(Night of May 24, 2017 - Highway to MOTHRA Military Base, Bahia)
"Luckily, there are no human rights down here."
The diesel engines of the MOTHRA T-72 trucks hummed quietly, their vibrations reverberating through the reinforced steel walls, muffling the choked groans of prisoners crammed into the cargo holds. The vehicles-painted in a matte black that seemed to swallow light rather than reflect it-rolled in tight formation down the deserted highway, flanked by three unmarked Lancer 4x4 armored cars. The only insignia visible was a small, stylized moth emblem painted on their doors.
Inside the third truck, Thiago Silva, a 23-year-old history student and one of the protesters captured on Paulista Avenue, struggled uselessly against the zip ties cutting into his wrists. His fingers tingled, numb, every movement driving the plastic deeper into his raw flesh. The metallic stench of dried blood mixed with sour sweat and gasoline fumes leaking from somewhere in the truck's undercarriage.
Beside him, the shaved-head boy-the same one who had grinned at Ferreira with bloodstained teeth-breathed in slow, controlled bursts. His cracked lips were split, his eyes fixed on the weld marks scarring the truck's floor. His back pressed against the wall, bracing with every jolt of the dirt road they'd turned onto half an hour ago.
Then, a hoarse whisper cut through the dark:
"Where the fuck are they taking us?"
No one answered. The silence was broken only by the creak of suspension and the occasional moan of the wounded. The trucks were built for cargo-human or otherwise-with no windows, just narrow ventilation slits near the ceiling where occasional slivers of moonlight slipped through.
Thiago shifted as the truck lurched violently over another pothole. That's when he noticed it-the floor was damp. Not with water, but something thicker. "Blood." Blood from someone who hadn't survived the ride.
Suddenly, the cab radio crackled to life, making several prisoners flinch. A distorted voice echoed through the darkness:
"Zulu-9, confirming route to Bravo-Alpha-20. ETA 03:00. Cargo P-22 through P-31 stable. Over."
A garbled reply followed: "Copy, Zulu-9. Maintain radio silence until Checkpoint Gamma. Over and out."
The shaved-head boy lifted his gaze for the first time, locking eyes with Thiago in the dark. Without a word, he tilted his chin toward the front of the truck, where a tiny red light blinked near the door. A camera. They were being watched.
Thiago closed his eyes as the truck accelerated, carrying them deeper into Bahia's unknown hinterlands. Somewhere ahead, their fate waited-and he suspected few, if any, would live to tell the tale.
When the truck's heavy doors groaned open with a hydraulic hiss, a flood of sterile white light burst into the compartment, blinding prisoners accustomed to darkness. Some recoiled instinctively, rubbing shackled hands against their eyes, while others stood frozen-like deer caught in slaughterhouse floodlights.
Twelve soldiers in tactical gray uniforms, their faces obscured by MK-9 gas masks and unmarked operational helmets, formed a containment perimeter. Their movements were precise, mechanical, as they dragged prisoners out one by one. Combat boots crushed unprotected fingers without hesitation.
"Five per row! Heads down! Not a fucking sound!" barked a commander, his voice ricocheting off the concrete yard. The soldier-armed with an AK-47-wore a black balaclava over smoke-tinted night-vision goggles, his eyes hidden behind reflective lenses that mirrored the prisoners' terror.
The facility was a perfect facade.
The group was herded toward a freight elevator, its steel doors gleaming under artificial light. When the doors sealed with an electronic chirp, a digital display flickered:
LEVEL -7: CLASS-P DESIGNATION SECTOR
The air grew colder with each descending meter, until prisoners' breath hung in visible clouds. Some shivered uncontrollably-from cold or fear.
At the bottom level, the doors opened onto an endless corridor bathed in antiseptic blue light. Walls were lined with an unidentifiable metallic alloy, cold to the touch, punctuated by reinforced steel doors. Some had circular viewports; others flashed red warnings:
SECTOR P / RESISTANCE SUBJECTS - LEVEL 5 AUTHORIZATION REQUIRED
A soldier stepped forward, his helmet emitting a static buzz as its speaker activated:
"Attention. You are not prisoners." The distorted voice echoed as captives were shoved forward. "You have been selected for MOTHRA Institution. This may represent either a unique opportunity or a horrific condemnation-depending entirely on individual perspective, of course."
