone toward the flower field at the edge of the school.

Theo realized too late: he was wearing a martyr's vest.

The explosion came suddenly, brutally, devastating part of the courtyard and taking some of Mother Ceres's boys with it.

When the smoke cleared, Theo came back to himself, still panting, still half-drunk on red.

And then he saw.

Ceres.

Ceres, disoriented after the explosion, had become separated from the group.

She was there, far away, alone, far too close to the flower field.

Far too close to the fleeing enemy.

And terror returned to Theo's throat.

He tried to scream, but no sound came out.

Only a silent cry, his heart racing:

“CERES!”

And she was already too far away.

Theo, crazed, felt the Red Prince inside him smile.

Smile blood.

Deep in his chest, in his guts, at his core, Mother Ceres already possessed him completely, feeding his fury, guiding his fingers on the trigger.

He could see nothing but red now.

And then... he saw Ceres.

There, in the same place where they had fought yesterday.

Alone, motionless, facing an enemy soldier.

The man spoke a foreign language that echoed like metallic buzzing across the field.

Ceres understood nothing — but even so, she did not retreat.

There was something in her face, a hardness, a cold gleam, as if she too were possessed.

Possessed like the Mother Ceres of nightmares.

She was... Mother Ceres's tear.

The soldier, already out of ammunition, drew a knife and advanced.

Ceres raised her pistol and fired.

A dry shot to his chest.

The man fell, motionless.

Ceres approached, still pointing the weapon, but he was not dead.

In a second, fast as a snake, he disarmed her and grabbed her by the neck with his enormous hands.

Ceres gasped, her legs already giving out, her eyes closing.

And that was when Theo arrived.

He saw the man's hands around her neck.

The soldier saw him too.

He threw Ceres aside like a rag, then pulled out a detonator — the same type of suicide device they had studied in class.

Theo did not think.

One precise shot to the man's head, before his finger could press the button.

Ceres, startled, breathed heavily on the ground, recovering herself.

Theo reached her in a single leap, grabbing her by the collar of her uniform, his eyes blazing.

And he shouted, his voice possessed by rage:

— NEVER BREAK AWAY FROM THE GROUP, UNDERSTAND? I'M THE LEADER! ME! I'M THE LEADER HERE!

He let her go and stood there in silence for a moment.

The red slowly fading.

The prince retreating.

Theo fell to his knees, his hands over his face, his breathing broken.

— What have I done, Mother Ceres...? — he whispered, almost crying.

Ceres, still stunned, approached him and, for the first time, looked at him with a different expression.

She knelt beside him, held him by the shoulders, and said:

— You are not a traitor. You belong to Mother Ceres. I knew it. I knew it! Thank you, Mother Ceres!

Right there, in the field stained with blood and crushed flowers, the two remained together.

A red prince and a white tear.

Both children of the same mother.

Inside the bunker, the darkness was cut by emergency lights and the constant sound of muffled sirens.

The air smelled of metal, sweat, blood, and fear.

Children cried in corners, hidden in each other's arms.

Others, sitting down, trembled in silence, eyes wide, while nurses rushed from one side to another with stretchers and blood-soaked bandages.

A war environment.

Ana was kneeling beside Daime, who was breathing deeply, lying on an improvised stretcher.

He was still bleeding from a wound in his thigh, the bandages already soaked red.

His face pale and sweaty, but he... was still joking.

Half-opening his sleepy eyes, he muttered with a half-smile:

— Imagine... half-shot! What a sleepy little thing...

Ana held his hand tightly, furious and frightened at the same time.

She barely answered, simply swallowing hard.

Her stomach twisted at the thought that he could die there, right now.

And worse still, she was afraid of Theo.

Afraid that he would return from combat and discover that she had not taken proper care of Daime.

That he would blame her for him getting hurt.

That he would yell at her again.

That thought hurt almost as much as watching the blood seep out from beneath her friend's uniform.

A nurse approached, making her way through the frightened children, who backed away.

— Take your hand off him, girl. He needs to be treated now.

Ana slowly let go and stepped back, swallowing the lump in her throat.

Daime blinked at her, still sleepy:

— Relax... Ana... I'll be fine... — and closed his eyes, unconscious.

She remained standing there, her eyes burning, feeling the breathing of the children around her, the crying, the distant sound of gunshots still echoing above.

It was war.

And they were all just... children.

O Berço de Sangue

“Nos seios de Mãe Ceres não há leite: ela derrama e alimenta seus filhos com ódio.”

Mãe Ceres sorri sangue.
Criou, educou e danificou seus filhos.
Transformou crianças em máquinas assassinas — cruéis, frias, cheias de rancor.
Como um enxame faminto, eles avançam, e ela se orgulha de seus brinquedos novos.
Orgulha-se de cada corpo despedaçado no caminho, de cada gota que escorre como oferenda.

Mãe Ceres, senhora da guerra das crianças.
Sua engrenagem gira, incansável — uma máquina implacável de moer ossos e carne miúda, que se alimenta de si mesma: devora, ensina, devolve ao campo, e aniquila de novo.
Ela sabe que pode ter filhos infinitos — alimentar, treinar, consumir.
É assim que o sistema pesado funciona.

O mundo, ela repete, está em constante guerra.
A paz? Apenas um acidente.
Por isso Mãe Ceres triunfa, ri, goza em sangue, e segue danificando seus filhos sem remorso.

Em outras terras, existem crianças. Também existem rituais.
Quando um marido ou esposa morrem, chamam o outro de viúvo.
Quando os pais morrem, as crianças tornam-se órfãs.
Mas… quando uma criança morre?
A língua se cala. Não há palavra para o que é tão antinatural.

Mãe Ceres detesta crianças —
Mas banha-se no sangue delas, e ri.

E no fim, ela conseguiu o que queria:
um berço de sangue,
um reino de pequenos assassinos sem nome.