Future Changes — Chapter 5 part 3

The mentors were already whispering that she had two paths: the Financial District of the city of Ceres, where she would be an invisible piece in the calculations that sustained order; or the chemical factories, where her manual precision would be refined until nothing remained but function.

Dru did not know which fate she preferred. Maybe neither. Maybe both. What mattered was that, for now, no one paid much attention to her. Mother Ceres watched her from afar, like someone monitoring a plant that had not yet flowered.

But one day she would bloom.

And she would be harvested.

Until then, Dru would continue feeding small vanities, trading secrets for a smile. Because it was the only way she could feel alive — before being devoured.

The Weight of Brass

Dru did not remember exactly when she came up with the idea of brass coins. Maybe it was after seeing so many girls hiding cigarettes beneath their skirts, trading favors for empty promises. Favors evaporate, she thought. But brass doesn’t. Brass has weight. It has color. It has a face.

And it was the face of Mother Ceres stamped onto her little coins.

She made each one patiently, scraping brass from the old locks of the school, shaping the pieces in the laboratory, polishing them carefully until they shone like pocket-sized reliquaries. On the back, a simple inscription: “She feeds us, educates us, devours us.” It was more than a motto.

It was collateral.

The coins were not authorized, of course. But they worked better than any official order. When someone needed a forbidden cassette tape, perfume, or a cigarette, they handed over a Dru coin. And Dru recorded everything in her Green Notebook — a relic covered in worn leather, where she recorded every transaction, every backing, every debt and credit, as if it were an accounting prayer.

It wasn’t just barter.

It was trust.

What began with two coins became fifty.

Then a hundred.

Soon, the notebook became the school’s economic bible. If someone tried to cheat, they couldn’t even buy an eraser.

But Tycho... Tycho was starting to get in the way.

Theo’s younger brother, Tycho had skilled hands and a sharp tongue. While Dru devoted herself to creating a system of order — currency, notebook, rules — Tycho preferred the chaos of makeshift repairs. He fixed broken cassette players, invented new versions from old parts, and sold them for half the price.

Cassette players were the gold of the school. Forbidden music was worth more than beekeeping honey.

And Tycho knew it.

Every player he repaired was one less customer for Dru. And he made a point of reminding her with a mocking smile.

— Brass little coins, Dru? — he had said once, adjusting a cassette player patched together with electrical tape. — While you count coins, I make them spin.

Dru hated Tycho, but she couldn’t ignore that he was good.

And that irritated her more than the competition.

He did not respect the ritual.

He did not understand the weight of brass.

What Tycho did not know — or pretended not to know — was that all his sales still passed through the Green Notebook.

Because, in the end, nobody trusted promises.

They trusted Dru.

And her coins.

But for how long?

Dru knew it was only a matter of time before Tycho tried to break her system. He didn’t need to create coins; he only had to dismantle hers, one by one, until the school forgot what it meant to have real backing.

And when that happened, when promises were once again carried away by the wind, Dru would be the only one left feeling the weight of brass in her hands.

The Black Dog of Arcadia

It was night in Ceres. The stadium was already lighting up with colors, sounds, and flags for the big game against the athletes from Arcadia. The streets, by rule and by fear, were empty. No one wanted to be outside when the bells rang to announce the arrival of the armored train.

The train tore through the darkness with a metallic roar, sparking around the curves before stopping at the central platform.

One by one, the Arcadian athletes stepped down: arrogant young men, wearing green and gray uniforms, chewing gum, laughing loudly, mocking the silence of Ceres. None of them seemed to notice — or care — about what was happening behind them.

A special compartment, without identification, was opened in the shadows. Two masked men, who did not look like athletes, pushed out a black box made of thick metal, with vents covered by grilles.

Inside, there was only one sound: a low growl, heavy with hatred, and a pair of phosphorescent eyes trapped in the darkness.

Without saying a word, the men unlocked the grate and stepped back.

Two black dogs with red eyes leapt out.

They were far too large to be ordinary dogs. Fur tangled like pitch, heavy paws scraping the concrete. They were muscles and condensed rage, mouths foaming, teeth clacking like blades. Creatures closer to a punishment than a living being.

