Will they ever see the sky again?
— Jimmy Eat World, “Gotta Be Somebody’s Blues”
The armored trains arrived in silence, bringing crowds summoned to witness the execution. Gene’s condemnation for blasphemy against Mãe Ceres could not go unnoticed. Protocol dictated that every offense be judged and punished in the sector closest to where it had been committed. Thus, children, adolescents, and entire families were forced to gather in D Square, transformed into a ritual stage of punishment.
The place resembled a square mini-stadium, built from black marble, austere and cold. At its center, a rectangle of cobblestones stained by the ashes of old fires — scars left by other pyres. Monoliths of dark stone, without inscriptions, stood along the edges: crude symbols of Ceres’ strength, impassive as sentinels.
At the margins, the Silencers appeared: men in immaculate, dark-gray military suits, their faces hidden behind oval masks with black lenses. There were no eyes, no humanity. Only the suffocating presence of order.
When they brought Gene in, the murmur became a roar. Thin, wearing torn and stained clothes, without his glasses, he looked broken — yet his expression remained firm, like someone who had already accepted his sentence. His feet dragged through dust and charcoal. The humiliation was complete, and still there was something defiant in his silent posture.
It was a night of a waning moon, an ordinary Friday. Nothing special, nothing sacred beyond the execution.
The crowd boiled with hatred. They threw crumpled papers soaked in insults, shouting words as harsh as the flames that were about to consume him. The mantra resounded in unison, from children’s voices to the hoarsest:
“Mãe Ceres, who feeds us, who educates us, and who devours us.”
As the Silencers closed the circle, Gene waited for the moment when the black ground itself would spit fire and take him. He already looked dead before the execution.
The air was dense, heavy, as if even the wind refused to cross D Square. The moon peeked weakly through dark clouds, its light drowned out by the floodlights on the observation buildings. There was no music, no solemn announcement: the architecture itself spoke.
The black marble, polished until it reflected silhouettes, gave the sensation of walking upon a dark mirror. At the center, the cobblestones preserved the stains of past executions. The smell of soot and burned iron permeated the lungs.
The crowd was organized into strict sectors:
children, at the front, accompanied by instructors who recorded their reactions;
adolescents, directly behind them, many carrying notebooks to write down the “lessons” of the execution;
adults, in the stands, dressed in dark gray, as though they were an extension of the stone.
When Gene was taken to the center, chains fixed to the ground forced him to kneel. The metallic sound echoed like a short thunderclap, reverberating throughout the square.
The Silencers, motionless, formed a perfect square around him. Their lenses reflected the flames still sleeping beneath the ground, as though anticipating the spectacle.
Then came the mandatory ritual.
A hidden loudspeaker recited the accusation. The voice was metallic, genderless, inhuman:
“Gene, son of Ceres, has been condemned for blasphemy against the Mother, for subversion, and for contempt of the sacred contract of life. His sentence is fire. Let his body be consumed, and his memory erased. Let Ceres remain indivisible.”
Then everyone raised their right hand over their chest and repeated in chorus:
“Mãe Ceres, who feeds us, who educates us, and who devours us.”
The sound echoed like an earthquake, a hypnotic chant that seemed to pulse through the stones.
It was then that the ground began to tremble. Cracks opened between the cobblestones, releasing threads of white smoke. The smell of sulfur and molten iron filled the air.
Gene, even without his glasses, raised his eyes toward the crowd. He did not beg. He did not scream. He merely let a faint smile escape, almost imperceptible, freezing the roar of the masses for a second. Some instinctively stepped back — not because of the fire, but because of the audacity of that gesture.
With a dry thunderclap, the flames erupted. They rose in abrupt columns, swallowing the condemned. The square lit up red, and the shadows danced violently across the marble walls.
The crowd roared as though watching a sporting event. Children clapped, adolescents shouted insults, adults wept in devotion. But the Silencers, motionless, did not move an inch.
At the center of it all, Gene remained in absolute silence, even as his skin peeled away, even as the flames closed around him like a cage. His only response was to stare into the emptiness above, as if searching for something beyond the waning moon.
