Days since then.

FOR ALL OF HIS LIFE, Áureo would not remember much about the day of his escape, except for the serenity that troubled the flight of a lost bird, the only other passenger on the train that crossed the green infested hills, and how his dralvo body, which he lamented before fleeing, now dreamed in brighter spirals. He would only remember that, like the rice fields, he believed himself to extend infinite, to endure eternal, and to be bound to become no man.

Ten years later, in the city of Santalma, "Santo" is the only name by which they know the boy with golden curls.

MONOCERO 12^th, 2021.

09:16:20

Sitting under the morning shade, hot and hungry, Santo was bored. His vivacious eyes did not let on that his physical fatigue was much less intense than his boredom. The park rangers came and went. The luxurious cars, loud on the avenue, deceived his vision, and the ugly faces with perfect skin inverted his own restless expression. He looked up at the sun and the sky was smoke blue, the flowers on the tops of the trees were like a yellow frame. Anja cleared her throat to get his attention.

— Shit, I just remembered… — She began, looking at Santo, curiously. — Hey, don't look at me like that! How was I supposed to know that the traffic was so shitty! — She continued when she noticed Santo's expression.

— I woke up at three in the morning. — Santo answered. — I took two buses.

— Really? And why didn't you take a taxi?

— You owe me the first hour, Anja. And do not cry.

Santo got up from the bench, adjusting his backpack.

— Kói¹, your accent is so cute! — Anja said, following him. — Where are you from again? I remember… — She tied her hair up, following him through the park, talking more to herself than to him. — I think we have time for a drink before we go, right?

10:20:41

Like Santo, Anja was also part of the Corner’s Club, a talent agency that provided private services to regular contractors and occasional clients. According to the laws of the Empire, anyone who works at a club is both an employee and a student, participating in paid actions and battles between clubs, as well receiving training in Uso.

In the changing room of the Corner’s Club, Santo was putting on his socks and shoes, while one of the agents, Lívio, was playing with his cell phone, sitting on the bench next to him.

— Santo? — Lívio called.

— What?

— Did you see that? — Lívio put the screen in front of him. — It seems that one of the directors of the Monocerus Club forged his graduation certificate. — On his cell phone, Santo watched the video attentively. — Apparently, it was the Superiors themselves who discovered this. But… The Junior Agents are saying that it’s all a conspiracy against the Director. Everyone is against everyone there. It seems that they won’t have any representation in this year’s ACT. — Lívio smiled. — Do you think it will make it easier?

— Are you thinking about joining it?

Lívio answered that he would, because he did not see his future at the Corner’s Club, and that his parents were no longer in a position to continue supporting him. Near them, listening to the conversation, was another Agent; he leaned against the wall, with his eyes closed and arms crossed. A ray of sunlight escaping from the window painted his torso bright. Lívio walked over to him, asking about his enrolment in that year’s ACT.

— I don't know; I only have plans until the next novena. — That other agent answered without opening his eyes. — Hey, Santo…? — He said. — Have you read The Hands of Caos? — Santo positioned an elbow pad. — It's Linda Istrella's second novel. Born in the capital… just like Anja. It was written in 1820, in the middle of the Blue Years War², when she was confined to her family's farm, isolated from the conflict and living a bucolic life. It was from this distance between her routine and the political state of her home town that Istrella drew the plot of the novel. — Lívio put the nanga around his neck. — The main character is a heartless woman. That is, a woman with no physical heart. Born without a heart inside her chest. But this is a fact unknown even to herself, as nor she nor anyone else has ever cared to notice its lack; she is alive for no grand reason, that being a common theme in the Realist Magic genre. The most luxurious artifice of this book is the total abstention from adjectives. One hundred thousand words: not a single adjective. Such tiring work that, upon completing the novel, Istrella did not write or read a sentence of literary nature for five years. — He opened his eyes. Silver blue. His name was Franco.

— Lend it to me later. — Santo replied.

— Why the fuck you mbokis³ have to come and change in my fucking bathroom? — Anja came in huffing; her hair, usually braided, was loose, long and tangled, like a waterfall of coal down to her waist. — Can't Flama lend you his?

— Flama doesn't shit. — Franco said, leaving for a changing room with his guides. — He breathes and blinks. — He whispered.

— Good thing you're leaving, because I'm going to change. — Anja said. — I know you wouldn't like that view. — She laughed. Franco muttered an insult back to her. Santo held back his smile. As soon as Anja started to undress herself, Lívio went out, stuttering and rose-cheeked.