They did not attack anyone on the platform.

They did not even look at the Arcadians.

They shot silently down the deserted street, heading east.

As if they knew exactly where to go.

The masked men locked the empty box back inside the train and disappeared. The athletes did not even look back, too busy with their jokes and the excitement of the game.

In the watchtower, a Ceres sentry followed the scene through his rifle scope. He saw the shadows cross the street like two demons released from hell.

He knew they were not ordinary dogs.

He made a quick radio signal:

— Alert. Ebony Code. Repeating: Ebony Code in the East Zone. Animal loose. Suspected Arcadian sabotage.

Silence on the other end.

Then the calm, cold voice of a superior answered:

— Let the city do what it always does. Close the doors. Lock the children inside. Let Mother take care of her own.

And the black dogs ran.

They ran with a purpose.

Not by instinct, but to carry out an experiment.

A test.

A warning that Arcadia’s hatred of Ceres knew no limits.

In the dark streets, the only sound was the scratching of their claws against the asphalt.

Ceres Stadium — Game Night

The stadium pulsed in unison beneath the cold lights. Thousands of voices echoed her name like a living mantra.

High above, in her box, Mother Ceres watched the field like a lioness stalking her prey.

Her children played for her.

Only for her.

Beside her, seated as a matter of diplomatic courtesy, the Arcadian leader, Gots, was sweating cold. In front of him stood an imposing table filled with the finest delicacies Ceres had to offer — gleaming fruits, tender meats, wines thick as blood.

Mother Ceres smiled beneath the dark mask, which reflected Gots’s distorted image.

— Don’t be intimidated, Gots — she said in an almost maternal tone. — Everything here comes from my lands. The entire continent buys from us. We are the best. But... as you already know... I never eat outside my home.

Gots merely nodded, crushed beneath the weight of her gaze.

Ceres leaned slightly forward, predatory eyes, and spoke quietly, but loud enough for everyone in the box to hear:

— Your city could never be better than Ceres. You know that. But you failed at the obvious.

Not because of ambition — ah, ambition is welcome. It is one of our pillars.

But because of greed.

Stupid greed.

That is what made Arcadia what it is today.

She raised her glass, a cold smile on her lips:

— You divided the country we came from for power and money.

We inherited the shame.

And the courage.

But we are not ungrateful.

When you return home, I will send donations of medical supplies.

We have never been ungrateful to our... “Father.”

But he hates us.

Because we are better.

Bastards, yes.

But better.

She laughed softly and cruelly before continuing:

— You always liked giving obscene names to things, didn’t you?

Your neighborhoods, your streets, your machines... everything with phallic names, pride stamped into iron and steel.

You were the ones who globalized the continent.

Who shaped it with hammer and fire.

And I say this without irony: you were... fantastic.

Three hundred years ago.

A heavy silence fell over the box.

Mother Ceres leaned back, savored the moment, and drove her gaze into Gots like a stake.

— Except you failed at the obvious.

It wasn’t stupidity.

Nor poor administration.

You forgot to have children at home.

To share responsibilities.

To teach successors.

You thought you would live forever, with your sexual organs in your hands, dazzled by your own virility...

She rose, staring at the packed stands, where thousands of voices screamed her name.

— We are the opposite.

Our vagina produces children.

That is why they call me Mother Ceres.

I achieved the divinity you never dared imagine.

I dared more than all the invented gods put together.

— Fools — she murmured, almost tenderly.

The box grew dense, as if the air weighed tons.

Her faint smile remained, her eyes fixed on the field, as though the city were playing for her.

Gots, crushed into his chair, clenched his fingers around the edge, his knuckles white. With every sentence, every metaphor of blood, sweat, and semen, she stripped away another thread of his dignity.

He took a deep breath, trying to compose himself. He smoothed his jacket in a curt gesture and cleared his throat:

— It is... remarkable... the way you have learned to speak — he said, somewhere between venom and praise. — A people that only a few centuries ago ate from our hand now thinks it bites the hand that fed it.

Mother Ceres turned toward him for the first time that night.