And when his body collapsed without strength, the fire had already fulfilled its purpose: to turn a man into ash, and an execution into a lesson.
The flames went out. The square fell silent. The fire had consumed everything: flesh, hair, skin. Only a dark stain of ash scattered across the cobblestones remained.
The Silencers were the first to move. Without haste, in perfect synchrony, four advanced toward the remains. One extended a cylindrical iron container; another gathered the ashes with a short metal shovel. There was no emotion. Only protocol.
From the loudspeaker, the metallic voice returned:
“The condemned has been consumed. His memory shall be erased. His body does not belong to himself, but to Mãe Ceres. Let justice remain.”
Instructors moved through the rows of children and adolescents, recording reactions, correcting postures, reprimanding those who looked away or cried. Some were forced to repeat aloud:
“Mãe Ceres, who feeds us, who educates us, and who devours us.”
The adult audience merely lowered their heads in reverence. There was no applause, no booing — only ritualized acceptance.
As soon as the Silencers sealed the cylinder containing Gene’s ashes, they formed a perfect square once again. Two carried the container toward a hidden exit in the marble wall. No one ever knew the final destination of the remains. Some said they were thrown into the Black River; others, that they became fertilizer for the official crops. The mystery was part of the punishment.
Soon afterward, a sharp signal echoed, marking the end of the event. The floodlights went out, and the square sank into half-light. Iron doors opened at all four corners, and agents guided the dispersal in rows. There was no commotion: everyone knew where to go.
From the top of the stands, an electronic banner flashed in red letters:
“The subversive has been purged. Ceres remains indivisible.”
On the ground, the only trace of the execution was a dark circle of scattered ashes which, with the first wind of the night, dispersed like insignificant dust.
For those who were present, the scene was a lesson. For the official archives, merely another record, reduced to a date-and-sector code:
“Execution 14-D. Condemned for blasphemy. Method: combustion. Carried out at 18:43.”
And so, Gene ceased to exist forever.
Theo was not there.
Nor was Ceres.
He was alone in the empty pool gymnasium, sitting at the edge, staring at his own reflection in the still water.
He hated what he saw there.
He hated the boy who had handed Gene over.
He hated still loving that damned city.
He hated himself.
Then he felt a gentle hand rest on his shoulder.
He turned so quickly that the world blurred — and his hands instinctively flew to her neck, with brutality.
His strong fingers dug into Ceres’ throat.
Her eyes widened in fear.
A fear she had never thought she would feel from him.
For an instant, Ceres thought he would kill her right there, in the shadow of that pool.
For an instant, she wanted to scream — but could only stare at him, helpless.
His breathing was ragged.
His nostrils flared.
His eyes were red.
— Theo…
Her voice was barely a whisper, almost pleading.
— Calm down. It’s me. Ceres… it’s me…
Slowly, he loosened his grip.
His hands slipped from her neck, heavy and powerless.
Theo fell to his knees before her and cried.
He cried like a wounded animal, sobbing, crushed by everything he had done — and everything he could never undo.
Ceres knelt beside him, saying nothing for a moment.
Then she pressed her forehead against his, feeling his tears wet her face.
— It’s not your fault — she murmured, with an almost cruel tenderness.
— You love Mãe Ceres. You are loyal to her. You love Mãe Ceres… the way I love you.
He raised his eyes to her, and for a moment he saw something beyond the pain — a savage, almost feverish desire.
The same beast she had felt in the field, now asking for another form of violence.
Ceres understood what he wanted.
And she wanted it too.
— We weren’t supposed to fight today — he said, his voice hoarse.
— We were supposed to… to be wild, Ceres. Wild, just the two of us.
She said nothing.
She only kissed him with the same fury with which he had gripped her before.
And right there, hidden in a dark corner of the gymnasium, between broken breaths and tears, they gave themselves to each other.
With desire and guilt intertwined.
With love and hatred tangled together.
With the distant sound of the bells of D Square echoing across the campus, announcing that Gene was already burning in flames.
That Mãe Ceres continued devouring her children.
And that they… continued to love her.
[Theo’s Internal Monologue]
The miracle of Mãe Ceres…
She executed her own grandson.
Without hesitation.