19:00:21

The four students from the Club’s Corner, dull farm animals, went out together to drink at a bar that very night. It was Polida, the last working day of the novena, and they usually didn't get together like this, not out of antipathy, but out of self-confidence: they saw each other too much, work was a martyrdom of poor hours, and the most boring thing would be to see such faces working in resting environments. It happened, however, that someone – they could not remember who – had talked about the reopening of a dirty little place; in fact, it was the night of the semifinals of the preliminaries of the Challenges, the continental competition of Arena Actions for Minor Agents, and since the entire continent would be watching, it seemed like an awful idea to do it with beer, friends and plastic chairs. Having reached the end of the afternoon, they left, still hungry, drinking Breu (a dark cachaça, made out of coffee). Santo, being a dralvo, got in charge of the driving.

19:12:09

Everything was at the bar: the same men's vile words, the shadows of their gazes cast over the handsome and the strange, applause and voices, televisions and loud music, the narrator catching his breath during the debacle and the retort, breathing on the table, a hand calling, a look in the face, something loose, mind’s importance hovering above sweet heads, waiting to be safe to lay down again with its sourness.

At one point, Santo heard Franco, drunk, moan:

— The rich can have a whistle, my friend; this desperation comes, money never lasts, and it hurts that our soul dies every day. Bodies are palimpsests. Everything is spiral.

And Anja confessed:

— I hated you so much, because I... You talk in such a silly way! But just because you don't speak well doesn't mean you don't understand well.

Santo looked around. He saw his greatest envy: he was a dralvo, so it was impossible for him to get drunk. He watched cruelty dissipate into freshly stitched euphoria. Even Lívio! The so simple, so weak, so much better, so lucid, Lívio! He saw him separate Anja from a conversation with a stranger, say two words to her, and then kiss her on the lips. Then he returned to Santo, saying to him, very melancholic:

— That's what we work for! — His dark eyes dirty with joy. — No life needs to end like this!

The colours under the white and yellow light did not refer to anything, the current time held a sun of mortality, but the moons, he felt, swallowed time and photographed pain and pleasure through his eyes: perhaps this is what being drunk is, he thought, cooling down under his uniform. Perhaps it is the stupor on the brink of the grave. The yes before the end.

He heard Franco:

— I live life as if it were a ceremony, I open the cars as if the journey could pass without hesitation, I enjoy the air with lightness, I believe the Past is the only Reality, and that is why our species could only evolve after recording stories and craving our lovely fantasies.

And the three joyous, quiet at the end of the night, asked Santo for his party trick:

— “1. In the Evilless Land, Time was divided into three eras: the Divine Era, the Heroic Era and the Chaotic Era.

2. Lost in shapeless space, among the uncertain shadows of time, in the beginning the world was a drop of fire. Like a dense jewel, it cracked and spilled the eternity of the gods: First came Chaos, our saint of Mortals; Beauty, his sister, was born an infinity later. Seconds later came Light, dubious deity.

3. Light, dissatisfied with the kingdom of their older brother, sealed him in the darkness of the universe. Then were born Day, son of Light, and Night, son of Chaos and Beauty.

4. Day and Night fell in love, but the enmity of their parents separated them from each other, and they were condemned each to dominate a period of life and a part of the world.

5. ‘Come the breath of desire,’ said Day to Night, ‘let the blood of suffering heal us.’ Night listened to her beloved, then replied: ‘I want to see you without pain, but nothing is felt without crying.’ And then, in the early hours of the dawn, Love was born from them.

6. And from Love was born Man.”

This was the beginning of the second book of the Era Divina, which Santo still had in his memory, as natural as blinking his eyes and seeing the table becoming a place for debate on religion and politics. His luck, or perhaps the calm benevolence of his friends, saved him from having to came up with an opinion. Yes, he wished to be drunk! Looking at them, he wanted to be like them. But if anyone asked, he would say that Love, in truth, came from drunkenness.

— Women invent gods and believe in heroes. Men believe in gods and invent heroes. Every gender is unhappy on purpose, and is happy not wanting to be.

MONOCERO 13th

01:02:03

In Lívio's yellow Orassan⁴ – who, with his eyes closed, had Anja with him in the back seat, lying on his chest –, Santo drove, stitching sensations to colours.

— And you ran away because of that? — Franco asked him.

— Not exactly. — Santo answered, looking at him sincerely for a second. — I wanted more.

Franco narrowed his eyes, saying:

— More money?

— Not exactly.

Franco looked at Santo.

— Good. ‘Cause if it were, then you chose the wrong career. Half of us Agents are lucky to be part of a club. If you're that lucky, it's a miracle to be able to survive on this shitty salary. — He looked at the road. They were on Diabovelho, where diners were crowded one after the other, about to enter the neighbourhood. — Or being born in a Constellation. Or being close friends with one of them. — Franco wrinkled his nose. — I mean, some of them are good, but damn. With loads of money and free time…

— The salary at the Corner’s Club isn’t bad. Considering our size, it’s disproportionate, actually.

