Flagball — Chapter 3

Narration (over the radio, deep, solemn voice, punctuated by applause and crowd noise):

The mother of a million children — Justice — Civilization.

— Ladies and gentlemen from all valley cities, welcome to the central arena of Ceres. Tonight, Flagball is not just a sport — it is devotion, discipline, war with elegance. On one side, our golden Ceres team. On the other, the troublemakers from Arcadia, who dare challenge us in our own home. The stands are packed. No one stays outside when Mother Ceres calls us to defend the honor only She can grant…

The broadcast reaches a small gray dormitory in the central boarding school. Dim light, neatly made bed, aligned shelves. The radio, old but sturdy, vibrates on the windowsill.

Leaning in his wheelchair, legs motionless but posture relaxed, Daime smirks at the solemnity of the announcer. An extinguished cigarette hangs from the corner of his mouth; he shakes his head and mutters to himself:

Daime (muttering, sarcastic):
— Ah, fuck this “granted honor” shit… Let’s see who ends up spitting blood today. Go on, Theo, show this bunch of wimps why I still bet on you, damn it…

With a snap of his fingers, he turns up the volume slightly, resting his elbows on the wheelchair arms, attentive, yet with an air of amused sadism.

The oval field shines under the massive floodlights; a sea of black uniforms with golden details fills the stands. The citizens, lined up in almost religious silence, await the players’ entrance.

A chorus of voices fills the arena, singing the anthem of Ceres in unison, while the flag flutters atop the central mast:

Mother Ceres who feeds us, educates us, and devours us… Mother Ceres who feeds us, educates us, and devours us…

The Ceres team marches to the center of the field, one by one, lining up in a double row, backs to each other.

In the center, Theo, jersey 8, calm but firm expression. To his right, Dark, jersey 9, predator gaze, crooked smile. To the left, Gene, jersey 5, restless, adjusting his helmet with trembling hands. Behind them, Cors (3), frowning, fists clenched. Lastly, Vanks, the goalkeeper (1), solid as a wall, though his cold eyes shoot arrows at Theo.

All raise their left arms over their heads, palms open, fingers vertical. The crowd repeats the gesture in perfect coordination.

For a moment, only the sound of Ceres citizens’ drums and heavy breathing echoes in the stadium.

At the center of the honorary stand, Mother Ceres watches — an imposing figure, shrouded in black veils, her expression impossible to decipher.

When the referee signals the teams to take their positions, an electric tension courses through the Ceres team.

Player dialogue (quiet, during the initial formation):

Dark (9):
— Don’t touch me, worm. Stay in your corner and don’t get in the way.
(cruel smile at Theo)
— I love watching you try to look like a leader. So… pathetic.

Theo (8), cold, not looking at Dark:
— Shut up and play. I don’t need you to like me. I need you to mark properly. Or are you going to throw the game to Arcadia too?

Dark (9), laughing low, venomous:
— Maybe I’ll throw it just to see your failure face.

Cors (3), grumbling as he adjusts his shoulder pads:
— Ridiculous little leader… the one who should be in charge here is me.

Theo (8), dryly, to Cors:
— The day you learn to control your temper, maybe. Until then… follow my orders.

Gene (5), whispering, nervous:
— They… they’re watching us from the stands. The Mother is… watching.

Theo (8), finally raising his gaze to the stands:
— She always is. Never forget that.

Vanks (1), behind, harsh:
— You love talking like you’re her favorite, don’t you? You’re just another pawn, like the rest of us.

Theo, firm, still looking at the stands:
— Maybe. But I’m the pawn who will win the game for Her.

Back in the dorm, Daime lets out a dry laugh, hearing the crowd echo through the broadcast:

MOTHER CERES WHO FEEDS US, EDUCATES US, AND DEVOURS US!

He slaps the chair with his palm and spits on the floor beside him, laughing to himself:

Daime:
— That’s it, damn it. Go on, Theo… hit those sons of bitches and prove to this Mother you’re the only child still worth something.

The starting whistle echoes. The players launch forward like soldiers into battle. War with elegance begins.

The whistle sounds shrill on the field, ending the first half. The scoreboard now shines high in the arena: Ceres 3 — Arcadia 3.

The crowd applauds in unison, repeating the mantra like thunder:

MOTHER CERES WHO FEEDS US, EDUCATES US, AND DEVOURS US!

The Ceres players leave the field in line, still with their left arms raised in the ritual gesture, but their hardened expressions fooled no one. The draw was won by force, but internal wounds remained open.

In the underground locker room, the cold light of the lamps cannot hide the metallic smell of sweat and rage. The doors slam shut.

Dark is the first to speak, pushing Theo with his shoulder as he passes:

Dark (venomous, spitting words):
— This draw is your failure, little shit leader.

Theo spins, eyes flashing. Without thinking, he grabs Dark by the collar and pushes him against the locker, the noise echoing through the room. Cors and Vanks move forward, ready to separate them — or to join the fight.

Cors (growling):
— ENOUGH! Are you going to kill each other in here? Is that it? Want to hand the game to Arcadia?!

Vanks (cold, with disdain at Theo):
— A leader who loses his temper is just another kid playing around.

Theo releases Dark but stays there, breathing heavily, jaw clenched. Dark, still leaning on the locker, smiles with his usual cruelty.

Before the situation explodes, the coach enters the locker room, clapping loudly, whistle around his neck:

Coach (short and sharp):
— SHUT UP, EVERYONE! Sit. Now.

The team sits reluctantly on the benches, each staring at the floor, their own fists, or the void. The coach starts talking about marking, tactics, discipline… but few truly listen. Anger still simmers under the skin.

When the coach finally leaves to organize the return to the field, Theo stands before them, alone. The silence is dense. He looks at each of them, black eyes full of something hard to define — hatred, perhaps… but also ambition.

