Vollume 2: The Call of Mother Ceres

The cafeteria still smelled of coffee when the commotion began. It was routine for the military school to turn any spark into a spectacle; that day was no different. Theo walked with his tray in his hands, measured steps, eyes fixed on his plate, when a wave of voices swept through him. The hall opened as if a curtain were being drawn: everyone moved toward the corridor, pushing chairs aside, laughing with that hunger for revenge that only schools seem to have.

Dark was there, standing like an alert animal. The scar on his lip still recalled the previous fight — the one that had left him hospitalized for days — and there was something fierce in his eyes, the look of someone who had enjoyed the pain he had inflicted and wanted to repeat it. Beside him, Dru played the role of guardian: tall, impassive, but ready to intervene if things got out of control. The narrow corridor was blocked on both sides; a tunnel of bodies and voices.

— What do you want? — Theo asked without lowering the tray. His voice was short, restrained, like a warning.

— To see you lose control — Dark replied, with a smile that cut. — It was painful, but delicious. Seeing what you're really like. Just like me. Not this pompous leader puppet everyone loves to pretend they respect.

Theo took a deep breath, his hands steady. — I won't allow myself to.

— I heard you got beaten by that Ceres bitch — Dark jabbed, smiling venomously. — You two deserve each other.

The mention set the corridor ablaze. Someone shouted, others laughed. Dru stepped forward, his voice low but firm:

— Dark, forget it. Let's go.

— Calm down, sweetheart — Dark feigned affection, his tongue razor-sharp. — I just came to provoke a little. No fight today. Although I personally attacked — and yes, it was your brother — it was cruel, I admit it. But I don't even need to repeat it; your face gives it away, and that drives you crazy.

Theo looked straight at him, trying to translate the anger boiling inside him into silence. It was an old dance: provocation, control, threat. He didn't want the confrontation everyone wanted to see.

— What do you want? — Theo repeated, now with less patience.

— Nothing — Dark shrugged, as if bored with himself. — Just messing with these idiots' heads. Oh, and they say the Silencers are coming... — he laughed loudly, as if it were the funniest joke in the world.

The joke died when the opening of the corridor appeared. The Silencers entered with calm steps, without brutality, and the effect was the same as an order: the murmuring ceased, people stepped back, the corridor opened up like an altar. From behind them came Amos, slow, immaculate in his dark-gray uniform. His smile was that of someone watching children misbehave.

— Have I become the babysitter for these brats? — Amos said, his voice bronzed with contempt and amusement. — It's not the first time in months.

The young people shrank before the implicit command. Amos made a gesture that required no hands.

— Follow me. Mother Ceres wants to see you.

And so, without scandal, as if they were all pieces obedient to the touch of a conductor, the corridor opened to lead them away — Theo in front, Dark with his chest still hot from the provocation, and Dru watching tensely. The crowd dispersed, leaving in the air the expectation that something — a lesson, a humiliation, an order — was about to happen under the eyes of the city.

The loading station south of the school was boiling in silence. Train cars lined up like iron ribs, the smell of oil and grain mingling in the air, the recently fueled train ready to return to the city. It was there that discipline ended and what Mother Ceres called “practical reeducation” began.

Theo walked beside the Silencers, his boots striking the metal floor in cadence. Dark followed close behind, with the same provocative air as always, but now silent, as though the presence of the guards were an electric fence. The sound of the rails had not yet begun, and that silence before departure seemed to possess a weight of its own.

Amos came right behind them, hands in his pockets, his expression far too calm for the tension hanging in the air. He knew perfectly well what was happening between the two — mutual hatred, an old rivalry, the way they mirrored one another. Brain and liver, he thought, two lead dogs ready to devour each other.

— Get in — he said when the train opened its doors.

The two obeyed.

Amos, before closing the car, delivered the comment in a lazy but sharp voice:

— When one doesn't want to, two don't fight.

The car was narrow, windows sealed shut, benches made of cold wood. The sound of the door locking echoed like a verdict. They would remain there for almost an hour and a half, without contact, without a view, with only the sound of the train cutting through the wind. Theo sat in the back, Dark in the front — enough distance for hatred to mature in silence.

Amos went to another car, accompanied by the Silencers. He opened his coded black leather folder and spread the reports across the folding table. Photographs, notes, behavioral records. Theo. Dark. Distinct profiles, but identical in essence.

— You amuse me — he murmured, laughing softly.

Inside the folder was a confiscated book, its cover worn: Brute Force — Nonviolent Communication.

The contrast made Amos burst out laughing.

— These boys are far too violent — he remarked, leafing through the pages as though reading poetry.

