“Can’t you see my heart?”
— Genesis, Mama
Just three kilometers from the border with Arcadia and Silencium rises the Military Academy of Ceres, surrounded by fields of wheat and soy, and by apiaries. An educational monolith for five thousand students — youths between ten and nineteen who learn not the origin of things, but their function: the usefulness of knowledge, the efficiency of the mind, the mechanics of the human spirit to serve and perform. At the back of the academy, a rail station for armored freight and transport trains.
The academy has no walls. To the north, a vast field of low, flowering vegetation in soft hues, interrupted only by an old military plane abandoned more than a year ago — a monument without a plaque, a warning without a caption. To the south, a huge courtyard where, every morning, the anthem of Ceres echoes in chorus, a rite of submission and pride.
To the right of the courtyard, atop a massive pedestal, flutters the dark-gray flag of Ceres: two crossed keys, symbolizing the ovaries of Mother Ceres — the fertile guardian, the master key who molds her children to be potent, agile, loyal, and never abandons them. Behind the pedestal, a barbed-wire fence separates the courtyard from the Flagball field and other violent sports, where pain, blood, and victory are trained. To the north stands a monumental swimming gymnasium, as cold and severe as the rest of the city.
The main building dominates the center of the grounds: brutalist, in black marble and red brick, with three solid floors, 100 by 90 meters, inner courtyards, sand-colored walls, and heavy wooden gates. At the heart of the academy, a covered cafeteria where everyone eats — and everyone is watched — at long wooden tables under rows of austere lamps.
It was there, after yet another game won on the strength of hatred, that Theo, at seventeen, sat down for lunch. He wore the beige shirt common to all and the academy’s dark-gray military jacket. Three nails on each hand painted black — a detail no one mentioned, but everyone noticed. At his side, Tycho, his younger brother, thirteen, in a similar uniform, save for subtle differences only Theo could see.
Tycho grumbled about the food.
— It’s cold… he muttered, pushing the tray.
Theo raised his eyes, cold and firm:
— Ugly thing to complain about Mother’s food — he retorted, sharp, making it clear that at that table no one spat on Mother Ceres’ plate.
Across from them, Gene, another player, all his nails painted black, chewed in silence, staring into nothing. Around them, players fresh from the game seethed. There were no smiles; only clenched teeth, hard stares, tense shoulders. They glared at each other from across the room, waiting for an excuse to turn the courtyard into a ring.
Hatred hung in the air like a smell, like heat between the tables. With each spoonful, it felt like they were chewing the wood itself. Each one, a chained dog, ready to bite. Because there — in that academy, in that city, in that world — nothing grew without the fertilizer of rage.
That was when Dru appeared in the cafeteria, like a blond lightning bolt in the gray. Short hair, brushed carelessly to the side under the gray uniform cap, skin white as chalk, nails black as coal. Undoubtedly the most made-up of them all — matte lipstick, heavy mascara, cheeks with a tint that didn’t come from the factory. Dru was both chemist and artist; she made her own cosmetics from kitchen scraps, losses from supply trains, whatever she could find that no one wanted. In Ceres, nothing was wasted — every loss repurposed, every waste reused, everything turned into a weapon.
Her uniform was the same beige and gray as everyone else’s — but bore an embroidered patch on the lapel: MOTHER CERES, seal of devotion and pride. She had a style all her own, never transgressing far enough to be punished. At sixteen, she already understood how to survive the concrete jungle without losing grace or dignity.
And more: she was the best-smelling girl in the academy.
Not that the others smelled bad — in Ceres, hygiene was an obsession, and all exhaled the same neutral, clean scent — but Dru smelled different. Something floral, sweet, soft… something she distilled in secret, drop by drop, just to remind everyone she was Dru.
Dru wasn’t just pretty. She was a broker. In Ceres there were no shops and no money. There was barter. Trade. Sexual favors, dirty jobs, information, rare objects, a bit of lipstick made in a clandestine lab. Dru was the middlewoman of it all, every deal ending up in her gray notebook, scribbled and organized in her own codes.
She approached Theo’s table with a faint smile and direct gaze. Her boots clicked on the cold floor as she stopped beside him. Theo sensed her first by smell — that perfume slicing through the haze of hatred hanging over the table like a scented blade. She had that effect: she arrived, and for an instant, everyone remembered they were still human.
