Volume 2: Routine and Logic — Part 1

Gris walked through the silent corridors of the full-time school, the rhythmic sound of combat boots striking against the cold floor. The air carried that smell of iron and chalk that never left the walls — a mixture of discipline and exhaustion. The students' voices echoed in the distance, but she walked alone, lost in thought.

She had always been exemplary. She jumped from school to school, led, won, and then disappeared — transferred for no apparent reason, as if she were a piece being tested on different boards. She had already been the leader of this same school a year earlier. She competed against Ana, lost, and was soon removed. She had never suffered a punishment, and there had never been a single complaint against her. Sometimes she wondered silently: what is wrong with me?

She remembered Kan's words from earlier: Theo and Ceres are forces of nature. And now, as she walked through the breaks between classes, she heard the murmurs of the other students — the conversations always returned to the two of them.

They talked about Theo as if they were talking about an ancient hero: his strength, his leadership, his confidence. Major Tomas's brother, who orbited the CERES II Space Station — the ultimate symbol of the system's glory. They talked about his Flagball matches, his flawless performance in class, his calm in the face of chaos.

And then came Ceres — the name whispered with a mixture of fear and fascination. They talked about her cold beauty, the gaze that devoured, the white streak identical to Theo's. They said no one lied in front of her. That she only spoke to those she considered her equal. That her isolation was a form of charm.

Gris listened to everything without emotion. She did not envy it — perhaps because she understood. She possessed the same qualities, the same strength, the same fierce instinct. The difference was the myth.

Theo and Ceres are dysfunctional and violent, and that is why they are adored.

A cult of ruin.

A reflection of Mother Ceres's own logic: beauty in destruction, order in open wounds.

As she thought, Theo passed through the corridor. His arm bandaged, his face firm, his eyes lowered. Everyone followed him with their gaze. Gris watched him as one might observe a laboratory rat — without empathy, without interest, only scientific curiosity.

Another perfect pawn of Mother, she thought. She has plans for him, of course. Inspires, leads, obeys. The kind of son she raises to prove that the system works.

But Ceres, the girl, was something else.

A mystery.

An equation without a result.

Mother Ceres had brought her — of that Gris was certain — but no one knew where she had come from, nor why.

Mother Ceres eliminated scarcity, but not anxiety.

It was the phrase everyone repeated, but Gris understood it more deeply: Mother Ceres did not want to eliminate pain. She wanted to shape it. Transform fear into direction, anguish into purpose. Her logic was absurd, but irresistible.

Gris knew she was part of it too. She was a tool — one of the best. Her function was to measure the limits of the military schools, test the children, provoke ruptures. But unlike the disposable ones, she knew how to be useful.

That made her special.

Perhaps she did not have the mystique of Theo and the girl Ceres, but her future — ah, her future — shone with the same intensity.

She would not be a myth.

She would be necessary.

And in Mother Ceres, being necessary was worth more than being loved.

Gris climbed the staircase leading to the eastern tower, where the tall windows opened onto the central courtyard. Sunlight spilled through the gaps between metal and glass, painting the floor with bands of light and shadow. Below, the students dispersed into small groups, laughing, fighting, pretending at normality beneath Mother's eyes.

But Gris's eyes searched for only two faces.

And she found them.

Theo and Ceres were there — together, but distant. He stood like a wall, his body heavy and rigid, his gaze turned toward the ground. She was motionless, almost static, arms crossed and expression impassive.

Between them there was a tension that was not human.

Something invisible vibrated in the air, as if the air itself were iron being forged.

The entire courtyard seemed to recognize the field of force surrounding them.

No one approached.

Gris watched them with what seemed like anger — but it was not simple anger. It was something dirtier, more intimate.

It was envy of the bond that only those who destroy each other can have.

Theo and Ceres were not allies, nor lovers in the pure sense of the word; they were accomplices in a pain only they understood.

Mother Ceres had coded them this way — two opposing poles that attracted each other to keep the system pulsing.