Meanwhile, the train moved forward, the sound of the wheels constantly striking the rails, like hammers of patience. Theo kept his gaze fixed on the wall ahead, trying not to think about Dark, but he felt his presence like a magnetic field. Dark drummed his fingers, provoking the silence as if he wanted to challenge it.

The journey became an involuntary experiment. At times, all it took was a noise — a louder breath, a sudden movement — for the instinct to kill to flicker in both of them. Not a word was spoken, yet tension breathed through them.

Amos knew what he was doing. He wanted neither order nor redemption. He wanted to see which of the two would bleed first. A test of brute force.

Calculated sadism.

That was how he took advantage of the system — turning every mission into a small spectacle of human nature, where obedience and violence danced together until they became indistinguishable.

Mother Ceres's Tower was a cylinder of glass and steel that pierced the clouds. From there, the city opened like a living organism — the rails, the domes, the rows of schools and factories seemed to pulse beneath the golden morning light.

At the center, Mother Ceres stood watching everything, dressed in her immaculate white attire, as if purity were part of the architecture.

— My children... my favorites — she said, her voice somewhere between affection and reprimand. — Do you know why? Because I place gigantic ambitions upon you.

Theo and Dark remained silent. The memory of their last fight still hung between them — the blood, the unconsciousness, the humiliation.

— I waited for Dark to recover... and you, Theo — Mother Ceres continued —, how could you almost kill your brother?

She raised her hand before he could answer.

— Don't say anything. I understand.

She took a step forward and fixed her gaze on Theo, who held the tension like a soldier facing a verdict.

— Let me tell you myself... the body found in Arcadia is not your brother's.

Theo trembled. Relief came disguised as a held breath. Mother Ceres watched every microgesture as though reading an equation.

— It is not a promise that he is alive — she continued —, but it is hope. I too cry out for the life of my son.

She slowly turned toward the horizon.

— After the attack and the kidnapping of my children, I learned that I may have thousands of children... but few have purpose.

She turned again, the shadow of the tower falling over the two of them.

— Theo and Dark... brain and liver. Calculation and instinct.

She paused and pointed at Dark.

— Leave.

Dark sketched a crooked smile. He left with the same insolent air with which he had entered, almost proud. He knew that Mother Ceres no longer punished him: she understood him, and that was enough for him.

When the door closed, only Theo and Mother Ceres remained.

— I know about your sick relationship with Ceres — she said bluntly. — I know very intimate things about the two of you.

Theo lowered his eyes, unsure whether that was an accusation or a shared confession.

— Good — she continued, with an almost maternal calm. — I have ambitions for the two of you.

She walked in a circle, her footsteps echoing across the metal surface.

— Obviously, you know about her origins... and who her father is.

Theo kept his face impassive, but his blood froze in his veins.

— I will ask two favors — said Mother Ceres. — One, you can imagine. The other... is for the evolution of our people.

She came closer until her eyes reflected his.

— As for your older brother, Major Tomas... I don't want him to know that the younger one is missing. His mission is absolute. There is no need for distractions.

Theo nodded. In the silence, something changed in the air — a slight vibration, like a magnetic field. He raised his head.

— Mother... — he murmured suspiciously. — There is someone here.

Mother Ceres smiled, a smile full of mystery.

— It is the angel of Ceres, my son.

From the shadows of the hall, a figure emerged — silent footsteps, dark-gray clothing, skin almost translucent white. Her hair fell like strands of ice and her eyes burned bright red.

Koee.

Theo stepped back, but recognized her. The woman who had given her own blood so that Daime could walk again. He instinctively knelt.

— Mother — Koee said, her voice firm. — It's him.

Theo raised his eyes, confused.

Mother Ceres placed her hand on his shoulder.

— Yes. He is the Eight. The number eight player on the Flagball team.

Koee smiled, and there was something of judgment and promise in that smile.

— I want you to talk — Mother Ceres said, retreating into the shadows. — I will leave you.

She turned one last time toward Theo.

— And please, show some respect to this young lady.

The tower breathed light and silence. Theo climbed the steps with heavy feet, his body still throbbing from the tension, but his mind suspended in a strange emptiness — the first time in years he had not been punished. No cell, no lecture. Only Mother Ceres's calm voice, telling him to stay. And now, there, between glass and wind, the world opened in every direction.

Koee stood before the panoramic window, motionless as if waiting for the birth of a god. Her white hair moved with the current of air passing through the room. When Theo approached, she did not turn immediately — she seemed to feel the air change. Only then did she say, softly:

— I recognized you... from down there.

Theo frowned. — Recognized me?

— Yes. I don't know when, or where. But I've seen you before, somehow. — She looked at him, and her red eyes vibrated as if they contained echoes of something ancient.

