Volume 2: Your Own Image, Your Own Likeness

The Mother Ceres Tower rose like a monolith of black glass, reflecting the sky and the city below. In the central seat, surrounded by a 360° view of Ceres, she watched every point of her domain, calm and absolute. Around her, the Silencers stood in perfect symmetry, their black lenses reflecting only the emptiness of the city — all with a single face, impassive, indistinct figures of living surveillance.

The door opened silently, almost ceremonially. A 17-year-old boy entered, his steps firm despite the days he had spent in detention. His eyes, still filled with unease, did not bow to the authority of the tower. Beside him, Amos smiled cynically, measuring every word the boy spoke, knowing Mother Ceres would crush any argument with the precision of a machine.

— Mother Ceres, allow me to introduce Fidel — said Amos, in a respectful, almost theatrical tone. — You may speak with him.

Fidel raised his chin without showing reverence. His gaze passed through the tower, the Silencers, the black glass, until it met Mother Ceres.

— I am not impressed by this — he said, his voice firm. — Everything here is theater. A theater of black lenses, surveillance, and fear. Inside, you are no different from me. A desperate person trying to control what cannot be controlled.

Silence cut through the room. The Silencers remained motionless, but the air seemed heavier.

Mother Ceres tilted her head slightly, an almost human gesture.

— You are right — she said, her voice calm, almost gentle. — Inside, we all carry desperation. But the difference between us is what we do with it.

Fidel took a deep breath, feeling the tension grow.

— Freedom is not built through physical correction and punishment — he said firmly. — You call this order, but it is only fear.

— And you think there can be no security without order? — Mother Ceres replied, with the faintest smile. — Security is the structure that makes living possible. Freedom without structure is chaos. Do you believe chaos is freedom?

The confrontation had begun. Fidel, young and impetuous, versus Mother Ceres, the entity that shapes the city and its children. Words were their weapons; ideologies, the battlefield. Every sentence from Fidel challenged absolute power, every answer from Mother Ceres confined him, not through force, but through logic, with the coldness of someone who knows every point of the city and every one of its inhabitants.

— So your freedom is worth more than other people's lives? — she asked, leaning slightly forward, watching every reaction from the young man. — Tell me, Fidel, are you willing to bear the consequences of a world without rules?

Fidel swallowed hard but kept his gaze steady.

— I would rather live with risk and remain human than exist as one of your shadows — he replied. — Even if that means failing.

Mother Ceres smiled, not like a victor, but like someone acknowledging a challenge.

— Very well, Fidel. — She leaned back, almost contemplative. — Then we shall see how much of your humanity survives my logic.

The air in the tower grew heavy. The black glass reflected the city, but also the tension between freedom and security, between human desperation and absolute control. And in that moment, no matter how unbeatable Mother Ceres was, Fidel had already touched something even she could not erase: doubt.

Mother Ceres remained seated, the black glass reflecting the entire city, as if every street were beneath her gaze, every thought of every citizen recorded in her mind.

— You do not understand yourself, Fidel — she said, her voice calm, almost paternal, yet charged with absolute power — and that is precisely what I see clearly. How many people left Ceres, enraged because they wanted their freedom, and came back? Came back to free the citizens of Ceres? — She paused, allowing every word to echo — They did not come back. They all returned broken, strong, mad for bread, desperate for the security they had abandoned in the name of an illusory freedom.

Fidel kept his gaze steady, but felt a chill run up his spine.

— How many of you believed you could face the world outside, break my logic, challenge the system? How many countries would rise against me if they tried to destroy Ceres in the name of freedom? — She tilted her head slightly, assessing every reaction from the young man — Destroying Ceres means destroying the continent. It means shutting off the respirator that allows you to breathe, eat, live... all in the name of freedom.

Mother Ceres gestured slightly toward the city's horizon, pointing to the streets, the buildings, the inhabitants.

— Show me, in numbers, Fidel, a nation that prospered when it left its people to hunger, malnutrition, and to fighting among themselves because of anxiety and fear. Here, anxiety can be redirected toward a future, even if it seems cruel. You may think they live like pigs — and, in a way, they do — but they are intelligent pigs, prepared ones. Look at the pigs in other countries: malnourished, starving, without direction.

Silence weighed upon the tower. Fidel felt the impact of her words, even though he did not want to admit it.

— And those who fled... and returned to Ceres? — Mother Ceres continued, her tone almost somber — They all came to me. Mad for bread. Mad for the future I preserve for them. Mad for the security that only I can provide.