Mother wanted symbolic leaders, and the strongest symbol is always the one that bleeds.

Gris rested her hands against the cold window, feeling the steel beneath her fingers. The wind entered and made the white streak in her hair dance, reminding her that, deep down, she was made of the same material as them — the material Mother shaped with lead and purpose.

Theo raised his eyes for an instant.

Gris stepped back involuntarily, her heart racing.

It was like being caught spying on a lesser god, a creature that should not exist.

Then Ceres turned her head, as if she could feel Gris's presence from miles away.

Her eyes, sharp blue, rose toward the tower.

For a second, the two stared at each other.

There were no words.

No challenge.

No direct hatred.

Only recognition.

Gris realized that Ceres saw her as the mirror Mother Ceres loved so much — the mirroring between daughters, the repetition of chaos.

Theo said something Gris could not hear, but Ceres turned her back and walked firmly toward the inner gate.

Theo stayed.

He always stayed.

Gris stepped away from the window, feeling her heart beat like a military drum.

She did not want to admit it, but she wanted to be in Ceres's place.

She wanted to feel that weight, that gaze that pierced through her, that pain transformed into power.

She took a deep breath and whispered, almost laughing:

— Mother, what are you doing to me?

And in that instant, Gris understood:

The chaos Mother Ceres created was not punishment.

It was the method.

Theo and Ceres were the spark, and she would be the fuel.

Gris felt Ceres's gaze before she even saw her.

It was like feeling a blade pressed against the back of her neck.

When she turned, Ceres was already there — standing at the end of the corridor, Mother's shadow stamped across her face, steel-blue eyes fixed on her.

Months.

Months had passed since the two of them had shared the same space and pretended not to see each other.

Now, finally, they were face to face.

Neither said anything.

They simply measured each other with their eyes — hatred pulsing between them, heavy and silent.

It was like an invisible duel: who would blink first, who would breathe deeper, who would let their heart betray their fear.

Gris was the first to move.

Bored, she turned her face away, letting the cold corridor light highlight her pale skin and the purplish bruises climbing her neck.

Ceres followed her with her eyes until her voice came out, dry:

— What do you want?

Gris smiled from the corner of her mouth.

— I've been here for months, and you still don't know?

Ceres crossed her arms.

— Bathroom flies. To this day, I still don't know what their purpose is.

Gris approached, her smile opening like a blade.

— They eat the residue left in the drain. Now you know.

Her laughter echoed through the corridor, acidic.

Ceres felt her blood boil.

Gris continued:

— Don't worry. I don't want your toy. Your dead rat. I can see that you like playing with your own meals.

For an instant, Ceres stopped.

Not out of fear — but recognition.

Gris was like her.

And that infuriated her even more.

Gris took a step forward.

— If you're still here after all these months, it's because you're afraid of losing the leadership. You can be sure of one thing, Ceres... I'll take it.

— Bitches that bark don't bite — Ceres replied coldly.

— How cute, Ceres. I bet that's how you dealt with Ana.

Ceres gave a half-smile.

— As far as I know, you lost to weak little Ana.

Gris nodded cynically.

— Yes, that's true... just so you know: everyone loses.

She paused, tilting her head.

— If you came all the way here, it's because you feel threatened. I can smell your fear.

Before Ceres could react, heavy footsteps echoed through the corridor.

Theo emerged from the shadows — his arm still bandaged, his expression exhausted but firm.

He stopped between the two, his gaze moving from one to the other.

— Gris is a worthy rival, Ceres.

Gris looked at him with disgust.

— I don't need you to defend me, Theo.

— You're right — he replied without emotion.

She walked past him, her cold perfume marking her departure.

Only silence remained, along with the sound of restrained heartbeats.

Ceres looked at Theo.

— You had to show up.

Theo sighed, his voice low and tired.

— Someone has to stop the school from becoming a battlefield.

Ceres stepped forward, her face close to his.