Dru set the notebook on the table and leaned in, casual, but close enough for only him to hear:
— If you want to trade that medal from yesterday… I know how to pay — she said, voice low and suggestive.
Her finger slid lightly near the medal hanging from Theo’s jacket pocket, without touching it. Her eyes, however, said it all.
Theo answered on autopilot, hard and cold, his mind still burning with thoughts of beating the Flagball idiots who had taunted him:
— I’m not selling anything.
His voice came out harsh, but Dru’s scent still burned in his nostrils. And deep down, a part of him — the one he never showed — wondered how much it would really cost to be bought by her.
Silence fell over the table. All the players stopped chewing. Spoons hovered in midair. No one dared even breathe.
Theo had never been cowardly with her. Not when everyone else either feared or coveted her. Never a harsh gesture, never a curt “no.” He always listened, respected, knew how to negotiate without yielding or crushing. That was why, in that instant, all eyes at the table turned to Dru, waiting for an explosion.
But she only smiled. A small smile, almost imperceptible, but without anger. Something no one else understood — only she did. She found it sexy.
To her, Theo was still Theo: hard, fair, reliable. That was how she wanted him. And one automatic response of hatred wouldn’t change that.
Theo took a deep breath and blinked, returning to the present, shaking the Flagball ghosts from his head.
— Sorry — he murmured to her, barely audible.
Dru raised an eyebrow, accepting the apology without words, and straightened to leave.
That was when Dark showed up. Dark — always a vulture lurking, always in Theo’s shadow. Tall, thin, handsome, hair shaved on one side and falling on the other, eyes dark as tar, that dirty smile on his lips. He leaned against the edge of the table, fingers drumming on the wood, eyeing Dru as she walked away.
— Leaving already, doll? — he taunted, voice slick. — Stay here with us… you’ll owe me a talk later.
Dru froze for a second but didn’t turn back.
Theo set his spoon down slowly, the metallic clink echoing like a dry gunshot. He rose, the military jacket stretching across his shoulders, eyes locked on Dark, cold, humorless.
— You know the best thing you can still do for me, Dark? — he said, voice low, heavy as iron. — Is to remember this after Mother devours you.
Dark frowned, confused.
Theo stepped closer, now face-to-face:
— Because after that, man… — he smiled sideways, cruel — …you’ll never see me again.
The silence was absolute. Only the distant clatter of trays in the cafeteria could be heard.
Theo tilted his head, like an animal studying prey before striking.
— And the only reason I’m not breaking you right now — he whispered — is because our Mother hates it. She even molded our hatred with lead. Got it?
Dark stepped back half a pace, forcing a nervous laugh to save face.
Theo sat back down as if nothing had happened, picking up his spoon and resuming his meal.
The whole table exhaled at once.
Dru walked away from Theo’s table with her head high and her heart racing, black nails grazing her notebook as she moved through the cafeteria. Before exiting into the corridor, she cast a sidelong glance at another table in the corner. There sat Ana, perched casually on some boy’s lap, laughing at a joke, pants slightly askew, a calculated sparkle in her eyes.
Ana — who traded sexual favors for the goods she hoarded, who knew how to use her own flesh as currency. Ana — who only had eyes for Daime, the boy in the wheelchair who had pushed her away after the accident because, according to him, he was no longer man enough for her.
Daime, for his part, understood the whole game, saw everything, and felt no jealousy. “At least she’s living,” he would say between drags, with that sewer humor of his.
Dru knew what Ana did with the others wasn’t love — it was need, it was barter. And no matter how much Ana swore she loved no one but Daime, it was in Ana’s hands that Dru burned, night after night, like a lit match. Ana used Dru as she used everyone: as currency. And still, Dru returned.
Not Theo. Theo was different. His silence was comfortable, solid, safe. Theo was the anchor to Dru’s chaos — Ana was the storm. Ana devastated her. And she accepted being devastated.
In the corner, Daime puffed on a cigarette made of who-knows-what, laughing to himself, calling it “blowjob for the devil”, while Ana stole him one last glance full of longing before turning back to play with the boy on her lap.
And Dru went down the corridor, lost between two worlds.