[Institution MOTHRA – ??:??]
"Not going crazy down here is true gift."
The blaring sound of the alarm burst through the loudspeakers, sweeping across the cells like a crashing wave. Thiago opened his eyes in shock, heart pounding as if he'd just woken from a nightmare—or simply remembered where he was. The oppressive white ceiling light bathed them in a cold, artificial brightness, too harsh for any natural waking.
In his cell, Alexandre was already standing, eyes half-closed, face still marked by the lines of the blanket. In the next cell, Oliver was still battling sleep, trying to make sense of what was happening. The alarm meant one thing: daily roll call.
— "Let's go," said Alexandre, adjusting the collar of his uniform. "Being late doesn't seem like a smart move around here."
Outside, prisoners were already lining up in silence in the corridor, like misshapen shadows. The constant hum of ventilation and the rhythmic sound of the guards' boots created an oppressive, almost ritualistic atmosphere. Cells opened automatically with hydraulic hisses, revealing faces of all kinds—tired, resigned, angry, or apathetic.
Thiago, Alexandre, and Oliver stood side by side, as protocol demanded. Armed guards paced back and forth with tablets in hand, checking names and faces. No one spoke. No sudden movements.
Then, the alarm cut off. Routine was about to resume—until something different happened.
The reinforced doors at the end of the corridor opened with a long metallic hiss. Three soldiers entered, marching with precision. And at the front, he appeared.
Long, messy hair. Thick beard. A beret with a star. His uniform looked less like clothing and more like a symbol—a ghost from old revolutions, wearing ideology like armor. His gaze swept the corridor like an automatic rifle, and the prisoners instinctively tensed, as if touched by an invisible electric current.
— "That's..." Oliver muttered, his voice caught in his throat. "Is that Che...?"
Alexandre didn't answer. He just watched, muscles taut like cables ready to snap. Thiago felt his throat go dry.
Che walked with firm steps, a clipboard under one arm and an AK slung over his back. As he passed them, his eyes—intense, dark, and penetrating—lingered on the trio for a moment. Time seemed to stop. As if, in that instant, they were being weighed.
He stopped at the center of the prisoners.
— "Called for the population relief procedure," he said, his voice laced with a Latin accent and authority. "Follow me."
Then he read out a list of names—names that echoed through the corridor like death sentences. Twenty-two prisoners in total were summoned. Men with scars, with gang tattoos, faces deformed by violence, time, or the experiments done on them.
The soldiers raised their rifles, and the chosen men obeyed. No resistance. Just acceptance. The kind of obedience that only comes from pure fear.
— "Where are they going?" Oliver whispered, his voice shaky.
A prisoner nearby nudged them and answered grimly:
— "Firing squad."
The group followed a side corridor, disappearing into the shadows. Seconds later, a sequence of gunshots echoed through the block. One, two, three single shots... then a burst of automatic fire. Some prisoners closed their eyes. Others swallowed hard.
The method was simple, brutal, and effective. MOTHRA dealt with overpopulation in the most direct way: selecting the most undisciplined individuals and executing them against a wall—revolutionary-communist style. The system called it "population relief." The prisoners called it "the wall."
Che returned alone. Unhurried. As if nothing had happened.
And when he passed by the trio again, he stopped.
He leaned in slightly—almost imperceptibly—far too close.
— "Not every man is free..." he said, without looking away from Thiago. "But every man can die free."
He paused. A heavy breath filled the space between them.
— "The choice... is simple."
Then he walked on, disappearing into the shadows he came from.
And the air—the very air—felt heavier. Dirtier. Harder to breathe.
[Cafeteria]
Later that day, a second alarm echoed—this time with a lighter tone, almost relaxing compared to what they'd heard hours earlier. Doors unlocked, and the prisoners were guided toward the cafeteria, crossing the walkway again into a vast, dimly lit hall with rows of metal tables and benches bolted to the floor. The smell was always the same—almost comforting.
The trio walked cautiously, as if expecting something absurd and unexpected to happen at any moment. The weight of the morning still lingered on their shoulders.
The cafeteria was busy. Low voices, wary glances, groups formed like small tribes. Some prisoners carried trays, others just sat together in silence. The sound of utensils clinking—plastic, endless, almost robotic—filled the space.
They picked up their portions and found an empty corner. They sat down, still tense. And then, as if summoned by thought, Jv appeared. Out of nowhere.
— "Heeey, my philosophers of pain!" he said with the same mocking grin as before, dropping into the seat beside them with his tray balanced in one hand. "Still in one piece? Thought you'd turned into a statistic this morning. I heard Che's burst of gunfire."
Thiago stared at him. — "You saw that?"
Jv nodded, chewing on a pixelated piece of bread.