Absolute serenity.

The dark mask reflected Gots like an opaque mirror.

— We don’t bite, Mr. Gots.

We learned how to cook.

His expression hardened.

A disguised murmur passed through the Arcadian delegation — some laughed quietly, others recoiled as if they had been slapped.

Gots realized he was losing control of his own delegation.

— Don’t forget — Gots continued, now with a firmer, almost furious voice — that the tongue you use to insult us is the same one we brought to you.

Mother Ceres leaned toward him, her mask sparkling like a polished blade.

— Yes.

And one day the earth returns to the farmer a harvest he cannot control.

Silence returned, heavy as lead.

Gots felt the humiliation cut through him like a sharp blade.

He straightened, hardened his expression, and said nothing more.

His jaw moved slowly, clenched, grinding with hatred and shame.

He hated those bastards.

Not because they were bad —

But because they were too good.

On the field, the Ceres crowd exploded with euphoria at every play.

And, for the first time, Gots realized something he did not dare confess even to himself:

That city no longer needed them.

The Game — Ceres vs. Arcadia

The stadium pulsed.

Thousands of voices echoed in unison the name of Mother Ceres, while white and golden flags fluttered in the stands.

The smell of wet earth, sweat, and adrenaline saturated the air, mixed with the suffocating heat of the lights and the crowd.

The five from Ceres were on the field: Vanks, Cors, Gene, Theo, and Dark.

They wore the traditional black jerseys with golden details and gray shorts.

They did not exchange glances.

They did not exchange handshakes.

Each carried his own ambition like an invisible weight on his shoulders.

For them, there was no team.

Only victory mattered.

Theo, with his indifferent manner, was already positioned on the wing, ready to receive the ball and start the game.

He said nothing.

He didn’t need to.

Gene adjusted his gloves with a sharp snap and exchanged a brief glance with Dark, who pretended not to notice.

Cors cracked his neck and spat on the ground, a ritual before the opening whistle.

Vanks growled quietly, muttering promises to tear apart every Arcadian who dared touch him.

When the referee blew the whistle, the ball rose into the sky and dropped freely into the center of the field.

The roar of the crowd exploded.

That was when he appeared.

An Arcadian player wearing a red uniform with black trim.

Number 8’s jersey clung to his chest.

Short, agile, fierce.

A red shadow that seemed to move faster than the eyes could follow.

In less than five minutes, he tore through Ceres’s defense twice, humiliating Dark and Cors in the run.

His passes were sharp, surgical.

His spins almost impossible to predict.

It was as if he knew where the play was going before everyone else.

— Who the fuck is that son of a bitch? — Vanks growled, staring at the scoreboard, already showing 2–0 for Arcadia.

Theo merely raised an eyebrow, as if saying: it doesn’t matter.

But inside, he felt something different.

That number 8... wasn’t merely good.

He was a monster.

And Arcadia had never had a monster like that before.

In the stands, Mother Ceres watched with a faint smile, almost maternal.

She crossed her legs in the box, her eyes fixed on the red beast massacring her children on the field.

She knew.

This wasn’t just a game.

It was a message.

A message from Arcadia, poisoned though it was.

And yet, she did not seem shaken.

It was almost as if she were... enjoying herself.

— So you finally made a son... — she murmured, her eyes fixed on number 8.

The ball returned to the center.

And the game resumed.

Faster.

More violent.

The crowd roared.

And the five from Ceres, even separated, knew one thing:

If they did not unite now, that number 8 would destroy them all.

Arcadia’s number 8 was a predator.

He didn’t just play well — he played with cruelty.

One sharp spin, one leap, and Dark flew through the air like a rag doll, landing on his back on the artificial grass with a crack that made half the crowd hold its breath.

The referee blew the whistle immediately.

Foul.

Warning for number 8.

The Arcadian merely raised his eyes, apathetic, as if he didn’t care about anything happening around him.

His metallic gray eyes fixed on Theo with an almost inhuman indifference.

Dark, still dazed, got up, supporting himself on his own legs, spitting blood from the corner of his mouth.