Theo (low voice at first, gaining strength):
— You hate me. I know. And I hate you too. Each one. Because you’re arrogant, spoiled, hot-headed. A bunch of useless people who only know how to complain.

Some shift nervously. Dark raises an eyebrow, curious.

Theo (continuing, with a bitter half-smile):
— But you know what I hate more? Losing. And so do you. So you can hate me as much as you want, call me pathetic, dream of the day you take my place. But today… today you will play. And you will win. Because if you lose… it’s not just me you’ll dishonor. It’s the Mother.

Gene lifts his eyes, Cors snorts, and even Vanks seems to suppress a murmur. Dark looks at Theo and laughs, but this time says nothing — just stands and adjusts the straps of his uniform.

Theo concludes, stern, staring at them:

Theo:
— Understand this: we don’t need to like each other to win. We just need to win.

The whistle blows again outside, calling the players for the second half.

One by one, they rise and walk toward the door. Tensions haven’t vanished, but they are now sharpened, honed like a blade.

At that moment, the children of Ceres couldn’t stand each other… but they loved victory too much to give it up.

The second half is a massacre.

The Ceres team returns to the field like a unleashed beast, a pack of caged predators finally finding their prey.

Every play more aggressive than the last, the citizens in the stands shouting Mother Ceres’ anthem nonstop, a sea of raised arms in devotion while Arcadia’s opponents collapse, one by one, on the field.

The scoreboard jumps: 4–3. 5–3. 6–3.
Complete humiliation.

And Dark is at the center of the chaos.
Jersey 9, a golden demon. Fast, ruthless, cruel.

With every goal, he looks at the stands and spreads his arms, drinking the applause like an addict craving pain.

In a hard play along the sideline, he collides with an Arcadia player barely standing. Dark falls but laughs as he gets up, facing his rival:

Dark (venomous, to rival, loud enough for all to hear):
— Go home, worm… the Mother doesn’t hand out alms to bastard children.

The Arcadia player flies into rage, shoving Dark hard in the chest, nearly knocking him down again.

Dark smiles, preparing a punch… but before he can react, Theo is there.
Firm arm on Dark’s shoulder, holding him in place:

Theo (low, cold, in his ear):
— No. Not today.

Other Ceres players intervene, separating the teams before the situation explodes.

Dark freezes for a second, smile still on his face. But when he feels Theo’s hand on him, he turns, looking at him with pure venom:

Dark (harsh, growling between teeth, just to him):
— Don’t touch me. Ever.

Theo just stares, holding him until Dark calms down on his own.

The referee, pressured by Ceres’ ritual, gives no punishment.

When the game resumes, the atmosphere remains tense.

Theo and Dark return to their positions on the field.
Natural enemies, each hating everything the other represents:
— One is pure liver — instinct, rage, venom.
— The other is brain — calculation, discipline, strategy.

In common? Only hatred.
Hatred for each other. Hatred for Arcadia. Hatred for anyone who dares taint the Mother’s name.

And that is enough.

The game ends 6–3 for Ceres.
Absolute humiliation.

The entire stadium in trance, shouting in chorus, arms raised to the sky:

MOTHER CERES WHO FEEDS US, EDUCATES US, AND DEVOURS US! MOTHER CERES WHO FEEDS US, EDUCATES US, AND DEVOURS US!

The Ceres players leave the field without looking at each other, but with a silent pact:
They didn’t need to love each other.
They only needed to win.

And they did.

The match was already won, but they wanted more.
Ceres massacred Arcadia without mercy, as always, as expected. Their children no longer played for passion — they played for instinct, discipline… for hunger.

Mother Ceres had molded them this way.
A fair trade: feelings for lead, freedom for obedience.

They sank happily into this trade, incapable of conceiving a world without their Mother.

High in the stands, She watched.
Mother Ceres, always in immaculate white.
Long dress, skirt so vast it hid her feet, making her appear to float.
Fine, translucent gloves rested on the railing like glass petals.
On her face, a crystal crown encircled entirely, descending to the chin — and in the center, instead of a human face, only a dark, polished, oval dome like a black mirror.

A mirror that returned the image of anyone daring to look at Her directly.
Whoever saw the Mother saw themselves.
And hated or loved what they saw.

She tilted her head, always elegant, always silent, enjoying the spectacle below:
Her favorite toys, her most loyal dogs, Theo and Dark.
The brain and the liver.
Reason and violence.
Each hating the other with devotion only She could inspire.

And yet unable to stop.
Demanding more flesh.
Wanting to taste each other’s blood, even while devouring the enemy.

For Her, it was fun.
Because She knew: that’s all they were.
Fun toys.
Soldiers molded for war, for pain, for submission.

There were no imaginary gods in Ceres.
There was only Her.
The Mother who never left her children without answer, without food, without purpose.

Freedom?
Freedom was the enemy.

And they had already learned that the world is constantly at war; peace is just an accident.

Her eyes (or what She had instead of eyes) followed Theo as he held Dark by the shoulder, stopping him from punching the opponent.
She saw how Dark hated that touch.
How Theo hated having to do it.
How both fell silent, knowing She was watching.

And the entire stadium, Ceres citizens, lined up and raised their arms to the sky, in worship, singing the anthem echoing through the colossal structure:

MOTHER CERES WHO FEEDS US, EDUCATES US, AND DEVOURS US! MOTHER CERES WHO FEEDS US, EDUCATES US, AND DEVOURS US!

She remained still, reflecting only the deformed faces of desire and hatred staring at her.

And in the depths of her silent voice, she thought:
My children. My toys. So predictable. So deliciously predictable.

And below, on the field, Theo and Dark played not for glory.
They played because She left no alternative.
And nothing, no one, would ever escape the Mother’s embrace.