— "Of course. Morning wall. Happens every Monday. Sometimes it's just an execution. Sometimes it's Che. Sometimes it's Julius Caesar. One time it was Gandhi. Seriously. His passive-aggressive vibe was the worst."
Alexandre leaned forward, intrigued.
— "So… that really was Che Guevara?"
Jv chuckled softly, but his eyes were more serious now.
— "Yeah. Or… a nearly perfect reconstruction. MOTHRA's got the tech for it. Cloning, neuroimprinting, behavior-support AI… I believe it's actually an anomaly, but anyway, mix it all, throw it in a uniform and boom: living history. They love symbolic figures. Heroes. Villains. Revolutionaries. They use those people as tools for control."
— "What exactly are anomalies…?" asked Thiago.
Jv answered right away:
— "Uhm… from what I gathered, it's something that shouldn't exist and blah blah blah. Think haunted artifacts your grandma would have in her house. They lock that stuff up and study it, y'know? That's what I understood from a long speech I found in the files."
— "So it's like the SCP?" Oliver asked.
— "Yeah. I think so—just more exotic."
— "But why?" Oliver asked again, his voice almost a whisper. "To intimidate?"
— "To manipulate," Jv replied, licking his fingers. "When the face of repression is an icon of freedom, confusion does the dirty work. In here, nothing makes sense—and that's the point."
He looked around, checking if anyone was listening, then discreetly pulled something from his pocket. It was a pack of silver tokens—small coins with the MOTHRA symbol engraved in the center.
— "Here." He pushed a few toward the center of the table. "Better food, favors, information… everything runs on these coins in here. Consider it an investment…"
Thiago hesitated.
— "Why are you helping us?"
Jv looked at them with something like… regret. Or calculation.
— "Because you still have something most people here lost: the ability to wonder if any of this is real. That could be a weakness… or a weapon. And… I like watching the circus burn."
He glanced at the other prisoners scattered around the hall.
— "And because if you want to survive in here, you'll have to pick a guild—fast."
— "Guild?" Alexandre raised an eyebrow.
— "Clans. Factions. Small internal organizations. Each with their own rules, leaders, and goals. Some are brutal. Others are more… subtle. And some are practically cults. MOTHRA keeps track of a few—the most notorious ones anyway. You get it?"
Oliver shook his head, still trying to process everything.
— "And you? Are you part of one?"
Jv smiled—this time darker.
— "I'm a one-man guild. And that has its perks… and a lot of enemies."
He stood up with a quick spin, hands in his pockets.
— "I'm off. Got a meeting with a guy who thought he was Napoleon last week and now thinks he's Walt Disney. Crazy. But useful."
He paused for a second, looking at the three of them.
— "Think about it. Alone, you're prey. With a guild… at least you're pieces on the board."
He winked and vanished into the cafeteria crowd.
Thiago stared at the silver tokens in silence.
— "None of this makes sense."
Alexandre pressed his lips together.
— "And yet… it's all we've got now."
Oliver sighed.
— "We're gonna have to choose. And soon."
The cafeteria carried on with its murmur, but for the trio, the background noise felt like the ticking of a clock counting down against them.
[Library]
In the free time granted after lunch—a carefully timed gap in MOTHRA's oppressive routine—the trio decided to explore the library. The place was vast, but sterile. No librarian. No sounds except the soft hum of the ceiling lights and the occasional rustle of old pages.
Despite the name, the library wasn't just a collection of books. It was a kind of illegal information hub—some prisoners apparently traded knowledge, left hidden notes between books, and sometimes even arranged disguised meetings. The shelves seemed to have been reorganized a thousand times, with sections ranging from classical philosophy to handwritten notes on biology.
Alexandre pulled out a notebook hidden between two volumes on military tactics.
— "There are lists here… of guilds."
Oliver stepped closer. — "How many are there?"
Thiago quickly flipped through another file on recycled paper, full of scribbles and seals from the prison's old wings.
— "From what I can tell here… more than a dozen. Some big, some temporary. There are names like The Bishops, The Pack, Los Hermanos, Canine Dogs, Skull-Breakers, Bec Mafia..."
Alexandre read aloud:
— "Block V. Their emblem is an inverted black triangle with the letter B inside..."
Thiago frowned, recognizing it instantly.
— "Black Blocs…?"
They exchanged glances. Unforgettable. The trio had marched among them many times, in the streets of Avenida Paulista, amid the smoke of protests, the masks, the anarchist flags, the steady eyes facing repression.
Alexandre kept reading, now more focused.
— "According to this, Block V is a radical branch of the Black Blocs. Formed by anarchists imprisoned over the years, or by people shaped by MOTHRA who still didn't break. There aren't many of them, but… they act like a cell. Tight-knit. They protect each other. They don't surrender."
