Volume 2: The Autopsy of Freedom - Part 3

The Auditorium — In the Afternoon

It was late that same Tuesday. The tanks remained lined up in the courtyard, imposing and silent, while helicopters waited, ready to take off, as a class in the main auditorium was nearing its end — only twenty minutes remained. Silencers and soldiers patrolled the perimeter with watchful eyes, every movement of the students being measured and recorded.

Koee was still there, fascinated. She watched the dark auditorium, trying to absorb the lecture that was about to begin. Five thousand students filled the space, but her attention focused on the details: the restrained laughter, the distracted looks, the subtle tension hanging over everyone. Beside her, Amós remained serious, trying to imagine youthful energy turning into something dangerous, almost flammable, as if every teenager could literally catch fire because of their own recklessness. It wasn't the smell of youth that disgusted him, but the whole picture: bodies gathered together, excessive behavior, the feeling of chaos about to explode.

On the lower floor, Theo watched Koee from the corner of his eye, and Daime, sitting beside him, whispered with a mischievous smile:

— That Koee... she's pretty hot, huh? A goddess... but pretty hot. Those red eyes... do you think she smoked some of Dru's cigarettes?

Theo tried to hold back his laughter, but failed. Daime laughed to himself, remembering an old joke that always made him burst out laughing:

— Remember when I couldn't move my legs? Whenever I told jokes, I'd end up peeing in my diapers!

— What do you mean? — Theo asked, raising an eyebrow.

— Well... you'd feel the warm, wet feeling — Daime replied, and both of them burst out laughing, quietly enough not to attract attention.

Dark, sitting beside them, watched with boredom, while Dru remained silent, arms crossed. Ana, realizing the joke was aimed at Koee, didn't waste any time: she pinched Daime, reprimanding him with a fierce look.

Farther back, Cora settled into her seat, distant, silent, almost imperceptible, while Kan and Gris sat side by side, focused on their own conversation. Vanks was absentmindedly playing with a piece of paper until Cors snatched it from his hands, and silence slowly returned to the auditorium, interrupted only by the metallic sound of the projector being switched on.

The professor, with precise and controlled movements, opened the equipment, projecting onto the back of the dark auditorium a phrase that filled the room with an almost tangible tension:

“The Autopsy of Freedom.”

The students' murmuring ceased. Every gaze turned toward the screen. The silence, now absolute, seemed heavier than any tank in the courtyard or helicopter on the horizon. Koee felt the gravity of the moment, the weight of Amós's presence beside her, and the tension accumulated during the final minutes of the day converged into a single certainty: something profound was about to be revealed, and none of them would leave that auditorium the same.

The projector illuminated the auditorium, revealing words that seemed to weigh upon everyone present. The professor began to speak, his firm voice echoing through the space:

— Today we are going to examine freedom. Not the kind you buy, sell, or believe you possess simply by having the right to be born. True freedom is not a gift; it is a burden. Every choice you make, every step you take, defines who you are and how far you can go.

The chairs creaked beneath the restrained movements of the students, but everyone remained attentive.

— Many believe that acting without restrictions is freedom. It is not. True freedom requires absolute responsibility — the ability to accept the consequences of every action, even when no one is watching. This is where choice becomes heavy. Every action carries a silent morality, an invisible ethics that cannot be ignored.

Koee felt a shiver. The room seemed to shrink, the air heavy with the awareness that every gesture, every decision, could be measured and judged.

— Some try to escape. They say they can hide behind rules, hierarchies, or traditions. But freedom cannot be delegated. It is an individual burden, a continuous obligation you carry within yourself. And that obligation is not easy. Many prefer to ignore it. Others lose themselves along the way.

Theo watched Koee's every movement, seeing in her face the silent absorption of everything being said. Amós, beside her, maintained his rigid expression, but his eyes remained attentive, as if every word were touching a vulnerable point in his own conscience.

— And when we choose without thinking, when we surrender our decisions to chance or to the will of others, we cease to be free. Freedom does not exist outside responsibility. Remember: it is not the absence of limits that defines who we are, but the way we choose to act within them.

The silence in the auditorium was absolute. The only sound was the low hum of the projector, as if every projected word had physical weight, pushing everyone inward, toward themselves.

The silence in the room seemed almost solid, as if the professor's words had spread through the air and settled inside everyone's bodies. Every student was trapped, but not all in the same way.

Koee leaned slightly forward, her red eyes fixed on the screen. With every sentence, she felt a mixture of fascination and unease: freedom was not simply having the power to do whatever she wanted; it was choosing, weighing, carrying. A shiver ran down her spine as she imagined all the decisions she would still have to make — choices that could cost her dearly, not only her, but others as well.

Theo, beside her, watched with calculated attention. There was no fascination in his eyes, but an intense, almost suspicious curiosity. He wondered silently: to what extent was it possible to be truly free in a place like Ceres? Every gesture, every command, every glance from their superiors weighed upon them. And yet, the awareness that the ultimate limit of freedom lay within oneself deeply unsettled him.

Amós remained motionless, breathing slowly, his face as serious as ever. But inside him, a silent storm: every word reminded him of the weight of the responsibility he carried toward others. Freedom was not a right that could be distributed; it was a commitment one assumed alone. He closed his eyes for a moment, remembering past decisions and those he still did not have the courage to make.

Daime, sitting farther back, shifted restlessly. The dark humor he normally used to break tension had disappeared, replaced by a strange anxiety. He tried to push the professor's words out of his mind, but he couldn't ignore the discomfort: even he, who mocked life, knew that every choice carried consequences. With a low sigh, he murmured to himself:

— Freedom... too heavy for a single body.