— Mother wants war, Theo. Peace is only an accident.

He did not answer.

He simply watched her — and, as always, stayed.

Gris left Theo and Ceres's sphere, moving away from that sick relationship and watching the other students as though she were watching a theatrical performance.

Everyone there was a puppet of the system, with their lives, their postures, their anxiety, all shaped and directed.

Gris looked upward, toward the flag, and thought about the game of the full-time school: there was no way out.

It was possible to follow the flow, but without scarcity, without importance, and even if she failed at this game, Mother had a destiny for her.

Hunger was greater than anxiety.

In Ceres, the city offered that: security in uncertainty, structure in chaos, order within savagery.

In the outside world, uncertainty was absolute.

But inside the city, Mother Ceres abandoned no one; she welcomed them, even amid pain.

Gris realized that other religions had failed at this point.

They offered gods who accompanied life and death, but did not eliminate scarcity, and the promise of hope was always a form of torture.

Mother Ceres promised nothing false.

She guaranteed food, protection, and logic — and whoever denied logic accepted madness.

Gris took a deep breath, feeling Mother's hand upon her, firm and concrete.

She would fight for this system, make everyone bleed if necessary, but she knew that the only certainty was her.

Here, everything made sense.

No one starved to death.

No one was abandoned.

Even in pain, one was never alone.

Feeling that was powerful.

It was different from any religious faith: there were no myths or miracles, only the real, the rational, the concrete.

Inside Mother's womb, Gris understood that her love for the system was not blind.

It was knowledge.

It was conscious surrender.

She loved this system because within it everything was absolute, unquestionable, inevitable.

Gris breathed deeply, but felt as though the city's own logic were suffocating her.

Every gear, every invisible law, every militarized discipline crushed her and, at the same time, fascinated her.

She wanted to find a way to defeat the system, to discover a weak point, a flaw, any opening that could free her, but she knew there was none.

Every attempt was merely an echo inside a perfect circle.

Understanding that freedom was a dead seed in Ceres suffocated her reason, but the revelation was clear:

Here, order and control were the true power, and any deviation would only bring chaos, perhaps the destruction of the city itself.

But then Gris realized that even this suffocation was freedom — the freedom to depend, to know that tomorrow there would be bread, that no one would starve, that every effort, every drop of sweat, every pain had meaning.

Knowing how to destroy Ceres just to know?

That was vanity.

That was boredom.

That was a useless pleasure that led nowhere.

The freedom to destroy oneself?

It made no sense.

She wanted this system, even if it crushed her, even if it suffocated her, even if it imprisoned her within merciless rules.

Because there, in Mother Ceres's hand, there was certainty.

And certainty, no matter how harsh, was worth more than any illusion of freedom.

Tomorrow there would be bread.

There always would be.

And Gris knew that this was power — Mother's true power, merciless, infinite, absolute.

At that moment, Gris squeezed her own neck, as if she wanted to free herself from herself, to surrender to nothingness.

The lack of oxygen made her delirious, and another world appeared in her mind — a place of freedom, but ragged, thin, without perspective, without hope, without promises.

She imagined a god who would save her, a hand that would never come, an uncertainty that only increased her anxiety, suffocating her thoughts even more.

The desire to destroy herself collided with the merciless logic that had always guided her:

Even the act of losing herself was shaped, contained, absorbed by the system Mother Ceres had designed.

Then Gris released her hands from her neck.

She fell to her knees, gasping for breath, her body trembling, her thoughts tangled, but conscious of the weight of the real world, the world of Ceres.

There, between pain and absolute order, she was still breathing — and she would keep breathing, because Mother cared, even in silence and cruelty, and even if the freedom she longed for was merely an impossible ghost.

Gris remained kneeling, her body still trembling, her thoughts spinning in a whirlwind.

She watched the school, the sky above, and the machines that kept everything in perfect order, and wondered almost in a whisper:

“Could paradise actually be hell?”