— "And they hate MOTHRA," Thiago added, sitting down. "They're not here to survive… they're here to resist."
Oliver, still uncertain, hesitated:
— "But… what if they're too radical? What if they turn on us?"
Alexandre crossed his arms.
— "They might be the only ones with whom we still have a chance of holding on to our identity. And if we stay out… we might not last as long as we think."
Thiago sighed.
— "So that's it?"
They all looked at each other. None of them wanted to decide, but all knew they didn't have much time.
Thiago nodded.
— "We're going after Block V."
[Block V]
Almost at night, guided by encrypted notes left between books and nearly invisible symbols drawn on the walls of the east corridor, the group made their way to an old ventilation compartment, between the prisoner zone and a garbage alley. There, a symbol marked in soot signaled the meeting point: the black triangle.
A woman was waiting for them. Young, her skin marked by burns, eyes sharp. Behind her, two other members stood, faces hardened by routine and scars that weren't just physical.
— "You knocked on the right door?" she asked, voice low.
Thiago took a deep breath.
— "We came for Block V. We marched in the world out there. We came to continue… inside."
She studied each of them for a few seconds. Then nodded.
— "Then come in. But know this: it's not a club, and it's not a shelter. It's a trench."
They entered.
The ventilation compartment where Block V gathered wasn't just a hideout. It was a capsule out of time. Exposed pipes vibrated with the energy flow from the MOTHRA system, casting an amber glow that almost seemed to breathe. The walls were covered in anarchist symbols, hand-drawn maps, and old photographs—scenes of uprisings, revolutions, crossed-out names.
In the center, an improvised table made of fused metal, surrounded by boxes of equipment, papers, wires, and makeshift tools built from scrap. No clocks, no way to track time. Time no longer existed in there.
Seated in a circle, the members of Block V observed the newcomers in silence. Eight in total, distinct faces, most marked by stories the prison couldn't erase.
The woman who had greeted them earlier spoke. Her name was Leona.
— "Welcome to the trench inside the trench," she said, voice firm. "We are Block V. The 'V' is not for victory. It's for vengeance, for truth, for vigilance… and whatever else we decide it means."
She looked at each of them.
— "In here, MOTHRA tries to break you—mind control, routine, fear, unpredictability. We fight back with action, with noise, and with frequent reminders."
Thiago listened closely. Alexandre was tense, but alert. Oliver absorbed every word like a student in his favorite class.
Another member, an older man with a rough voice and frozen expression, interrupted:
— "We want to know why you're here. A lot of people come looking for shelter. Others want power. We offer neither."
Alexandre answered first.
— "Out there, we marched with the Black Blocs. Against tear gas, against mounted police, against the lies of the controlled media. In here… it feels like we're back. But with fewer exits."
Leona nodded slowly.
— "Good answer. But you'll have to prove it. MOTHRA has eyes everywhere. And not every prisoner is a battle brother."
She snapped her fingers, and one of the members handed the group a small cloth pouch. Inside were three triangular badges, red, burned around the edges.
— "These symbols aren't badges. They're targets. If you wear them, some will protect you. Others will hunt you. It's your choice. But if you accept… don't back down."
Oliver touched the triangle in silence, as if it were something sacred.
Thiago asked:
— "And do you… have a bigger plan? Or is it just about surviving one more day?"
Leona smiled sideways.
— "Survival is already subversion in here. But yes… we have plans. Small sabotages. Interfering in the tests. Noise in the systems. Anything that messes with the machine, even for a second."
She leaned closer and whispered:
— "And if one day… the door opens again, we want to be standing. Together."
The group stood up. The meeting was ending.
Leona led them to a side duct that led back to the prisoner sector. Before they left, she held Thiago's arm.
— "Remember: in here, truth is a weapon. Choose carefully what you say… and to whom."
[Cells]
Back in the prisoner sector, the environment was already steeped in dusk. The sounds of the night—distant engines, guards' footsteps, the metallic echo of the corridors—created an oppressive atmosphere.
Thiago, Alexandre, and Oliver entered their cells unnoticed. The night alarm hadn't sounded yet, but the silence already signaled the day was over. No roll call tonight.
Each lay down on their concrete bed, staring at the ceiling, where small marks drawn by previous inmates tried to count the days…
Thiago clutched the black triangle under his pillow. Alexandre spun the badge between his fingers. Oliver simply replayed everything in his head, silently.
For the first time since they arrived, they weren't completely lost. Surrounded, yes. But now, also… connected.
And in the silence of the cell, before the lights went out, Thiago murmured:
— "We stepped into a game that started a long time ago… Now it's about surviving without forgetting who we are."
The alarm rang, and another night fell inside MOTHRA.