She leaned forward, bringing her face closer to the table, her eyes fixed on Fidel's.

— Do you really want to know the truth, young man? — she said, softening her tone, almost as if confessing — You will suffer, even under my rule. The difference is that here, suffering is controlled, directed. Out there... it devours you.

Mother Ceres paused, then called Amos:

— Amos, I want you to travel with him through the country he imagines he wants to go to. Let him see for himself what he calls freedom.

Amos smiled, a slow, delicious smile, as though he were already savoring every disappointment Fidel was going to experience.

— Understood, Mother — said Amos, without pity, knowing the disgust and despair they would encounter — I feel sorry for none of them.

Fidel took a deep breath. Every word Mother Ceres had spoken had embedded itself in his mind, but resistance still burned inside him. He knew he would be taken to see the real world, beyond the safe walls of the city... and that there, perhaps, he would discover that freedom was not merely a choice, but a price few would survive paying.

Mother Ceres watched Fidel in silence. Her gaze seemed to pass through the young man as though it could measure every particle of resistance within him. Then she made a subtle gesture with her hand.

The Silencers advanced in unison, like obedient shadows.

— Take him — she said, her voice firm, but without anger. — I want him given every form of assistance. Food, clean clothes, medical care. Let him recover, rest, and prepare for the journey.

Fidel tried to protest, but the Silencers merely surrounded him, without violence, guiding him with mechanical gentleness.

— Do not abandon him — Mother Ceres added. — I want him to see with his own eyes. I do not want faith, I want understanding.

The door closed slowly, the metallic sound echoing through the tower.

Amos remained, his hands folded, watching her with a mixture of respect and curiosity.

— Mother... — he said quietly. — Why do this? Why give him what so many others never receive?

Mother Ceres turned toward the city, watching the lights of Ceres pulse like a living organism.

— Because there is no longer any point in burning the young, Amos — she replied serenely. — The fire has grown old. The logic of Ceres speaks for itself. I do not need to destroy in order to prove that I am right.

She took a step forward, the reflection of her face multiplying across the dark glass.

— Torture, now, is the miracle — she continued. — He will see the miracle of life that is Ceres. We are terrifying, yes... but the rest of the world is a mill. It will grind his most petty dreams to dust. It will swallow whatever remains of his utopias.

Amos remained silent, admiring Mother Ceres' almost divine lucidity.

— I want to welcome more — she said, her tone softer. — Human beings want more from existence. They want to understand, not merely obey. Absolute authority is a waste of energy. Fear is already a scarce resource.

She turned toward Amos, with a gaze that seemed to transcend time.

— You travel, Amos. — Her voice was now almost a whisper. — You see the world I cannot see. And perhaps that is why you are still balanced.

Amos raised a faint smile.

— Balanced or anesthetized?

Mother Ceres did not answer immediately. She looked toward the horizon, where the black glass reflected the heart of the city.

— Perhaps both. — She finally said. — Your privileges are earned, Amos. Privileges gained through efficiency. But remember... merit is merely the most elegant form of control.

Amos laughed softly, a laugh that mingled respect and fear.

— I always thought that deep down, you had a sense of humor.

— I do — Mother Ceres said, with an almost human smile. — I laugh at those who still believe they can escape me.

MOTHER CERES (final monologue):

Amos...

You may feel anesthetized — and perhaps you are.

But know this: freedom is merely a crutch for the blind.

It is like giving nuts to someone who has no teeth,

or medicine to someone who is already dead.

Anesthetized, yes — but alive.

And that is still enough.

I no longer want to burn the young.

I want to listen to them.

I want to learn from them.

Because the future does not belong to those who build walls,

but to those who cross ruins.

To believe that Mother Ceres has already found her place in the world

is to consider her dead, without purpose, without pulse.

And I am not dead, Amos.

I am changing.

Forget the gods.

They will not feed your children,

they will not warm your dreams,

they will not satisfy the concrete hunger that devours us.

The gods are the disgrace of devotion,

the cancer of faith and freedom.

They were the ones who taught man to ask,

when he should have learned to build.

Ceres needs to welcome.

Hunger is real.

Life is real.

And only what is real, Amos, is worthy of being revered.

In the half-light of the tower, when the silence following Mother Ceres' speech still hung thick as smoke, a presence revealed itself. Koee Nahin had been there all along, motionless among the shadows, dressed in a tight, dark-gray suit that ran from her neck to the floor. The fabric shimmered subtly, like an extension of her own skin. In her arms, a cat — silent like her.