Among the captives, bewildered glances were exchanged. The shaved-head boy-now with a split lip from a brutal shove-spat blood on the floor and muttered: "Fuck me, we landed in a goddamn B-category horror movie...
None of the soldiers reacted. They marched in flawless formation, boots striking the metal floor in eerie, nostalgic sync.
Meanwhile, Captain Ferreira moved through the corridors of the facility's upper levels. The air was thick with the scent of antiseptic and machine oil, undercut by the faint metallic tang of fresh blood still clinging to his tactical gloves. He pulled a damp cloth from his uniform pocket, methodically wiping his fingers-as if trying to erase not just the physical residue, but the moral weight of his actions.
As he approached the Main Observation Room, a smoked-glass door slid open soundlessly, revealing a climate-controlled space illuminated only by the blue glow of surveillance monitors. Three figures stood inside, impeccably dressed in dark suits tailored so precisely they seemed designed for bodies that neither sweated nor breathed. They were unnaturally tall, their frames nearly brushing the ceiling, forcing them to hunch slightly as they observed the prisoners being processed below. Their pale, elongated hands were clasped behind their backs.
Ferreira entered. The door sealed behind him with a soft click.
"Operation complete," he announced, tossing the soiled cloth into a stainless-steel bin. "Twelve Delta-22 identified. Four with potential as Subject-P candidates."
The central figure-a man with close-cropped steel-gray hair and eyes like pools of crude oil, devoid of whites or pupils, just liquid darkness-turned slowly. His face betrayed no emotion, but the slight twitch of his spidery fingers suggested interest.
"And the boy?" he asked, his voice so soft it almost blended with the hum of machinery. "The one who spoke of... what's coming?"
Ferreira smiled, a gesture that never reached his eyes.
"He'll cooperate." The captain adjusted his holster, casual as a shrug. "They all do, eventually. Just armchair revolutionaries."
The black-eyed man studied Ferreira, as if seeing past flesh and bone to the hidden intentions beneath. Then, without breaking gaze, he extended a black dossier stamped with MOTHRA Institution's white logo:
"MOTHRA - LEVEL 5 - EYES ONLY"
"You're dismissed for now, Mr. Ricardo Ferreira," he said, stressing the civilian title like a reminder that here, the captain was no longer a soldier. "Let the Institute handle the rest. If we require further... interventions, we'll call you."
Ferreira took the dossier, noting its unnatural weight-heavier than standard paper, as if it held more than documents.
"And the Director?" he asked, feigning disinterest.
"Wants results before Phase Two. You know how he is." The suited man turned back to the screens, where footage of prisoners undergoing invasive exams flickered in sequence. "We always deliver results."
Ferreira nodded. But before leaving, his eyes lingered on a smaller monitor. It showed the shaved-head boy being led into a white room, where a team in hazmat suits waited beside a steel tray of surgical instruments.
The captain exited without another word.
As the door closed, the black-eyed man tapped a command into his panel. A new message flashed across the screens:
"PROTOCOL P-22: COMMENCE CONDITIONING PHASE"
Ferreira walked down the corridor, the dossier tucked under his arm. He paused before a surveillance mirror embedded in the wall-one of those two-way surfaces that hid cameras behind reflective glass. For a moment, he stared at his own reflection: the cold eyes, the impeccable posture.
Then, in one fluid motion, he plucked a tiny recording device from his collar lining and crushed it under his boot.
The soldier dragged Thiago down the narrow hallway. The cell was a three-square-meter cubicle, with walls lined in dense gray foam-soundproof. The rusty metal door creaked as it opened.
- "Take your clothes off," the guard ordered, pointing to the floor where a blue uniform was already folded.
Thiago backed up until he hit the cold wall. "What? No fucking way!" His fingers clenched involuntarily around the seams of his bloodstained shirt. "Not with you watching!"
The soldier leaned forward. The mirrored visor of his helmet reflected Thiago's bruised, frightened face.
- "I can do a lot more than just watch." His gloved hand slid toward his belt.
They were all shoved into cylindrical steel chambers. When the doors sealed, jets of a bluish liquid at 4°C burst from all directions. The fluid burned like alcohol on an open wound, stripping away every trace of dirt. Some screamed. Thiago swallowed his.
Moments later, a woman in a white lab coat appeared. No name on her badge-just a code: DR-37. Her movements were swift; she was clearly used to this. She spun an industrial livestock branding tool between her gloved fingers. The device resembled a welding gun, with a reservoir full of nanotech ink.