— Yeah, but that’s only because we accept any Field Action. — Franco rolled down the window. — Arena Actions are what makes you famous. The Moons’ Club has twelve agents; it’s the same salary, but it’s a lot less work. — The night breeze blew in, and they could hear the bars in the distance. Franco glanced at Santo for a moment. — We could go there, their uniform is so much cooler. — Franco designed the uniform, with the CC surrounded by blond symbols burning on the chest. Santo sewed them. — It’s enough to pay the rent, I guess. You live near the village, right? Near the court. How much do you pay?

— Eight hundred.

— Cheap, actually. My father has been waiting for the surgery for seven months.

Santo did not look, but in the car, his friend cried.

— I did not want to tell you this. — Santo said. — But I heard Ivonço and Padim⁵ Flama talking about a Field Action with a pay of fifty thousand. — He let his breath out. — I did not mean to tell-

— Fifty thousand? — Franco interrupted him. — You’re lying. That’s impossible. Seriously, didn't you hear it wrong?

Santo stated that he had, certainly, heard it right. In fact, he said that the superiors did not want the students to know about this Field Action, duly concerned about the high level of work, given the pay and the expected team. Santo remembered them talking about not letting them know, because it would be too dangerous, not worth the attractive pay. Santo hid behind the boardroom’s door, his dralvo body safe from detection. He heard: the request had been made by an anonymous multimillionaire, and the emergency was apparent. They required a joint team, which would involve at least thirty agents. A big deal. The streets were emptying in the neighborhood.

— Thirty… — Franco stopped and thought. — Santo…

— Director Ivonço won’t let us go. — He cut him off immediately.

— If you didn’t believe we could go, you wouldn’t have told me. — Franco, one look more lively than the other, saw Santo sighing deeply. — We’ll talk to the Padim tomorrow. The two of us. Anja and Lívio don’t need to know.

Without opening her eyes, Anja said:

— No way. You’re not going without us. — Lívio opened his eyes, free from the act. — Let’s talk. Stop at Bel’s. — They stopped at Bel's.

In those days, the Empress Dádiva The Third and Santo Insular, President of the Republic, signed, once again, the agreement of the Sacrament of the Century. Due to the growing disparity in economic and political power between the two nations, there was a delighted expectation in Norama of peace and progress given the openness shown by the Empress, since during the last decades of her reign the imperial anxiety caused by the rapid growth of the republic was notable. Investments in the military and in the agricultural sector, to the detriment of scientific research, to the detriment of education. For a few weeks, the imperial controversy was the proposal to extend the working days in the novena from six to seven (as the Republic did). Among the conservatives, ideological descendants of the founders of the Republic, historically opposed to the royalty, opinion varied between confused support and foils of fear. The progressives, lovers of the Empire for its ideas of affected populism, cultural investment, protection of ideological diversity and free love, distanced themselves in vain from imperial power. The Constellations, an eternally uncertain power, were still politically occupied with the "Night": the genocide of all members of the seventh constellation, Scorpius, which had occurred only eighteen years before. There was still, among the six remaining families, a dubious movement towards peaceful duty, and it was no wonder that the Empire had advanced so much in its plans for power, since the genocide of the Scorpius house had tortured the tender bonds between the Constellations. The Night had not yet been blamed; the bitter seed remained. Fortunately, it seemed that, now, the Empire would be the Empire, which promised to maintain continental cordiality. The other three nations of Norama – small and weak – felt relief, since the race for power seemed to ease. The Empire would be content with the richness and cultural influence of its history, art and Uso, and the Republic advanced towards a future of technological success. The brotherhood – more symbolic than concrete – had been created at the end of the Battle of the Capitals; The Sacrament of the Century was a handshake on the border of the capitals of the nations, over the river Fogo, just as it had been done by Emperor Serissimo and the first president of Santa Cruz, Alvo dos Montes, two hundred years before. And on the bedside of Anja, a twenty-two-year-old girl from the captaincy of Corisco, in the Santos Empire, there was still the supermarket’s list from the last novena.

01:16:32

— You pay. — Anja said as they entered the cafeteria. Soon, Lívio and Santo arrived with fries, three burgers and four cans of soda. — Well, first of all — Anja began. — Director Ivonço is out of discussion. He won't let us go.

— Absolutely not. — Lívio said.

— We should talk directly to Padim Flama. — Anja continued, biting into her burger.

Franco did not hesitate to ask:

— And what makes you think he'll let us go.

— He loves money. — Anja replied. — Ten percent of the total amount goes to him.

— Actually — Santo interpolated. — This Field Action requires the participation of the Padins. Another reason for Ivonço's refusal.

— Tem’o⁶, so this is serious! — Anja said.

— Fifty thousand, Anja. — Franco laughed. — There's a chance we'll leave without an arm or a leg. That's why I didn't want you two to go.

— Yeah, you wanted Santo, who's a dralvo. — Anja’s voice broke halfway sentence; to this Lívio said:

— He's the most talented of us. — Anja looked at him with annoyance. — What?