There, freedom was a fetus born dead, hope had been murdered before it could breathe, and the promise had become an absolute, merciless, inescapable law.

Why deny all of this in the name of a freedom that is not concrete?

That does not sustain itself, that does not feed, that does not protect?

Gris felt the weight of every brick, every wheat field, every armored train, every instruction coded into the air.

It was real, solid, cruel — and it was her life.

Mother Ceres feeds us, educates us, and devours us.

And even suffocated by her own desire to escape, Gris understood:

She wanted this system.

Even if it crushed her soul, even if it made dreaming impossible, there was order, certainty, life.

Tomorrow there would be bread.

There, Mother Ceres abandoned no one.

Gris stood, her body still heavy, but her mind slowly clearing.

The freedom she had imagined was a lie, but the certainty she felt was pure.

A world of pain and absolute control — but still a world that sustained her.

And perhaps, just perhaps, understanding that was the closest thing to truly living.

Kan appeared in the corridor and found Gris gasping for breath, sweat running down her face as she breathed deeply.

Gris looked at him and said firmly:

— I confirm the alliance with you, Kan. But it is purely strategic. Our objective is clear: within the dynamics of this school, we can confront Theo and Ceres. Both are strong, capable, and form a myth that controls through fear and admiration, but they are not invincible.

— I understand — Kan replied, watching her. — We need to play the details. Every provocation, every movement between them can be decisive. Theo and I challenge each other all the time, Ceres and you do too. The instinct for conquest, for leadership, is not found in brute strength, but in cunning, gestures, subtleties.

Gris agreed, her eyes cold and calculating.

— If we win, it will be through meticulous strategies. Changes in leadership, unexpected opportunities, small mistakes — anything can turn the game around. Don't underestimate the power of planning. Theo and Ceres may be adored, admired, even feared, but they are not indestructible. We can overcome their myth if we know how to wait and act.

Kan nodded, feeling the tension of responsibility, but also the cold calculation of opportunity.

They moved away, aware that the battle would not be open, but fought in the details — silent, relentless, where every glance, every provocation, and every decision would have consequences.

Gris and Kan walked down the corridor, their footsteps echoing across the metal floor.

Every glance they cast toward the other students was calculated: they observed reactions, noticed who was afraid, who admired, who underestimated.

Gris spoke quietly, almost whispering, as if every word were a blade:

— The provocations aren't just insults or jokes. They're beacons, Kan. Every gesture, every word they make attracts attention, manipulates the environment. We use that to our advantage.

Kan smiled, understanding.

— So it's not just about physical strength. It's a game of pressure, of provoking fear and respect in the right places. If Theo reacts, if Ceres changes, we reveal the map of where we can strike, where we have the advantage.

Gris ran a hand through her hair, frowning.

— They are adored, Kan. Adored like monsters and myths. But every myth has cracks, even the strongest ones. Our advantage lies in observing, in provoking small fractures. The audience watches, the followers imitate, and every reaction from them gives us clues.

Kan nodded, feeling the adrenaline of strategy.

— We'll provoke them, test their limits. No unnecessary violence, just provocation and intelligence. The school's entertainment is our silent weapon. They are legends, but legends can be studied and manipulated.

Gris lifted her chin, looking toward the top of the flag, the busy corridors, the attentive eyes of the students.

— And never forget, Kan: they may be feared, they may be strong, but even idols have limits. We'll find them, and use them.

The silence between them was heavy, charged with tension and expectation.

Every step from here on would be carefully calculated.

They understood that the game went far beyond physical strength; it was a duel of psychologies, myths, provocations, and control.

And in this game, entertainment was part of the weapon, because fear and admiration were as powerful as any blow.

Daime watched the scene from a distance, leaning against the wall of the corridor, wearing the mischievous smile only he could carry.

— Hahaha, quite a worthy provocation, huh? — he said, shaking his head. — Nothing personal, it's just fun and entertainment. And, I'll tell you... I like you two.