Theo looked away, trying to understand. He was there, alone with her, high atop the tower where the wind seemed to sing the city's name. It was the first time he had felt like this — without the armor, without the burden of being an example, without Dark's hatred prowling around his body like a shadow.

Koee gave a small smile. — What do you do when you're not... beating up rivals for the school's leadership?

Theo almost laughed. — I try to survive. And stay alert. Always.

— Why? — she asked, genuinely curious.

He answered as if reciting something sacred:

— The world is constantly at war; and peace is merely an accident.

Koee repeated the words softly, as though savoring a bitter truth. — That's Ceres's motto.

Theo nodded.

She turned completely, now facing him. — I love Mother Ceres — she said. — She feeds us, educates us... and devours us.

He completed, almost in a whisper: — Devours us.

For a moment, they remained silent. The city moved below — orderly streets, columns of light, the cadence of a living organism. Everything pulsed in harmony, and yet Theo perceived the chaos beneath the surface.

— From up here — he said, looking through the glass — everything seems smaller. The chaos remains, but... it isn't inside me. Here, the noise dissolves. What remains is only... silence.

Koee watched him with restrained tenderness. — So that's what you feel when you lower your guard.

Theo looked away, embarrassed by his own calm.

She took a step forward, until she stood beside him. — You really don't remember, do you?

— Remember what?

Koee sighed, and a slight tremor crossed her voice:

— Where we know each other from.

The wind blew through the openings in the tower. For a second, Theo thought he heard a distant sound, a call — perhaps from the city itself, perhaps from something inside him. They stood side by side, staring at Ceres below, where everything functioned with mechanical perfection, indifferent to what they felt.

And in that moment, without understanding why, Theo felt that the war had granted a truce — not in the world, but within him.

For the first time in a long while, Theo was close to someone who wasn't Ceres.

And he silently perceived the inevitable contrast: Ceres was the storm — burning, unpredictable, consuming. Koee, on the other hand, was the light breeze before the rain, the breath that calms, the silence that precedes the thunder.

But that feeling was not comfort. It was only a brief refuge, an improvised shelter in the middle of the war. Perhaps one of those “accidental peaces” they repeated so often in the city's motto.

Koee watched him, her gaze curious and calm, almost childlike.

— I'm certain we've met before — she insisted, with a patient smile.

Theo tried to laugh. — I really don't remember.

— If I challenge you, maybe you'll remember — she said, in a tone too gentle to sound like a provocation.

He frowned. — Fight you? No. That would be disrespectful...

— Why?

— Because you live with Mother Ceres. I'm not going to fight a goddess.

Koee smiled from the corner of her mouth, with something mischievous. — If we fight here, you'll remember.

Theo looked away, trying to end the subject. — I don't want to measure my strength against anyone today.

But Koee stepped forward, serious, confident, still smiling — there was no malice, only certainty.

The next gesture was too fast for Theo to anticipate: she lunged, her body light as though the wind were pushing her, and tried to strike him. Theo dodged on instinct, surprised by her speed.

Koee continued, attacking with precision and gentleness. The movements were firm, but not aggressive — there was grace in the gesture, as though she were dancing. Theo only dodged, measuring each movement, until he could not resist and commented between one dodge and another:

— I'm not going to hit a young lady. Mother Ceres told me to take care of you.

Koee laughed, and the sound was brief and alive. Then she sped up.

The blows became fast, light, almost playful. Open palms striking the air, a dry sound of flesh and wind. She grazed Theo, touching him just enough to destabilize him, and with each touch, a moan escaped her lips — a soft, almost musical sound.

Theo began to notice those sounds. They were familiar. Something inside him reacted, an ancient memory trapped in the body. Koee attacked, and he dodged, laughing without understanding why it felt so intimate.

The game became rhythm. The air seemed to vibrate between them. And then, with a swift move, Koee spun her body and brought him down with a perfect sweep. Theo fell, exhausted, but laughing.

Koee approached and extended her hand. — Are you all right? — she asked, breathless.

Theo looked at her and, for an instant, saw something else.

The sounds, the rhythm, the movement — and the memory emerged with brutal clarity: the flagball game, the field at Ceres, the fastest player in the tournament, the one who made Ceres bleed on the field.

The same moans. The same rhythm.

Koee.

He smiled, still on the floor, with the astonishment of someone who has just solved a mystery. She smiled too, realizing that he had finally remembered.

Koee knelt, leaning in until her face almost touched his.

— It's you... — she murmured, her red eyes shining.

There was no passion there, nor desire. There was recognition — a connection that could not fit into words, something between soul and memory.