— Hell, he left me alone today!

— If you had not been late. — Santo said. He and Lívio giggled quietly.

Franco took a pen out of his pocket and twirled it between his fingers while eating fries.

— What do you want fifty thousand réis for, Anja? — Franco asked. — I thought your mothers were rich.

— They're paying for the house.

— Wait, you really had to fight the Via’s Club boys alone? — Lívio asked Anja. — Thinking about it, our Field Action wasn't so bad.

Lívio gives an outline of the day's operation: Franco and him had to exterminate the Eco that was consuming the neighborhood's community garden.

MONOCERO 12^th

14:10:54

The neighborhood leaders had previously hired two other Clubs, with no success. The Corner’s Club was called not only out of urgency, but also out of desperation. In any other simpler situation, the neighborhood leaders would prudently avoid calling them. The boys, however, did not bother with whether they were wanted or not, as long as payment was made in advance.

Uso is the vital energy of a biological body, found in both animals and plants (in the latter, it is presented subtly). Among irrational animals, manifestations of Uso generally occur in moments of danger or hunting. Among humans, the one who expresses its Uso in a trained way is called an Agent. Inorganic materials have no Uso, however, when a quantitative imbalance occurs in nature, this allows Uso to escape from biological bodies to non-biological ones. An Eco is, therefore, a manifestation of pure Uso, without an Agent, in an inorganic form. An Eco expresses the qualities of its original material: a pile of stones would present actions similar to an Agent with terrestrial Uso.

The Eco that terrorized the garden had a torso made of earth and manure, legs of cassava, arms of cassava, a pumpkin head, onion eyes, garlic teeth, three and a half meters tall, a creature of no prudence and a kennel-like creak. That day, under the sun, the two Agents faced this Eco head on. Hours of constant and furious fight, but finally, victory was met by the boys of the Corner’s Club!

The community garden became ultimately unusable.

MONOCERO 13^th

01:20:24

Franco snorted, rolled his eyes, smiled sideways and began to scribble verses on the napkins. Santo argued that, even knowing his Padim's eagle spirit, he did not believe it would be possible to convince him so simply, due to the position of the prize: at the end of the darkness of an unknown mission, brilliant, far away. He also imagined that the registrations for this Field Action would expire out quickly. It was likely that, the next morning, that chance would no longer exist.

— Let's talk to him now. — Anja said, standing up. — Let's go, you idiots! — She said when she saw them sitting down.

01:36:19

The dark greens trembled under the cobalt blue and over the dirty yellow of the older street lights. The street they entered was made of flagstones, the worn ground – very light, very flat – passed through a forest. The light blues burned against Franco's gray eyes, forehead against the cold glass, and in favour of the hollow lilac of the stars, the oldest lights, Santo’s golden eyes sought the exit between the trees. The open palms, the past leaves brushing against the ceiling, a stalked star, a nocturnal bird, an eremus⁷ and a flower, those moons, a passing Eco. Anja and Lívio, sober again, exchanged evasions, looking at each other when they saw the other one not looking. The neighborhood returned, no one passed through the streets.

01:38:10

Padim Flama lived at Winehouse Street, number 90, apartment 43. No one was answering the intercom upon first calling.

As a Padim, a senior agent not only has teaching duties, this part being only the first basis; in addition, he should curate Actions, better matching levels, pay and deadlines to the powers and experience of the pupils; the continuous sending of crucial information to the Uso Census, such as God-Gütter scale exams, monthly Actions, promotion processes; simplify access to guides and support students in their branding choices; in addition, a Padim, upon accepting the position, promises his brain, his stomach and his heart before knowingly allowing the harm (physical, psychological or moral) of an agent under his care and before his guide.

Naturally, Flama refused his boys' request, this right after asking the beautiful girl who accompanied him to shut up so he could speak. He did not even allow them to go upstairs; in fact, he himself went down, not even putting anything on his feet, to give them a scolding. The girl went down with him, stunned by the situation, and for a good reason: they were in the apartment, with Flama's cell phone connected to the stereo, letting the sweet sounds drown out the obscene music with deep instrumentals and red-hot tension, when the rhythm stopped and the voices of three helpless young came out, calling for their father, saying that mommy would be angry if she knew he had left his little children out in the cold and dew.

A flurry of gestures arose at the entrance, coming mainly from the girl – with her underwear showing under her thin shirt – and the three youngsters with intentions, all with words ready for the poor teacher, who, finally, in one breath shouted that enough was enough of crying!

At that moment, they fell silent. He explained, first of all, that he had no sons and no wife. Second, he had no patience to deal with the screaming and watery phlegm of a bunch of kids who, if he let them, would lose their eyes if they faced an Eco made of mirrors alone – something that, they remembered well, had almost happened, had it not been for Flama's pertinent intervention. Third, there was no point in showing up outside of his shift, even though it was the end of the novena, since the next morning the Godfather was supposed to appear at the Club to review and reevaluate the achievements of that novena. Everything came out in three exciting breaths, to the sound of the unwilling murmur of the doorman who was watching over the scene.