- "It'll hurt less if you stay still."
The contact on Thiago's shoulder made a wet crack, followed by the acrid smell of seared flesh. When she removed the device, the numbers P-022 glowed in fluorescent red before settling into a pale black. The ink fused with the subdermal layers-permanent.
Through the thick, bulletproof glass window, the shaved-headed boy was strapped to a modified dental chair, his body immobilized by leather restraints reinforced with metallic fibers. His pupils, wide with panic, reflected the fluorescent surgical lights hanging from the ceiling.
Two technicians in white coveralls held his head in place. One of them, a man with eyebrows so light they were nearly invisible, used a cranial restraint device-a kind of metal frame holding the boy's jaw open to prevent him from screaming. The other, a woman in blue latex gloves, monitored his vitals on a tablet that flashed red alerts at every spike of adrenaline.
At the center, the surgeon hummed Asa Branca as he prepped his instruments. His coat was stained with dried blood, contrasting with the brown smudges on the cuffs-leftovers from previous procedures. He adjusted his magnifying glasses, lenses that made his eyes look like those of an insect, and picked up a tungsten suture needle, as thin as a strand of hair.
- "Right eye first, as always," he announced, as if speaking to an invisible audience. "Let's see what you're hiding in there, little rebel."
The needle pierced the cornea with a wet sound. P-020 arched his back, a muffled scream trapped by the mouth restraint. His left eye darted wildly, trying in vain to escape the sight of the instrument slowly invading his eyeball, pushing through the vitreous layer until it hit resistance-the frontal bone.
- "Ah, there we are," the surgeon murmured, leaning closer for a better look. The needle now penetrated the prefrontal cortex, searching for something specific. "Everyone's got a little box of secrets in here. Let's open yours, shall we?"
P-020 couldn't respond. His right hand-the only part of him not restrained-convulsed in spasms, fingers clawing at the leather chair until they bled. On the monitor, a new waveform appeared.
The blue jumpsuits to be issued were made of a smart fabric that was constantly itchy. No pockets. No drawstrings. Reinforced seams to prevent suicides. A number on each prisoner's chest.
A synthetic female voice spoke from the speakers.
- "Welcome to the MOTHRA Institution. Rest is mandatory. Resistance is punishable. You will be transferred tomorrow starting at 06:00."
When the lights went out, Thiago discovered that in the dark, the numbers on the chest glowed brighter whenever someone cried.
And in the hallway, the guards' footsteps never stopped. They never stopped.
[Larissa Martins' Apartment - Vila Madalena, São Paulo]
[13:47 AM - 24 hours after the protest]
The glow of the 32-inch TV flickered in the dark, casting blueish flashes across Larissa's exhausted face. Curled up on the couch, wrapped in a coffee-stained blanket, her restless fingers repeatedly tapped the play button on her laptop.
On the TV, a reporter in a crisp suit spoke in that artificially calm tone reserved for damage control:
- "The government states all detainees from yesterday's protests have been released after giving statements. The Military Police vehemently deny any human rights violations..."
Larissa muted the TV with a sharp jab. She'd heard this lie ten times already. Her eyes returned to the laptop screen, where shaky footage she'd filmed at Paulista played on loop: blurred images, screams, a security guard with an unreadable badge smashing a fellow journalist's camera.
Then... that part.
She paused on the exact frame where the guard's face filled the screen. The scar above his eyebrow. The square jaw. It was him.The same man from the 2013 photo, when three students vanished after a fare hike protest.
- "Where are you now?" Larissa whispered to the screen as if the disappeared could hear her.
A flashback from eight hours earlier:
She'd gone to the nearest police station, pretending to be a cousin of one missing protester. The desk officer-a man with deep eyebags-barely glanced at her: - "No police report, no missing person. Next."
When she insisted, shoving phone photos in his face, he lowered his voice: - "Go home, girl. These ones ain't coming back."
Back in the present, the silent TV now showed the governor smiling at some charity event. Larissa aggressively clicked it off.
She walked to her small office wall-a chaotic web of photos, newspaper clippings, and red strings. At the center, a printed image of the Skulltruck T-47 armored vehicle with scribbled notes. Her hands shook as she grabbed a new Post-it:
"Shaved-hair kid - NOT FOUND"
She stuck it beside the guard's photo, completing the trail.