Kan looked at him suspiciously, frowning.

— Like us? Why are you laughing like that?

Daime crossed his arms, still smiling.

— Because it's going to be interesting. I want to see who gets broken first. Of course I'm rooting for Theo and Ceres... but the rest is just a game. Leadership isn't won through strength alone. It's about who remains standing under pressure.

Gris, still at a distance, rolled her eyes, annoyed by Daime's presence.

— You guys enjoy this like it's a circus — she said, trying to sound cold.

— Exactly! — Daime pointed at Gris and Kan, mocking them. — Every step, every glance, every provocation... it's all part of the show. And here, my friend, the show deserves applause.

Theo, still bruised, heard the comment and managed a crooked smile.

— Hahaha... that's your specialty, Daime... messing with people's heads without lifting a finger.

— That's right — Daime replied, shrugging with exaggerated theatricality. — But come on, you deserve it. After all, you're the school's myths, right? Let's see if someone can knock you down this time.

Ceres watched from a distance, frowning, but a faint glint in her eyes revealed that she enjoyed the game.

— Hahaha — Daime continued — let the entertainment begin. The game is serious, but laughter... ah, laughter is my reward.

Kan rolled his eyes, Gris sighed, and Theo and Ceres exchanged a quick, silent glance, as if saying: well, let the games begin.

Kan looked at Theo with a challenging smile:

— Get healthy, Theo. I'll break you afterward. I know you're strong and you've got some strength back now, but rest! And also... keep your wild cat under control.

Theo raised his head, hurting, his gaze firm.

— Kan, you don't know who you're dealing with.

Kan laughed and shrugged.

— I know. The school's future ex-leader.

Daime, beside them, applauded sarcastically.

— Wow, that's cruel! Good provocation. I love these healthy conversations you two have.

Ceres, arms crossed and eyes cold, delivered a veiled threat:

— Careful... that cat might eat your tongue.

Gris rolled her eyes impatiently.

— You two are both wrong... and neither of you ever gets anything right!

Daime raised his hands, conciliatory and playful.

— No fighting, but this is getting interesting. Save that negative energy for later. We're getting to know each other, huh? Good conversation.

He looked directly at Kan.

— And you, Kan, understood the message.

Kan nodded, understanding, but still wearing a challenging expression.

— A former cripple breaking up the fight... not bad.

Daime smiled and concluded:

— Yeah, a former cripple who's going to steal your spot on the Flagball team. You two will be fighting for leadership, Theo and you. I admit I'm terrible... now get out of here.

Kan and Gris walked away together.

Kan, thoughtful, remembered Daime's talent before the accident, wondering if he might return to the team someday.

Daime approached Theo and Ceres, smiling with that mixture of sarcasm and sincerity.

— You two are worthy and strong. Luckily, bad luck can happen... accidents happen. But you're prepared. You live together, you're well controlled, you provoke each other within the game... I love it. You two are strong!

Daime looked at Theo and Ceres, half serious, half amused.

— Their way of doing it was childish, you know why? They exposed the obviousness of the provocation, breaking the myth that you are... that's the game.

Theo grunted in pain but held back a smile, aware of every word Daime had said.

Ceres kept her arms crossed, eyes fixed on him, sensing the precision of the comment.

— So... everything is part of the fun? — Ceres said, almost challengingly.

— Exactly — Daime replied with a crooked smile. — The myth is important, but the game is even more so. You know that better than anyone.

He gave Theo a firm slap on the back. Theo groaned in pain but smiled faintly.

— Sorry, champ... my faith sometimes hurts, but it's from the heart!

Ceres crossed her arms, looking at Daime with that cold, almost challenging expression, but it was impossible to ignore the restrained admiration in his words.

Theo simply took a deep breath, feeling the impact of the words and the slap, conscious of the strength of the pact, the symbiosis, and the respect that united them.

Daime left Theo and Ceres's field of vision and found Ana, kneeling in the courtyard, tying her combat boots and adjusting her long blonde hair.

