The flow of students moved toward the simulated training field.
Identical uniforms: gray military-cut coats, immaculate beige shirts, trousers with rigid creases, black boots that echoed against the ground with every step.
Within that uniformity, each one tried to create some trace of individuality — rolled-up sleeves, open buttons, a discreet handkerchief in a pocket. But no one dared go further than that. Heels, flashy adornments? Social suicide.
Dru stood out because of her haste.
She broke away from the group, dragging her old metal box of trinkets toward the dormitories to the north.
As she passed Theo, she shot him a sidelong glance and fired:
— Don't drag me into your little couple's theater, Theo. I just want to take care of my business.
Theo didn't even turn his head. He kept walking beside Daime, his steps firm.
— That one's going to die counting coins... — Daime muttered with a muffled laugh.
— Better than dying in debt — Theo replied flatly, ending the subject.
Behind them, Ceres walked with impeccable posture. Collar fastened, hair tied back, expression hard. She watched Ana ahead, surrounded by her entourage.
Ana was sculpted to lead: her coat collar half-open, hands in her pockets, boots striking the ground in rhythm like war tambourines.
Noticing Ceres's gaze, she turned her head, a half-smile on her lips, and threw the barb:
— No use following me, darling. Bitches walk behind. Queens lead.
Quiet snickers crackled through the group.
Ceres didn't blink. She answered with poisonous sweetness:
— Don't worry, Ana. I don't follow anyone. I wait for the right moment. Queens fall.
Ana smiled only with her lips, but her eyes hardened.
She turned forward. Her boots kept the rhythm.
But the tension between the two was already palpable.
Daime leaned toward Theo, speaking under his breath:
— When are you two... — he gestured briefly toward Ceres — going to stop this charade and just admit it?
Theo kept his eyes forward, as if he hadn't heard. But the faintest smile appeared at the corner of his mouth, hard and restrained.
Behind them, Dru disappeared between the warehouses, muttering to herself:
Let them kill each other... I just want to sell my junk in peace.
The group moved on. All the same. All different.
Toward the field.
The training field opened like a paved clearing, surrounded by low warehouses and electric fences.
The wind carried the metallic smell of oil, dry earth, and gunpowder.
Rows of metal chairs had been arranged in the center of the yard, and an instructor waited before them — a tall, gray-haired man with an icy stare.
Beside him, lying down, was an enormous dark-coated dog.
Its thick collar held it to a stake driven into the ground, but there was no need for tension in the leash: the animal's sleeping strength was visible, latent.
A true war dog, its tongue hanging from a slow pant, its eyes alert to every movement around it.
The instructor waited until everyone had taken their seats, his footsteps echoing across the concrete until he stopped in the center.
When he opened his mouth, his voice cut through the air like a whip:
— Very well, class. Today's subject: war dogs. Biological weapons. Created and molded to obey without hesitation. And destroy without mercy.
He pointed to the animal beside him, which didn't even raise its head.
— This is K-79. Under my care since he was a puppy. He will not attack you. Today, theory only. — He paused, allowing the silence to weigh on them. — But you need to know what to do... when there is no one around to restrain one of them.
The students' eyes moved from K-79 to the instructor. No one dared whisper.
— In the event of an attack... forget heroism. The dog bites and does not let go. The priority is survival. — He walked slowly between the rows. — Most of you will freeze or scream. The weak die that way.
He stopped. Kicked an empty chair, sending it crashing over.
— Want to survive? Burn this into your minds: if it jumps, go down with it. Wrap your hands around its hind legs... firmly. Don't let go. And throw it to the ground like a rag doll. I repeat: like a rag doll. Slam it into the ground until it loses its breath.
He crouched in front of the dog, mimicking the movement with sharp gestures, as if throwing fifty kilos of muscle to the ground were second nature.
— And only when it lets go, only when it's panting... do you run. Until then, you do not let go first.
He stood. Adjusted his uniform.
— That is today's lesson. Tomorrow, you'll see it in practice. For now... respect the dog. Respect its instinct.