— You're going to have sixty-five thousand at once, Flama. — Lívio blurted out after the general silence.

Flama's hairs got heated.

— And let's agree that you're not going to the Club tomorrow! — Anja said. — You're going to delay it all until Pálida, and do it when there are less than ten minutes left to send the results.

Santo looked at a wall. A few days earlier, he had seen Franco grumbling about a modern novel he had bought with his own money, at his own free will. He was reading it and laughing out loud. That was when they went together to investigate an Echo on Mount Three Santos. Franco was at the foot, sitting on dirty sandals, his feet bare, talking about the phrases that – he allowed himself to be sour – were “translated”, expressions and rhythms undoubtedly natural to Arctic languages, especially the Bigis, given the fame of their contemporary urban fantasies. He laughed at the couples and passions, always a pale one paired with a dark-skinned white-haired Norama, the authors obviously obsessed with the Crux Constellation’s beauty standards; he laughed at the awkward dialogues, at the ways of illustration: gestures of reality in a flat dimension, admirable and easy to escape; no philosophical danger, some daring desire for social advancement, all the property of happy and shameless people; he envied them and laughed.

— If I beat you in a fight — Santo said to Flama—, will you accept to join us?

Padim Flama accepted the challenge, because his old promises prevented him from refusing it.

01:49:13

They got a net-less tennis court to work as an Arena. The night was colder and siren cries hurried far through the dark grey blocks. When the first hit closed the gap between student and master, only one person was surprised, that lady previously in a date with the master. Her Uso was not mature enough to engage in much speculation, but she could, with no advanced method, calculate Santo’s power, release, and damage: zero, zero, and some. If that boy was a dralvo, as she could sense, how could he get the first clean cut in a battle against a trained Padim? Yet she saw him doing it, and it seemed no luck or cheap trick.

Santo’s shadow was buried under the darkest scrutiny, as his teacher converted his every shiver into counter. In a daring high kick, Santo’s soul cried in joy, even though his heart – so young – trembled and ache. The night raged on, and its lightness relied over one disgrace: no one could be sure of its outcome. Lucent trouble bloomed, and the turbulent rise of cries sufficed for the whole night, its silence violated. The buildings were grey block on grey block painted over with washed egg-white. The residents slept amid the blood and the frivolity, or wandered awake and uncaring. Night can not break into dawn without tragedy, because changing is death. Flama’s eyes got warmer, like black pebbles on boiling milk. He then caught, not breaking a sweat, Santo’s incoming punch. Santo was not fast enough to dodge the next attack, and so he fell to the ground.

The night got colder.

Still down, the boy, without losing sight of his adversary, took his Aro⁸ from his back pocket.

— Oh, ma vieille ami! — Flama said as he saw Santo use his old Aro, which he had nicknamed Big Bee, due to the distinct sound of its fast tracks. It was a slingshot, its calloused wood had worn elastic gnawing at it. Flama remembered how the heads become smaller between the shafts of the Y.

Santo got up, and quickly aimed. The wind blew theirs faces and hairs. Santo had long curls, Flama’s were short. When the first shot came – burning in violet, fiery flames – Flama thought of how feeble Big Bee’s damage was, but how deep its damnation. There, it came to him the image of a forehead hit right in between the eyes, the terror of the night continuing on the other side of the blasted face. That shot tore memories from end to end.

HOROLOGIUM 17^th

17:00:00

There was a tree at the top of the hill, and it had been a hot day. The Corner’s Club sat under the sun, in the tall grass. The wind blew and changed over the shallow river streaming downwards. Flama gathered stones from the field. Anja lied on her back with her hair spread out, covering her eyes with one lazy hand. Lívio was by her side, drinking cold lemonade. Franco was reading and wandering. They were in a Field Action to catalogue and photograph Ecos that should appear in the early night, a phenomena catalyzed by the accumulation of a certain species of fish that went downstream at dusk; it was, fortunately, an easy mission.

Those Ecos were bubbles of water and light, floating across the field like bluish-white balloons, at very low altitude. Often, the presence of a well-cultivated Uso was hostile to natural Ecos, and could, therefore, violently alter their structures. So Santo got hold of the camera.

Santo aimed it at Lívio, capturing him apologetically. Anja saw, in her impossible climb, the moment in which she descends. It was a debauchery to catch Flama staring into space, and in the photographs, his mentor was his father's son, his skin as dark as icy mist. Franco was the one with whom one could walk to the confines of the ignoble jungle, until, in a moment of distraction, one realizes his absence, and sees a dead speech spread on the table, sacrificed by a welcoming solar god, as immature and ancient as dreams themselves are. And Santo was the secret labyrinth of the desires of the stars' gazes. He took a photo of two deformed flowers on the slope of a perfect fungus.