Without crying.
Without looking away.
This is not cruelty.
This is perfection.
The absolute proof that the system works.
Infallible.
Ruthless.
Pure.
While the others tremble, question, doubt…
I understand.
I see the miracle behind the punishment.
The Mother does not fail.
Not even with the blood that carries her name.
She feeds us.
She educates us.
She devours us.
And when she devours, she does so with justice.
There are no exceptions. Not even for her own.
Especially not for her own.
I will carry this secret as an offering.
Not with pain — but with devotion.
And when time passes, and memory becomes a joke among those who pretend they do not feel —
I will still know.
I will still honor it.
Because the womb that gave us shelter is the same one that swallows us.
And that, yes… is love.
Mãe Ceres. Always.
After the Fire, the Blue.
The smell of chlorine still lingered in the air.
The distant sound of the crowd in D Square returned in muffled waves through the concrete.
The bells had already fallen silent — Gene was now nothing but ashes scattered by the wind.
Theo and Ceres lay on the cold floor of the gymnasium, side by side, their breathing still heavy.
Their clothes partially disheveled.
Their skin warm, marked by kisses, scratches, and everything they had just done.
Her hair clung to his damp cheek.
Her eyes stared at the ceiling, seeing nothing.
And his were lost somewhere among the shadows.
Inside Theo’s head, the forbidden music echoed like a whisper impossible to silence.
That music Gene had once passed to him on a poorly recorded tape.
Now Gene was gone.
Now he was nothing but dust.
And yet…
Theo felt his hand tremble again just remembering Gene’s quiet smile when they had listened to the music together, months ago, laughing softly, swearing that nothing could ever separate them.
Until today.
Ceres slowly turned her face toward him.
Her neck still bore the marks of his fingers — a bruise that would probably remain for days.
Even so, there was no fear in her eyes now.
Only a soft exhaustion.
And something else.
Something that hurt.
— They came back — she whispered. — It’s over.
Theo blinked slowly, as though her voice came from far away.
Then he let out a weak laugh. A laugh without joy.
— It’s not over, Ceres — he replied, without looking at her. — It never ends.
Ceres took a deep breath.
Her arm slid across his chest, and she nestled against his shoulder, feeling his chest rise and fall beneath her palm.
An uncomfortable warmth.
A flame still alive there.
And an unspoken promise: that when the time came, he would burn too.
The last notes of the music echoed in both their minds, in a silence heavier than screams.
And, in the empty pool, beneath the pale light of the floodlights, Theo closed his eyes —
feeling the scent of her hair mingled with the bitter taste of regret in his mouth.
And he promised himself that, one day, she too would see what it meant to love Mãe Ceres…
until she was devoured by her.
She still won — but he carries something she cannot heal.
She approaches.
Looks into his eyes and whispers:
— Do you think you want me, Theo? Don’t lie to me. You don’t want me.
You want the Mother in me.
You want me to hit you, to humiliate you, to correct you…
You want to smell her on my skin. Admit it.
You only know how to love the pain she taught you to love.
He remains motionless, without an answer —
but an even more savage hatred and an even more confused desire grow inside him.
Empty Gymnasium — Days Later.
The pool gymnasium was silent.
Only the metallic sound of water dripping somewhere echoed beneath the high ceiling.
Theo was there again, in the same place where everything had happened, staring at the distorted reflection on the murky surface of the pool.
Ceres entered without making a sound.
She always knew where to find him.
He heard her before seeing her — the sound of her heels lightly striking the tile, her scent.
His eyes lifted.
For an instant, the mask fell away.
And all she saw was that same silent fury, still burning inside him.
The same fury that had seized her by the neck.
The same fury that had taken her as though she were Mãe Ceres herself.
He said nothing.
He only looked at her.
And in that gaze was an apology — and an accusation.
Ceres, firm on the outside but with her heart stumbling, held his gaze.
She was not humble, she was not weak.
But he made her feel… naked, seen in a way no one else could.
For a second, she thought about walking over to him, touching his shoulder as before.
But something in his eyes said: not yet.
It was as though an electric wire connected them from a distance — each breathing so as not to explode again.