He shook his head, staggering, and growled:

— I don’t need anyone to defend me... anyone.

But Theo could not hold back.

He took two firm steps toward number 8, his palm pressing against the opponent’s chest and shoving him hard.

The crowd exploded into boos and cheers at the same time.

Number 8 stepped back once, without reacting.

Like a machine without feelings, he merely blinked, impassive, incapable of caring that he was being confronted.

Still, his eyes followed Theo with a cold gleam — a silent promise.

The referee did not hesitate:

A warning for Theo as well.

Dark straightened, supporting himself on one knee, and muttered quietly to Theo, his voice still hoarse:

— Stay out of this. That bastard doesn’t scare me. Take care of your own part, Theo.

Theo did not answer.

He only stared at him for a second, realizing that despite the harsh words, something in Dark was broken at that moment.

Number 8 had not merely knocked Dark’s body down.

He had crushed his pride.

In the box, Mother Ceres intertwined her fingers, her eyes fixed on the field, and smiled faintly.

— Ah, my children... learn to unite, or you’ll be devoured one by one.

The game continued.

But the air was denser, more aggressive.

The crowds grew more inflamed.

And Theo, feeling that empty gaze from number 8 always directed at him, knew one thing:

That man was not there to play.

He was there to destroy.

Near the end of the first half, Arcadia’s number 8 remained hellish.

He swept everyone aside as if they were children.

The crowd was already shouting his number like a villain worthy of the title:

— EIGHT! EIGHT! EIGHT!

But Theo would not back down.

On the next play, he targeted him.

He came in fast, low, calculated, and took him down with a hard foul.

The two rolled across the field, the whistle shrieking, the crowd roaring in a mixture of boos and cheers.

Number 8 remained on the ground for a moment, breathing heavily, his eyes fixed on the stadium ceiling.

Theo got up first and extended his hand.

The Arcadian hesitated.

And then accepted it.

He was heavy.

Iron muscles.

But Theo noticed something else:

He could feel.

He groaned.

He fell.

As he pulled him up, Theo murmured quietly, only for him:

— You’re strong... you’ve got grit. But not more than me.

For a moment, number 8 stared at him with those metallic eyes, a muscle twitching at the corner of his jaw.

He said nothing.

He simply stood there, rigid as a statue, chest heaving.

And that was when Theo heard it.

Something small.

A sharp sound, almost a moan — but not masculine.

Feminine.

Thin.

As if it had come from the throat of number 8 himself.

Theo frowned.

He released him slowly, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up.

But he said nothing.

The final whistle of the first half echoed through the stadium, and the teams retreated to the locker rooms beneath an explosion of screams and chants.

In the stands, Mother Ceres did not take her eyes off Theo and number 8.

An enigmatic smile curved her lips.

— Oh... so you feel it too, don’t you?...

In the tunnel, Theo could still hear the echo of that feminine moan in his mind.

What the hell are you, number 8?...

The locker room was tense, as always.

Dark and Cors argued near the showers, the adrenaline of the first half still burning through their veins.

Dark, with a cynical smile, nudged Theo:

— So, Theo? Why the hell did you pull that Arcadian up after taking him down? Going soft, or are you scared?

Cors crossed his arms and grumbled:

— It really was strange. Everyone saw that he almost took you out of the game.

Theo rolled his eyes, ready to cut off that stupid conversation, but before he could answer, the coach entered with a look that froze the room:

— Enough. You need to focus. The second half is more important than any stupid fight.

Dark shrugged, but couldn’t help himself:

— Fine, coach, but tell me something: when are you going to get with the two of them, Dru and Ceres? Those whores... You can’t just keep wanting them, right?

The locker room froze.

Theo’s expression hardened, anger stamped across his clenched jaw:

— Dark, cut that shit out. This is a game, not your shitty dive bar.

But Dark only laughed, a crooked, provocative smile, spitting venom:

— Oh, go fuck yourself, Theo! You afraid to face reality? Or are you just trying to play the good boy?

Cors tried to intervene, but the tension was already gasoline on fire.