— Do you think that, in one of His cold days, God thought about committing suicide?

Among the religions and philosophies of Norama, the most unique and unwanted was that of the Imuto people, a people who had created a single god, a god without children, without lovers, without heroes or saints, without enemies, without intercessors or prophets, a god with a beginning and an end, of whom nothing was outside of and in others. For three centuries, the Imutos were persecuted in the north of the continent and cornered in its interior, weakly protected by the tolerant policies of the Empire. In the Republic, they still suffered from exclusion and poverty; and in the nations of the north, they were extinct. In the extreme south, in the snowy villages of Tabira, they lived as actors, dancers and clowns. Franco's father was one of the two thousand Imutos of Santalma.

— An idea for a short story? — Santo answered Franco. —It would make a good short story.

— Yeah. Whatever. Answer me.

— You know I am an atheist.

— That doesn’t matter.

— If by “God” you mean “The All-Conscious”, tekatu pá⁹. If “God” is just “Everything”, then no. I doubt that sticks and stones yearn for extinction.

— In your view, is mind-soul outside of God? Are the soul and the mind pieces born after the end of Creation, so that not even God has breath to cool them, or fire to wash them off? After all, God made them as a last idea, so perhaps He was so exhausted that He forgot to put Himself in His most passionate creation…

And, for that reason, Santo said to him:

— I do not even believe in God, Franco. For me, the Universe is a full table: everything arranged here is a different thing, atomically unique, occupying its due space, lasting as long as nature says, changing state and form. Everything is body. Some bodies are made of sugar, others of salt, others of virgin oil, or burnt eyes, others oysters, others stars. Sometimes, the table seems too full. Sometimes, it seems like there is not much at all. There are amoebas, arthropods, insects, fish, lizards, birds and mammals. And rocks. That is existence: rocks. Lots of rocks. Too many rocks.

Franco stared into space, his chin sadly resting on his open hands.

— And we sit and wait by the table. — He said. — Starving.

MONOCERO 13^th

01:52:33

Flama let the shot hit his face, and explode into dark violet sparks, like clear water bursting from a balloon. Despite the reverberating impact, Flama remained standing, only slightly bent in posture, while white smoke, resulting from the attack, veiled his face. There it is, Flama thought. That was what he needed to wake up.

When his face cleared up, Flama smiled. He took a step forward, and from his gesture, the ground got corroded by a serene heat. Santo fired again, this time hitting near the mouth. That did not take away Flama’s luxurious smile. As he was walking, Santo kept firing. Finally, Flama caught a shot with his hand as if it were a simple fly. He opened his hand, looking inside of it; the violet fire turned into icy blue: it was his own Uso reviving the energy with his original talent. He looked at Santo, who was already aiming anew: halfway through, the boy saw his shot being interrupted by another equally precise one. With one caveat, the shot against his was icy blue and way brighter, and so much more powerful that it pierced through his, destroying it and purifying the night with soft light, buzzing dangerously in his direction. This time, Santo found clarity to dodge, but for now on, he would not have more breath to attack.

In the first year, Santo lived in a room in the back of the Club, by himself. Soon the mentors recognized his prowess and intelligence; certain Arena and Field Actions became notorious in the community, and some time later, the Club won a named presence: Corner’s Club, the home of the Dralvo, a marvel and a disgrace! Flama, always avoiding caring – his upbringing was that of magical scoundrels and his soul oddly detached – one day called Santo to drink on the side walk.

— D’you know where I'm from, kid? — A ray of sunlight fell from between the rosy clouds.

— Alagado. — Santo suggested. Flama laughed softly, and gave him a pat on the head.

— Respect me, kid! I’m from the south, I am from Tabira. My father was an alter-vaterian, a very bad man.

In very simple terms, Flama’s father was a man who condemned a thousand times the worldly coldness of coins for the search of the golden fabric of saints. He believed that existence was an absurd idea, and that, in fact, the universe – a living creature – was healthy when non-existent, that its kind only survived as nothing-everything (a state that is not). "What exists is sick," he would hear from behind his grey mustache. All the planets exhaling within the bodies exhaling, passing through space, passed by Time, were but worms. Time and space themselves were the first worms, one consuming the other. Alive, it would die – Creation was agonizing, screaming in the cold night of itself, its relatives came with tears and candles, the candles went out, and looking at them in silence, the universe invented symbols, which meant everything; they were just marks of an animal in agony, embracing and biting itself.

— Sanctifying the significance of its self-flagellation. — Padim Flama said. — Santo. — He pondered. — Your illness means nothing.