Ceres then broke eye contact, but only for a moment.
Before leaving, she stopped at the door, slowly turned, and looked at him one more time.
Theo did not look away. He only clenched his jaw, as if promising that this was not over.
She understood.
And left, her hands clenched, her heart heavy… and her body still desiring the beast he had been with her.
In the Cafeteria, the Next Day…
The entire cafeteria seemed like a silent courtroom.
Eyes cut into Theo from every direction.
It was not anger — not exactly.
It was that poisonous mixture of envy, fear, and silent respect that only an efficient traitor can draw from others.
Daime was waiting for him in a corner.
His thin, rigid body sat in the wheelchair, his fingers tapping impatiently against the metal.
When Theo finally passed by, Daime opened that crooked smile, without a trace of humor, and spoke loudly enough for everyone to hear:
— You did the right thing, Theo.
You really had to take down that bastard who wanted to fuck with her system.
He paused, his eyes flashing, and added:
— But hey… get in my way one day, Theo… just once… and I’ll get out of this chair running just so I can beat the shit out of you with it, understand?
Nervous laughter echoed across the tables. Some swallowed hard.
Theo stopped, slowly turned his head, and stared at Daime with a cold half-smile, as if saying: try me.
And kept walking.
Daime laughed to himself — a dry laugh from someone who respects a potential enemy:
— That kid is a savage… just like her. Just like Mãe Ceres.
[Scene Between Daime and Theo, by the Wall]
Daime slowly spun the wheels of his chair in circles.
Theo was leaning against the wall, his gaze distant and heavy.
After a few minutes, Daime broke the silence:
— You know everyone used to say it? That Ana and I would be the perfect couple.
The future of the school. The ones who would make Mãe Ceres proud.
He let out a short laugh.
— And maybe… maybe I even believed it, for a while.
Before the accident.
Before this shit here — he slapped the wheels — became my identity.
Theo did not answer.
— But I’m not like you, Theo. I don’t know how to lie to myself.
I know where my life is going.
Maybe I’ll work in some city office, maybe I’ll put out fires in D Square.
It doesn’t matter. Wherever I go, I’ll always be sitting in this fucking chair.
So I don’t feed any expectations about Ana.
It’s not conformity. It’s just that… I understood the game.
And she never will.
Daime turned his chair slightly, as though he were already leaving, but stopped and cast Theo a mischievous look:
— But hey, what about you? — he said, lowering his voice with a half-smile. — Did you fuck Ceres?
Theo took a long time to raise his eyes.
When he did, there was neither anger nor shame — only a devastating exhaustion in his eyes, as though the entire city weighed on his shoulders.
He did not answer.
But that was already answer enough for Daime, who smiled more openly, with a hint of mockery:
— Hah… I knew it.
You really are sick.
And so is she. You two deserve each other.
Daime spun his chair and began moving away, but still called over his shoulder:
— Two years.
Two years and Mãe Ceres will swallow all of us, one by one.
Until then, get used to that pain inside you.
It only gets worse.
And he disappeared down the corridor, leaving Theo alone in the courtyard with the suffocating silence of the school.
[Final Scene — Theo and Dru]
Theo is standing still.
Still with his rigid expression, his hands trembling and dirty with dry earth — but his eyes fixed on the white wall of the south wing, where the sound of the execution still seems to echo.
No tears.
Only memory.
Gene was his friend. His brother. Mãe Ceres’ own grandson.
Dru approaches slowly, without fanfare, without hesitation.
She stops beside Theo without looking directly at him.
She doesn’t need to. He feels her presence.
Theo turns his face — and Dru smiles.
A subtle smile, without showing her teeth. Curved just enough to say what words would never dare:
“He deserved it.”
Not out of resentment.
Not out of revenge.
But for order.
For doctrine.
For Mãe Ceres.
Dru says nothing. She merely rests a hand lightly on Theo’s shoulder — a silent seal of approval.
And moves on.
Theo takes a deep breath, closing his eyes.
Dru’s gesture burns more than the sound of the execution.
But deep down… he understands.
Gene blasphemed.
And in Ceres, even the Mother’s blood may be spilled — if it is impure.