She raised her eyes toward him, and in that instant Daime remembered the time when he had been confined to a wheelchair, paralyzed from the waist down, wearing diapers, buying cigarettes from Dru to ease the pain.

Back then, he ignored Ana, and she, even while begging for his attention, remained by his side.

— Do you know what hurt me the most? — Daime said, his voice deep, a mixture of irony and confession. — That you stayed with me even when I was broken. It hurt not being able to give you what you gave me. I felt like half a man. Today I'm almost whole. I can be proud of the wreck I used to be. I can go back to Flagball.

Ana finished tying her combat boots and stood up, facing him.

— Whatever you were, I was always by your side. I understood why you hated me. You felt useless. But I'll tell you something... you're even more useless now. You're a terrible choice. And yet, I chose you.

Daime gave a crooked smile.

— Well, at least my body works again, right? I understand that a man without that isn't exactly functioning properly.

Ana sighed and rolled her eyes.

— You're an asshole, Daime.

He stepped forward, closing the distance between them.

— Yes, I am. So what? I'm an asshole who will always apologize for insulting you back then, for making you absorb every verbal attack I threw at you. I did that to the person who cared about me the most. What hurt me was your pity. You don't have that anymore. Now you hate me, and you love hating me. You love my cruel, unfiltered jokes.

— Asshole — Ana repeated, but a smile escaped.

— Asshole — Daime shot back, laughing softly.

She touched his shoulders. Before, Ana had looked down at him from the wheelchair; now she touched his shoulders at the same height.

He was a different man.

It was Mother Ceres's miracle: the cure that shook the country and brought down religious dictatorships, forming small resistance groups called “Mother-God.”

— You started a civil war just by walking again — Ana said, almost admiringly.

Daime raised his hands theatrically.

— I'm Mother Ceres's broken toy, fixed and returned to the world. She personally blessed me!

— Mother Ceres loves us — Ana said seriously.

Together, they completed the motto, almost like a sacred whisper:

— Mother Ceres, who feeds us, educates us, and devours us.

Daime leaned against the courtyard railing, looking Ana up and down with the smile of someone about to say something unforgivable.

— But tell me something... you and Dru... how did you two even work as a couple? Two beautiful girls together, damn, it was always my dream!

Ana's eyes widened, her face turning red.

— You're an idiot, Daime! — she said, unable to hide her nervous laughter.

He spread his arms theatrically.

— An idiot, yes. But an idiot who can walk and says what he thinks! I spent months in that chair, imagining the world... and guess what? You two were always near the top of my list!

Ana lightly slapped his shoulder, trying to hide her laughter.

— You're a jerk!

Daime laughed loudly, enough for his voice to echo across the empty courtyard.

— Jerk, sadist, comedian, the best player this city has ever seen... pick an adjective, I'll take them all.

— You never change — Ana said, crossing her arms, but with a smile on her lips. — Always turning everything into a joke.

— It's what keeps me alive, Ana. While everyone else loves praying to Mother Ceres, I prefer laughing at her. It's the only moment I feel bigger than Her.

Ana sighed and shook her head.

— And that's why I loved you, you bastard.

He stepped closer, his gaze now less mocking, more human.

— Loved?

— Love — she replied, almost without a voice. — But I hate admitting it.

Daime smiled sideways.

— Perfect. Love is only worth it when it tastes like gunpowder.

She laughed, and for a moment they became what they had always been: two survivors of themselves, laughing at tragedy, loving amid the wreckage.

The sun struck the courtyard, reflecting off the gray uniform.

Daime adjusted his combat boot, looked upward, and murmured:

— Mother Ceres, who feeds us, educates us, and devours us... but never extinguishes the fire of her children.

#scifibooks #scifiwriter #scifireads #dystopianbooks #dystopianliterature #speculativefictionbooks #indieauthor #indiebooks #indiebook #bookstagram #booktok #bookcommunity #writersofinstagram