Mother Ceres, without turning around, spoke with an almost maternal serenity:

— Koee, please, don't be shy, dear. Come out. Sit beside me, my angel.

One of the Silencers moved with precision, placing a padded seat the same color as her dress before the throne. Koee emerged from the shadows like an apparition.

It was as though a goddess had descended to Earth. Tall, slender, with skin so pale it was almost translucent. Long white hair, straight, flowing down her back to her waist. Her face — angelic. But her eyes... her eyes were the opposite of everything else: black, with red pupils like living embers on a moonless night. There was something divine and demonic about her at the same time.

Amos held his breath. He had never seen anything like her. There was something about Koee that disarmed and attracted him — a beauty almost mathematical, cold, perfect, and yet... far too human not to inspire fear.

Mother Ceres gave a faint smile.

— Our own image and likeness — she said firmly. — We created her.

Koee approached slowly, her footsteps soft against the metallic floor. She sat beside Mother Ceres, curling inward as if apologizing for existing.

— My daughter — Mother Ceres asked, stroking her white hair — have you eaten? Have you rested?

— Yes, Mother — Koee replied in a low voice, almost a whisper. Then she lay across Mother Ceres' lap like an exhausted child.

— You don't need to hide, Koee — Mother Ceres said, looking upward, where the black glass reflected the horizon of Ceres. — You have the freedom to see every room in the city. No secret will be denied to you. And, as I have already said, you may even leave... but the world outside does not belong to you. And you know very well why.

Koee lowered her eyes, embarrassed, as though the very mention of freedom were an offense.

— Koee — Mother Ceres continued tenderly — everyone here worships you.

With a single drop of your blood, you did the impossible: a man condemned to a wheelchair walked again. Just one drop, and we advanced a hundred years. Nothing more will ever be taken from you, my daughter.

You are the future of Ceres.

This entire city was built waiting for your arrival.

And whenever you wish... this is your home.

Silence returned. Only the soft sound of the cat purring in her lap.

Amos watched in silence. Fascinated.

That porcelain skin, those white hair, those red eyes that seemed to pierce the soul — nothing about her was human, and yet he could not look away.

It was as though Koee Nahin's beauty were a trap designed to remind men of what they should never touch.

With a slow, almost maternal gesture, Mother Ceres dismissed Amos. He bowed slightly and left, disappearing among the Silencers. The hall fell silent, enveloped in the cold light filtering through the black glass walls. Koee remained in Mother's lap, lying like a child afraid of her own destiny.

Mother Ceres ran her hand through the young woman's white hair, looking at her with a mixture of tenderness and study.

— Koee, I will never lie to you — she said in a low voice, unhurried. — I will always treat you with kindness and transparency. You are the embodiment of what it means to be a god... but never underestimate human beings. I can code them, I can rewrite their instincts, but still... they survive. We are fragile in the flesh, but it is that fragility that keeps the game of life moving.

Koee raised her gaze, her red eyes trembling in the half-light.

— Why do they insist on suffering, Mother? — she asked, almost voicelessly. — Why do they fight so hard to continue if they could be like me, without pain, without fear?

Mother Ceres smiled faintly, as though listening to an ancient question.

— Because, my daughter... human flesh is an architecture made of fear and hope.

It breaks in the cold, bleeds under steel, grows sick with time... and still, it rises.

Koee touched her own chest, as though trying to feel the same fire there.

— But that is suffering.

— Yes — Mother Ceres replied. — And suffering is what makes them alive. In Ceres, fragility was never a shame. It is the reminder that we came from dust, and from dust the seeds emerge. The ancient Mothers used to say that weakness is a crack through which strength enters — and perhaps they were right. The body that suffers is the same body that learns.

Koee remained silent for a moment, her fingers sliding over the sleeping cat in her lap.

— I... cannot understand that, Mother.

— You will. — Mother Ceres placed her hand against her face. — Humans are fragile because they feel. But they feel because they want to live. And it is this desire, Koee, that makes them indestructible. No wall, no doctrine, no empire lasts longer than the hunger to begin again.

Koee slowly closed her eyes, listening to Mother's voice as though it were a song.

— So... weakness is their gift?

— It is both the curse and the miracle — Ceres replied. — When the body falls, the mind remembers. When the voice fails, memory speaks for it. That is how they survive. That is why I watch them with tenderness... and calculation. Fragility is the fuel of overcoming, and I need them to fall, so they can learn to rise.