The weapon sang with each pulsing muscle, twisted and locked, turning for protection, overcoming flames through dodging maneuvers and legs burning with action. But this, all this of hearing a gust and breaking the attack and spinning in the air amid flames, Santo knew was desperation, not combat. His teacher, taking advantage of this, leaned in to attack each time more aggressively, firing with increasing precision and speed. The game became a roar of violence. In a back flip, Santo dodged perfectly, only to be caught in the next act, just as he found a firm landing. The blow hit him directly in the torso and the boy fell to the ground, losing Big Bee from his trembling hand.

For some reason, his Padim did not kept attacking him. In fact, he stopped to watch his student recover. Santo's blood salted on his tongue, and a useless question forgot to disappear from his mind.

— Don't get too hasty, kid! — Flama said and laughed out loud. His crooked teeth were bright white against his dark skin, his sharp eyes swallowed the whole world. — I know you want me to use my secret weapon, but for now I’m not taking you very seriously. — Seeing Santo, good and hirsute, get up and prepare his Aro, Flama puffed out his chest and rekindled another form between his fingers.

Some months ago, Lívio gave Santo his copy of Rules and Flaws: The Secret of Star Agents, a highly regarded theoretical books on Uso (despite its detractors denouncing it by its pamphlet-like approach and populist sensibilities). If you could, please, open it on page 92 of its third edition, you should get a peak of the many usages of a Veil, making Santo’s thinking process thoroughly clear.

The court smelled like fire when Santo rose to tie up his hair, very calmly and slowly. His tanned face appeared, his amber eyes yet closed. When he finally got his thick locks into a bun, he looked ahead, devouring all the distance, maturing time. Anja, Franco and Lívio already knew that, but the woman accompanying them verbalized, in a short breath, how much Santo, the Dralvo, was a handsome man. His physique was a necessity and a result, and in fact, quite unappealing for its brutality, but his golden eyes set within some actor's bones were so useless and with no source, that one could infer they only existed to be mesmerized by strangers' dullness. Santo showed himself with a blessed and satisfied air, a dramatic, sunny gaze, marked by his eyebrows, colored like copper, a long and bold nose as if he were royalty, lips full of true punishment, marked by an old scar on his cheek, a blond goatee, a golden earring stuck in his left lobe: above all, it was his strangeness and singularity that heightened his otherwise magazine beauty. Santo made his movements vague. Flama – also quiet, inside his own study – had seen his student's imprecision in trying to attack and protect himself at the same time, and concluded that Santo would now attempt a purely offensive fury; his analysis was confirmed by the vagrant's next move: taking a Veil from his other pocket.

— Didn’t know he had one of those. — Lívio said, noticing the red colour of the fabric.

— He doesn’t like to wear it. — Franco said.

— Yeah, I had to bought this one for him. — Anja added, as Santo took off his shirt to wrap the Veil around his torso and neck.

— It’s made of the same material as a sury’anga. — Lívio started. — In addition to the rare product and the intricate production, a century ago, the use of the Veil was strictly confined to the Ymademas’ monasteries. Agents like me and Franco, of Intransitive Uso, were only able to use them recently. — Anja’s gaze went to Lívio. — But we use the Veil rarely, and to protect ourselves from our own Uso. In theory, Santo should wear it constantly… It’s no wonder…

Scars covered his body. He had been torn by this life at uncountable times, and he could not remember each wound’s tale, but he knew of his own return. He turned life upside down: it seemed as if this world was born to suffer from him. With bloody fangs and cruel claws, he was a mute animal, aware of all human suffering since birth, and the truth is that he kept quiet because he knew the uselessness of all languages, true and false. He looked at his adversary; the only bolder is the one ahead.

In the arena, beneath the Veil, Santo’s muscles were straining before they could burn, and inside, his heart was trembling. As he ran to retrieve Big Bee, Flama prepared and shot towards it, in order to stop him; Santo was faster. His teacher knew the perfection of his martial art, which had been taught to him by Director Ivonço Nisel, focused on the dynamic exchange between attacks and evasions. It was called Una’raé, and it had been created by the Noramas, based on the movements of Nuno, an extinct species of titan bird: in its classic form, practitioners valued the principle of “purpose of breathing” – una kara é, in Classic Norama –, in which every act should be useful, favouring accurate blows over pure violence or quick tricks. Just like Ivonço, once a great Agent, Santo used punches and kicks dynamically like the legendary bird, one at a time, one after the other. Causing his master much pain, Santo added aggression. With Big Bee in his hands, he extended the principle of his technique and sparked his delirium. Shot followed shot; steps and jumps and falls pulsating together, falling into each other; his chest icy with sweat, darkening in raw red, because the Veil allowed him to receive attacks directly. The fire burned as always, however, from now on, Santo purposely put his chest as target.