Dark watched everything with boredom, but the corner of his eyes betrayed an almost clinical analysis. Dru remained beside him, rigid and silent, but her interlocked fingers revealed the tension she was feeling. Ana, on the other side, twisted her mouth slightly; it was difficult to admit, but every word made her reflect on the limits of what she could and could not control.

The entire auditorium seemed immersed in a heavy aura, where philosophy ceased to be theory and became experience. Every word struck like a hammer, every concept of responsibility and choice silently challenging everyone to confront their own conscience.

The projector went silent, the lights dimmed even further, and the professor paused for a long moment, allowing the weight of his words to settle. The only sounds were the faint rustling of papers and the restrained breathing of thousands of young people, each processing, in their own way, what it meant to be truly free.

Koee looked at Amós again, and for a moment, a silent understanding passed between them. Freedom was something one carried alone — but perhaps, sometimes, the weight could be shared, even without words.

The projector illuminated the auditorium, and images spread across the dark walls: wars, famine, sick and starving children, cities in ruins. The professor began to speak, every word heavy with meaning, resonating through the silent audience:

— Mother Ceres gave us Ceresianism, a system envied by the entire continent, while outside, war, famine, disease, unemployment, despair, and a lack of purpose reign. The peace they seek is an accident. Freedom? It has already starved to death. Starved of responsibility.

The audience held its breath, absorbing every sentence as if it could touch it.

— Mother Ceres merely found the body of freedom, performed the autopsy, wrote the report, and pronounced it dead. The worlds outside Ceres killed freedom. After all, freedom does not fill your stomach; freedom feeds on responsibility. And Mother Ceres encoded this into us, improving us. Here, being rebellious means proving that freedom is chaotic. Being critical means being ungrateful. Being obedient? Proof that the system works.

The images changed, now showing fertile fields, tractors working, the Ceres 2 space station orbiting peacefully, monitoring the planet's weather and resources.

— What did we gain in return? Look around you. Everything tangible: the fields, the food, the order. We evolved because we love our Mother. Show me one citizen of Ceres who is starving! Theo, here with us, your brother Major Tomas is on Ceres 2 — a living example of what Mother Ceres is capable of!

The audience applauded Tomas enthusiastically. Sitting there, Koee felt the weight of the applause and the almost suffocating air of collective devotion.

— In the autopsy we performed, we found the body of freedom that haunts and terrifies us. It dries out existence, revealing that there is no soul, no freedom in the organs — only chains that we call free will. It gives us the death certificate, and we ourselves kill it.

The professor paused, and the silence in the auditorium seemed denser than any tank in the courtyard.

— But the most impressive part? The body of freedom refuses to rot. Our desire not to see it disappear — our hope that the torture will end — is, in fact, the torture itself. We refuse to take responsibility for what freedom demands, for what it asks of us, for what we do not want to do.

He pointed toward Koee, his voice charged with intensity:

— Freedom requires the responsibility that Mother Ceres gives us. Koee, even you, who lived in Arcadia, know the suffering of hunger, helplessness, and fear. Ceres was built without intending to prepare for your arrival, but here you found a home. Here, we all love you — especially our Mother Ceres. Our freedom feeds on survival, discipline, and the care we receive.

The images returned to the war outside. Crying children, burning cities, fallen soldiers. The professor raised his voice:

— The world is constantly at war. Peace is merely an accident. Survival comes before freedom. And Mother Ceres feeds us, educates us... and devours us.

The final sentence fell over the auditorium like silent thunder:

— The world is constantly at war. Peace is merely an accident. Survival comes before freedom. And Mother Ceres feeds us, educates us... and devours us.

For a moment, no one moved. The air seemed solid, heavy, every word echoing inside every body. Then, almost simultaneously, they began to repeat it, first softly, then in unison, as if every syllable were a ritual:

— The world is constantly at war...

— Peace is merely an accident...

— Survival comes before freedom...

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

Koee felt tears streaming down her face before she could stop them. She closed her eyes and allowed herself to be enveloped by the weight of the collective devotion, feeling that, no matter how much of her life she had spent in Arcadia, she now understood — or at least felt — the absolute power of Ceres's ideology.

Theo watched with narrowed eyes. He applauded and repeated the words, but his gaze concealed a mixture of skepticism and fascination: he understood the message, but wondered how much of that obedience was genuine and how much was fear.

Amós remained motionless, breathing slowly, every muscle tense. Inside, he analyzed every gesture in the audience, every glance, every emotion being released. To him, the scene was both impressive and terrifying: collective discipline transforming into emotion, philosophy being converted into ritual.

Daime, sitting farther back, shifted uneasily. He couldn't laugh or interrupt the moment with sarcasm; something in those words had reached him. He tried to hide it, but a slight tremor in his shoulders revealed that the indoctrination had touched him more deeply than he wanted to admit.

Ceres was there, silent and imposing. Her eyes watched everything, measuring, weighing, judging every reaction. Unlike the others, she did not cry or repeat the words; she simply absorbed them. Her presence was a living reminder of the power of the Mother and the system that sustained the city. She radiated authority, but also a strange vulnerability — an awareness of the weight carried by every word.

The applause began timidly, but quickly became an overwhelming wave. For twenty minutes, the entire auditorium applauded the professor, clapping, shouting, applauding without stopping. Every clap echoed against the walls, reverberating through the building's corridors and crossing the silence of the military courtyard.

Koee took a deep breath, still emotional, feeling the collective intensity and the strange beauty of the moment. Theo looked away toward the Ceres girl, sensing her presence as a reminder of the system's weight. Amós closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the responsibility of what it meant to be there, surrounded by so much devotion. Daime, despite his discomfort, could not deny that something profound had happened.

And so, amid applause, tears, and murmurs, the entire auditorium bowed before the ideology of Mother Ceres, absorbing the lesson: freedom was neither comfort nor a right — it was duty, sacrifice, and obedience.

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