Koee slowly opened her eyes, looking at their reflection in the glass.

— And me, Mother? — she whispered. — Will I fall too?

Mother Ceres smiled with sweetness and pain.

— Everyone falls, my daughter. But the children of Ceres learn to fall without destroying themselves. And in that constant fall... they find the miracle of continuing to exist.

Silence settled. Only the distant sound of the machines breathed alongside them — as if the city itself were waiting for the next breath of Mother and her creation.

Koee, still lying in Mother's lap, breathed slowly. Her fingers played with the fabric of the gray dress surrounding Mother Ceres. Suddenly, she brought her face closer and inhaled deeply, as if trying to decipher an ancient memory.

— What is that smell? — she asked, curious, almost innocent.

Mother Ceres laughed, a brief, human laugh that sounded rare in that hall of steel and glass.

— This smell, my daughter, is what everyone loves... the smell of a mother.

Koee closed her eyes, sensing the perfume — a mixture of iron, damp earth, and something sweet, indefinable, like the beginning of rain.

— If I ever die — she said softly — I want to die in your arms.

For a moment, Mother Ceres remained motionless. Then, with a firm gesture of her hand, she ordered everyone to leave. The Silencers withdrew in absolute silence. The cameras ceased their constant hum. The lights adjusted, making the hall more intimate, almost sacred.

Now, only the two of them.

Mother Ceres tilted her face and spoke with a sweetness that concealed gravity:

— Koee, as I said, truth and transparency. Always.

And, in a slow and ceremonial gesture, she raised her hands to her face. The oval mask, with its black lens concealing everything, slid away, revealing what no one had ever seen.

Koee recoiled slightly, surprised. The air seemed to stop in the hall.

— I want you to remember me like this — Mother Ceres said. — As I am. I will be what you truly see me as.

Koee, her eyes moist, could not speak. Before her, Mother's face was neither that of a machine nor that of a perfect woman — it was alive, human, with fine wrinkles, marks of time, yet with a profound serenity. There was something of every face in it.

Mother Ceres continued in a calm tone:

— I cannot lie to a goddess like you, Koee. My angel of Ceres.

You were born in Arcadia, yes, but your city is here, with us. We all love you.

Koee moved closer and touched Mother's face with the tips of her fingers — as if confirming that she was real. A gentle smile illuminated her face.

— You are so beautiful, Mother... — she whispered.

And, for a moment, the impossible happened: Koee smiled as though she had seen the sky itself.

Because before her, without a mask, without titles, without power — was the face of Ceres.

The hall remained in absolute silence. The low lights left Mother Ceres' face wrapped in a golden half-shadow — a face that, until that moment, had never been seen by anyone.

Only Koee.

She, lying in Mother's lap, still held her breath, as though afraid of breaking the moment. Her red eyes reflected the image before her — alive, real, human.

Mother Ceres watched her in silence.

There was something new in her eyes — a weight, perhaps. A tenderness that did not match the figure who ruled Ceres with an iron fist and a voice of steel.

Koee touched her face again, delicately, almost reverently.

— No one would believe it — she murmured. — No one would understand what I saw.

Mother Ceres smiled faintly, without words.

That smile was neither one of power nor dominion — it was the tired smile of someone who carries the world and, for a moment, finds shelter in the eyes of her own creation.

Koee, moved, rested against her lap again.

Mother Ceres ran her hand through her white hair, with slow, circular movements, as if rocking a daughter she had never had.

Inside, Mother Ceres felt something that could not be named — a kind of affection that both corroded and strengthened her.

It was the first time, in all the cycles of Ceres, that someone had seen her without the lenses, without the steel, without the myth.

She whispered, almost to herself:

— Now you know me, Koee.

— I do — the young woman replied, her eyes moist. — And I love you even more.

Mother Ceres took a deep breath, and with that breath, the air in the tower seemed to vibrate.

— Then promise me... — she said. — That you will keep this face hidden. That you will never describe it.

— I promise — Koee replied sincerely.

Mother Ceres nodded.

There were tears held back in her eyes — but she restrained them. She could not allow a goddess to see her weakness, even if that goddess was her daughter.

Yet Koee, in silence, had already understood.

Mother Ceres' perfection was not her strength.

It was her loneliness.

And in that moment, at the heart of the tower, two entities — one born of flesh, the other of science — shared the same secret:

humanity.

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