Uso is energy in all living bodies, and in its nature is equal, what an Agent does is the transmutation of this energy into a unique characteristic, of genetic origin. Flama Reis, from the snowy south, had inherited fire from his mother and scarcity from his father, and for years he toiled due to his lack of greater flames, such as his mother's. He could only throw blue and whitish embers of fire from his hands, like snowballs, and so he studied in the early years of his career to mitigate such weakness. Santo's blows and technique, the teacher noticed, were gradually overcoming his familiar brand and his lack of art, and the golden boy was making the fight closer, being able to alternate high kicks and attacks with his Aro. More and more blows came stunning. Flama's typical placidity turned into desperation. Two punches hit him consecutively, as Santo had finally closed the distance, taking the battle to his comfort zone.

There was finally a need for joyless tricks. Flama activated his Ato: First Farewell.

An Ato is a weapon made of pure Uso. Refined from the playful unconscious, it had been created by the studies of the First School of Uso – onorano, or “Play” –, and was the oldest form of Uso as warfare. First Farewell, of the ingenious Flama, manifested as floating eyes surrounding his body: closed, like Flama's own eyes (a very simple condition). He could not have full, brazing flames, but First Farewell punished surely.

When First Farewell was activated, Santo ceased his attack completely. His chest, as if mechanical, swallowed his sigh and did not move an inch. His body was static. But behind his eyes, a black forest of dangers advanced, eager for a chance worth the danger. Flama did not need to open his eyes to spot an opportunity, since he knew that his student was familiar with the conditions of his Ato: in the dark, the teacher knocked him down with one, two, three direct punches, and then finished by kneeing him high in the stomach, taking his breath away. Santo screamed and cried. The spectators noticed the impolite stillness that swept the leaves floating over the arena. Only Flama was attacking; he kicked Santo’s body onto the ground; he was waiting for him to give up or faint. The woman in her underwear felt cold, and, petrified, asked why Santo was not reacting.

— If he tries to counterattack, then it’s over. — Lívio said.

Life is old. Santo squirmed on the ground, sweating and wheezing, he saw blood and tears fall on his hand, the elastic holding his hair broke and his curls felt warm over his eyes. At this point, Flama was done beating him up and waited for his withdrawal. He dragged himself under a lamppost that waited on the side. The ground had a heavy body, a torture to be moved. Santo managed to get on his knees. Flama Reis opened his dark eyes, all the others eyes, that made up his dangerous Ato, opened as well, because they could sense malice; he saw Santo with his back turned, kneeling, preparing an attack with Big Bee. Santo turned his face enough to see Flama at the corner of his eye.

Flama saw a plain stone whizzing towards him. Maybe that was it: Big Bee had expired its Uso, and it was only a simple arrow now. Flama did not dodge, waiting for his Ato to punish Santo's malice. But the stone failed to get him and instead flew past his forehead, hitting the lamppost light bulb, plunging them into sudden darkness…

In the darkness, out of sight, Santo punched Flama hard on the right cheek, making his Padim’s world lose all directions. Blood came out without saliva. Flama fell, stunned for a few seconds. He had not received a punch like that in years.

Flama expected his student to take advantage of it, but that did not happen. When he was able to recover his stance, all exasperated, feeling his face burning and his ears ringing, he saw Santo on the floor, lying on his back. He was not unconscious, but his body was null, weakened. He was breathing slowly, with the dark sky in his tear-shielded gaze. He would stay there for some minutes, exhausted and breathing. At some point, when his vigour returned, Flama lay down next to him. He agreed to accompany them. He had realised Santo's ruse: First Farewell retaliates against attacks directed at Flama, so the attack reserved for the lamp went unnoticed, and the last punch came in the dark, taking advantage of the sensory failure of his Ato.

— But I still don't take you very seriously. — Flama confessed. — You still haven't made me use my secret weapon. — Santo did not hear a thing, and only found out about all of this later from his friends.

02:32:20

The Corner’s Club kids hang out at a twenty-four-hour supermarket. They talk about how much life fucking sucks, and they take pictures. They buy chips, beer and pudding. They kick rocks. They listen and dance to music in an empty parking lot.

¹An expression of endearment.

²War between the Captaincy of Luz and the Captaincy of Mapinguari, for the control of the south part of the Garganta basin.

³Homossexual man in the passive, penetrated role. Literally, means “sunny”.

⁴A cheap, popular car.

⁵A mentor in any field.

^6”Shit…” in a pensive way.

⁷An endemic pseudo-marsupial.

⁸ An instrument imbued with Uso by an Agent. Just as Ecos can arise from Uso imbalance, a trained Agent can transfer energy to an object. Aros can not be easily created by laypeople, due to the high precision required to avoid overdoing it and ending up destroying the potential Aro, or failing out of tact, thus creating a weak weapon. Carrying an Aro is strictly prohibited in the Empire for those without an Agent's License. An Aro can be destroyed according to its natural form. It is a source of pride for Flama that his Big Bee still holds up.

⁹ “I guess…”