Theo remained silent.

As she helped him to his feet, he looked at her again and, without meaning to, compared them.

Ceres was fire, the chaos that devours.

Koee was wind, the breath that remains after everything burns.

And Theo understood, for a rare moment, that between war and peace there is only a thread — and that both of them, perhaps, were destined to walk upon it.

From the highest tower, Mother Ceres watched the screens light up in bluish tones.

Nothing escaped that gaze that was both human and machine. Theo and Koee appeared on the image — two silhouettes facing the glass horizon.

She turned up the volume, enough to hear the sound of bodies sliding through the air, the soft blows, the laughter.

— Beautiful... — she murmured, resting her chin on her hands. — They recognize each other.

At that moment, she understood that the plan was working.

Koee was the first favor: the lost link between origin and future, living proof that Ceres's blood could be perfected.

Ceres, the girl, was the second — the body, the heir, the womb that would perpetuate the city.

Theo would be the axis.

The heart between the two.

The sacrifice she had always awaited.

Mother Ceres leaned back in her chair, her eyes reflecting the image of the two on the screen — Theo, lying on the floor, Koee offering her hand.

There was tenderness in that gesture, and it irritated her slightly.

— Careful, Koee... — she said softly, as if she could be heard. — He still doesn't understand what you are.

For a moment, she seemed tired. Her perfect face became stern, her lips thin, her voice almost a whisper.

— My children are my wars. All of them. Some fight for me, others against me. But in the end... they all return to my womb.

She turned off the screens, plunging the entire floor into silence, and looked at the translucent floor of the tower, where she could see the city pulsing like a living organism.

The motto echoed inside her like a private prayer:

“The world is at war; and peace is merely an accident.”

She smiled bitterly.

Koee and Ceres. Two faces of the same obedience.

Theo — the son who did not realize that his Mother's love was, above all, a form of control.

— Two favors, one destiny — she whispered. — And I, who feed, educate, and devour.

Mother Ceres remained alone in the room, before the translucent panel that reflected the movement of the clouds.

On the screen, Theo and Koee were still talking, their faces illuminated by the white light entering through the tower's windows.

For a few seconds, she simply watched them — a mother watching two children who did not know they were part of the same calculation.

Her face showed no affection, but a serenity born of certainty.

The city below seemed alive, breathing in the same rhythm as her.

A flow, a current, everything in harmony.

— They are still young... — she said to herself. — Far too naive to understand what they carry.

She gave half a smile and turned toward the black mirror of the floor, where she could see her own reflection.

— Two paths... — she murmured. — One favor... each. But not now. Not yet.

Her voice came out like wind, almost sweet:

— Grow, my children. May love teach obedience. May freedom teach fear. And may fear, one day, bring you back to me.

Silence.

The tower seemed to sigh along with her.

Mother Ceres closed her eyes and repeated the mantra that echoed through the city's corridors:

“I feed, educate, and devour.”

Theo watched Koee with restrained curiosity, still getting used to her presence without Mother Ceres's rigidity or the tension of the military school. The sun reflected off the tower's windows, spreading bands of light across the metal floor, illuminating her white hair and making her red eyes look like tiny flames.

— Where do you live? — Koee asked, her voice soft, almost playing with his attention.

— At a school far to the east, near the borders of Silencium and Arcadia — Theo replied, mentally pointing toward the horizon. — Between fields of wheat, soybeans, and corn, with tractors, irrigation... and right in front, a field of flowers.

Koee tilted her head, curious, smiling. — Who planted it?

— Cora. — Theo said naturally. — She takes care of abandoned dogs and cats that roam the fields.

— And do they eat? — Koee asked, slightly furrowing her brow, almost as if trying to measure the world by how it cared for the small ones.

— I've never heard of dogs, cats... or rats ever starving to death in Ceres — Theo replied, with a discreet smile.

Koee laughed. A light, unexpected sound. — One day I want to visit your school. When I can.

Theo looked at her, and for a moment, the confusion he had felt in the tower gave way to something close to calm. It was not comfort, not a refuge from war, just... a light breeze, different from the whirlwind he felt with the Ceres girl. A storm against a breeze.

She smiled again, and Theo realized that, without noticing, he was beginning to compare them: one is the storm that consumes, the other, the breeze that lets you breathe. And, strange as it was, he felt grateful to be able to recognize the difference without fear, without guilt.

Koee remained close to him, but without intruding, as if respecting a space Theo still did not know could exist. And in that moment, amid the 360 tower, the city of Ceres pulsing below them, they both knew something they did not need to say aloud: that moment of friendship, curiosity, and mutual recognition was a small victory of humanity amid the brutal logic surrounding them.

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