K-79 raised its head, letting out a low growl, as if confirming the lesson.
Glances crossed between the chairs. Fascination and fear.
Theo stared fixedly at the dog, committing every detail to memory.
Ceres watched Theo, serious, her fingers interlaced in her lap.
Ana leaned back in her chair, sighing with boredom.
Dru, in the back, was thinking about coins and sales, as long as nobody bit her.
The wind whistled across the field, carrying away the sound of boots that would soon be marching again.
After the theory, nobody complained. They knew what came next.
The instructor snapped his fingers.
In less than a minute, two long tables were brought into the center.
Across them lay rows of gray rifles, lined up like soldiers. Beside them, open boxes held blank ammunition already loaded into magazines.
— Fall in! — his voice echoed across the yard. — Three rounds. Strip them, assemble them. Blank ammunition. The war hasn't arrived, but it will. And you'll be ready... or you won't be here to see it.
Boots scraped against the ground.
The students formed lines. The ritual was familiar: twice a month, they stripped and assembled weapons as though reciting a rosary. Turn the pin, release the bolt, remove the barrel. Clean, assemble. Repeat. Always timed.
Vank, Cors, and Kan, veterans, did it almost without looking.
Hands like machines: sliding over parts, fitting and locking them into place within seconds.
Theo was no different. His face was neutral, but his fingers danced across the mechanism — without hesitation, without missing a movement.
To the left of the table, Ceres and Ana competed in silence.
Bent over their weapons, they breathed deeply, stripping them with greater speed and precision. Parts struck the table with dry clicks.
One glanced at the other.
The other was already one step ahead.
Obsessive.
Determined.
— Three times! — the instructor bellowed. — Only those who know how to repeat it without failing. The rest... watch and learn.
And so they continued, the metallic sound of weapons being assembled and disassembled blending with the evening wind, like a mechanical choir of devotion.
Deep down, every student felt the same unspoken question: what war were they being prepared for?
And the answer was always the same: the war of everyone against everyone, the war Mãe Ceres said was already happening.
Sweaty bodies. Injured hands. Blood quietly running through the grooves of their palms. Scraped knees. Short, heavy breaths.
That was how weapons assembly and disassembly drills ended — almost twice a month, endless repetition for a war that never came.
The instructor stared down at them from the platform, with the arrogance of a retired general.
— If this were a real war, you'd all be dead before the first shot. A bunch of useless, lazy bastards! — he spat on the ground, his eyes sweeping across the group. — Smell yourselves. Laziness. Lack of motivation. Disgust.
Some lowered their eyes. Others held his gaze out of pride alone.
Theo was among those who remained silent, exhausted but motionless.
Ceres watched him from the corner of her eye. He hadn't been the same since turning Gene in. Weak. A leader who had betrayed one of his own.
— Tomorrow, guerrilla simulation. And next Friday, our traditional hand-to-hand physical test — the instructor announced with a cruel smile. — Let's see who truly deserves to be a leader. And before you ask: yes, it's man against man, woman against woman. Then mixed. No extreme force, of course... we don't want the girls' pretty little faces to become unrecognizable. Man against woman is just for fun.
Some laughed. Others remained silent.
Theo did not react.
— Now get out of my field, you filthy animals! Go to the locker room. Then the cafeteria. And whoever wants to, later, there are supplementary classes in mechanics and engineering. But don't show up smelling of laziness again!
The group dispersed in silence, dragging their boots through the packed earth.
The physical pain was the least of it.
What hurt was the absence of meaning.
They walked in forced silence. Boots dragging across the dry ground. Aching muscles. Burning hands.
Fury began to boil behind their lips before anyone ordered them to be silent.
— Theo, if I were you, I wouldn't sleep tonight — Vanks growled, spitting on the ground. — I swear by the Mother, I'll kill you if you ever turn your back on me.
— I just want to see the look on that bastard's face when they throw his traitor into the fire — Cors shot back, his voice rough. — Better yet: I'll blow your face apart, Theo. Slowly. So I can really see that shitty expression of yours.