The two were half a step away from shoving each other when the coach stepped between them, hand raised, his voice cutting like a blade:

— Shut up, you two! It’s practically superstition: every time you fight at halftime, we win in the end. Let’s hope today is no different.

Silence imposed itself, heavy.

— The first half was horrible — the coach continued, staring at Theo — there’s no way the second can be worse. The worst is already done.

He paused, his voice dropping a tone, heavy with expectation:

— Theo, what the hell is this? You need to read number 8’s behavior, goddammit! A leader isn’t someone who knows how to shout orders. A leader is someone who can see the enemy’s mind. Find his weakness. That’s where we’ll win or lose.

The silence that followed was denser than the concrete surrounding them.

Dark did not miss the opportunity:

— Now that’s more like it, coach. Let’s see if the leader is up to the task.

The second-half whistle sounded, and the stadium exploded in a roar muffled by visors and the brutal impact of the ball.

Theo looked directly at Arcadia’s number 8.

He seemed different.

Slower.

His movements less precise.

Theo shouted:

— F! F! F!

The fatigue code.

Simple.

Cruel.

But now, a spark setting the team ablaze.

Number 8 barely moved, his dark visor hiding his eyes.

But when their gazes crossed — even behind the opaque visor — Theo noticed something.

It wasn’t just exhaustion.

It was fear.

Cold, deep, suffocating fear.

Theo smiled inside.

That was it. The moment.

— We’re not going to let him get back up — he thought, feeling adrenaline devour his chest.

On the bench, Dark smiled, his eyes burning with anticipation.

Cors was already positioning himself to enter with the fury of someone waiting to pounce.

The game continued, time ran on, and the fear of number 8 began to rot inside him.

Theo gave him no space.

He advanced like a tractor, breaking through the defense.

He passed number 8 as if he were air, knocking him down again with the coldness of an executioner.

Without hesitation, he extended his hand and helped him up.

His gaze remained fixed.

Piercing.

But again, like a whisper among the crowd, Theo heard it.

That moan.

Soft.

Feminine.

Mixed with the roar of the stands.

He ignored it.

Fear had no place on the field.

He shouted to the team, his voice hoarse and cutting:

— M! M! M!

The fear code.

The message: he’s already falling.

The Ceres team absorbed the message like fire through dry straw.

The tension exploded into action.

They knew it was now or never.

And the crowd... the crowd was delirious.

The stadium vibrated as if it were alive.

And number 8, that monster from Arcadia, was beginning to become what he had always been:

A heavy body, afraid, trying to resist the inevitable.

The Second Half — Ceres Massacre

The second half was a massacre.

The Ceres team ran them over without mercy: fast, violent, precise plays.

Theo felt as if number 8 had lost his soul — trembling, looking at him like a cornered animal.

A tractor in the first half, now a baby carriage.

Dark did not miss the chance.

He passed him and shoved him, knocking him to the ground again.

A warning for Dark.

He didn’t care, laughing with contempt.

On the next play, he almost got sent off.

Number 8 could barely remain standing under the pressure.

The final whistle sounded with the rout:

Ceres 8 x 3 Arcadia.

The stadium exploded in euphoria — flags raised, chants for the city and Mother Ceres.

Theo walked toward number 8, still panting in the middle of the field, and extended his hand to greet him.

Before their fingers could touch, Dark slapped Theo’s hand downward, furious:

— Fuck, Theo! Don’t shake an enemy’s hand! You going soft now? Want to kiss him too?

Number 8 took two steps back, his eyes hidden behind the visor, and then chaos erupted among the players.

A full-blown brawl.

Substitutes, referees, and officials rushed in to break up the fight, but it was too late: punches, elbows, shoves in every direction.

In the middle of the chaos, number 8 ran alone toward the locker-room tunnel.

He disappeared.

When the brawl was contained, the two teams were forced to return to separate locker rooms, still trading insults through the air.

In the Ceres locker room, the adrenaline was still boiling.

Dark cursed the opponent, spitting on the floor.

Cors threw his towel onto the bench, irritated.

Gene applied ice to his shoulder.

Theo sat in silence, still thinking about number 8’s gaze.

Something was wrong there.

Something he could not get out of his head.