Theo did not answer. He marched with his jaw clenched.
Behind them, Ceres and Ana walked side by side, and every word exchanged was a barb disguised as poison.
— That one can't even stand his own shadow — Ana said firmly, looking at Theo but speaking to Ceres. — Porcelain little leader.
— A weak leader doesn't last in Ceres — Ceres retorted, her gaze sharp. — But at least he doesn't live in the shadow of high heels.
Ana smiled from the corner of her mouth. Ceres did too.
They hated each other, but the game was something else: provoke until they bled.
Kan watched in silence. He was new there. It wasn't time to choose sides. Not yet.
The threats, the insults, the cutting looks... it was routine. Almost a ritual.
Mãe Ceres saw no problem with it. Quite the opposite — she needed it. The hatred. The envy. The competition.
Mãe Ceres needed strong children. Leaders.
And no one became a leader without first being devoured.
The locker room appeared in the distance, beyond the dormitories.
The heavy air of sweat and tension followed them there.
There, amid the sound of boots, there was no room for weakness.
Only survival.
The footsteps continued. The sun beat hard against the ground. Dust rose.
The provocations ceased for a moment — but only on the outside.
Inside, everyone was boiling.
Theo walked as if nothing could affect him. But he felt it.
Every word. Every threat.
Every gaze cutting into his back.
He did not hate hatred. Quite the opposite.
Hatred is not poison, he thought. It is fertilizer.
It was in hatred that he planted his strategy.
It was in anger that he fed on the strength of others.
The problem was not being hated.
The problem was not knowing what to do with it.
Theo knew.
They hated him.
They wanted to see him fall. They wanted to kick him to the ground, as they had done to so many before.
If they could, they would kill him right there, gladly.
Vanks. Cors. Even Kan, perhaps.
But they couldn't. The Mother didn't want it.
The Mother wanted spectacle.
She wanted tension.
She wanted strong children — and that could only be forged in the fire of humiliation, in the heat of rivalry, in hatred driven into the bones.
Dark deserved to die. Theo knew it.
They were in an open field, with no cameras, no guards.
One well-placed knife and a shallow hole. No one would know. No one would cry.
But Theo wasn't stupid.
The Mother sees even what she pretends to ignore.
We are toys, he thought. Pieces on a sacred board.
The Mother doesn't want dead children. She wants living children, bleeding children. She wants us to devour one another. But without killing one another.
Theo carried hatred like ammunition.
He did not explode — he aimed.
And for now, his finger was still off the trigger.
Molded with Lead — Theo's Thoughts
Mãe Ceres molds her children with lead.
That is what they say on the walls, through the loudspeakers, in the teachers' eyes.
With pride.
With faith.
As if it were a privilege.
Here, feeling too much is a defect.
And the Mother does not tolerate flawed pieces.
Being molded with lead is not merely discipline — it is the neutralization of the useless:
fear, love, doubt, hesitation.
Because when lead melts, it does not ask questions.
It simply enters.
It enters through the cracks of the soul until all that remains is weight and obedience.
The pain?
Part of the process.
Pain is the heat of the mold.
If it doesn't hurt, it means you are still worth nothing.
The horizontalists say this is how equality is created.
No exceptions.
No excess.
No above or below.
You don't have to climb to win.
You only have to endure what everyone endures:
The hunger that does not exist.
The freedom that is not missing.
The Mother who loves everyone — exactly the same.
They don't want a new system.
They want to perfect this one.
Not destroy the tower, but polish its bricks until they shine.
Theo already understands:
Here, survival is freedom.
Here, love is a military code.
And hatred... ah, hatred is merely recycled fuel.
It heats the machine.
It molds rivals.
It raises leaders.
Theo does not hate Ceres.
He simply learned to use her the way she uses them.
Don't be fooled:
The mold is hard.
The mold hurts.
But Mãe Ceres says that is how a worthy child is made.
And everyone gives thanks.
In silence.
With calloused fists.
And hearts... made of lead.
Mãe Ceres, who educates us, who feeds us, and who devours us!