Outside the window, a car slowed on the deserted street. Larissa froze. Not a police cruiser. A matte black sedan. No plates.
Her laptop suddenly played the footage again-"Right here, fuc-" STATIC.
When she looked back, the car was gone.
A piercing alarm shattered the silence, followed by a robotic voice echoing through hidden ceiling speakers:
- "ATTENTION, SUBJECTS-P. RISE. FORM LINES. AWAIT INSPECTION."
The white LED lights flashed on simultaneously - a sucker punch to the eyes. Thiago (P-022) jolted awake, his body aching from the icy concrete floor. His blue uniform was damp - sweat or condensation, he couldn't tell.
Around him, other prisoners dragged themselves upright:
- P-019: A woman with short hair and chemical burns on her hands - former chemistry student. Panting. Lorraine.
- P-020: Absent. An empty cell, just a dark stain on the floor where he should've been.
- P-021: A muscular ex-security guard with crushed knuckles. Eyes fixed on the floor. Alexandre.
- P-023: A thin young man with fresh bruises. Trembling uncontrollably. Oliver.
- P-024: An older woman with graying hair. Deliberate movements. Her eyes said she'd seen worse. Ancélia.
The dormitory door slid open. Two guards in tactical gear and gas masks entered carrying handheld scanners.
- "Final roll call before transport," one announced through the mask's distorted speaker.
The scanner beeped at each prisoner's code. When it reached P-020's empty bunk, the guards paused, exchanging quick glances.
- "Subject P-020 removed for advanced procedures. Continue."
No one dared ask questions. Just dry swallows in the silence.
They were marched to an underground loading dock where a black truck idled, its modified interior visible through the bars - steel benches, floor-mounted shackles.
Before anyone could react, black cloth bags smelling of chemicals were shoved over their heads. Thiago's world spun momentarily - sedatives in the fabric?
P-023 began screaming. A sharp slap. A muffled whimper.
- "Board. Now."
Shoved forward, prisoners stumbled up the ramp. Whispered voices in the dark:
- "Where is he? What did they do to him?" (P-019)
- "Shut up, they're listening." (P-024)
The rear door slammed shut with metallic finality.
The engine roared. As the truck moved, its unnaturally smooth ride gave no clues to direction - were they on some perfect road? Or underground?
Thiago counted seconds. One minute. Two. Three.
Then the truck took a sharp turn, and he heard the unexpected:
Rushing water.
Enormous amounts - like passing under a dam or... an artificial underground river.
P-024's whisper was barely audible in the dark. Then the truck began descending.
[Viaduto do Chá, São Paulo - 6:23 AM]
The morning mist clung to her skin like a damp cloth. Larissa walked briskly, her hood pulled up against both the cold and the watchful gaze of surveillance cameras. In her hands, thermal bags held coffee and sandwiches-classic bait for someone who truly saw everything in this city.
She found him curled under a pile of worn-out blankets between two viaduct columns. "Seu Nelsinho," as he was known, was an urban legend-a former truck driver who'd lost his family in an accident and now lived in the city's shadows, his memory still sharp as a razor.
-"Too early even for the rats, girl," he coughed, accepting the coffee with arthritic fingers. "What brings you to my waiting room?"
Larissa crouched, keeping her voice low: "Yesterday's protests. Were you here?"
His eyes narrowed. He sniffed the air like an animal sensing danger. "Yeah. And I saw what I wasn't supposed to."
He described the black trucks parked behind the old building. Men in unmarked uniforms loading hooded, handcuffed figures: "One kid got loose. Ran toward me. Bleeding, shirt torn... Then one of the soldiers aimed this weird gun-looked like it was made of glass, and-"
Nelsinho froze mid-sentence. His eyes locked onto something behind Larissa. "They're here."
She turned. Nothing. Just mist and the grimy dawn light. When she looked back, Nelsinho was already on his feet, his blankets pooled on the ground. His untouched coffee spilled across the pavement. "Nelsinho?!"
No response. He walked straight into the empty street like a man in a trance-then suddenly screamed: "RUN!"-without looking back. "THEY'RE HERE-"
A black garbage truck roared between them, its engine unnaturally muffled. By the time it passed, Nelsinho was gone.
On the ground, only his battered shoes remained, neatly placed side by side. And a wet stain that reeked of ammonia and copper-the same stench Larissa remembered from Paulista.
Her phone buzzed. An anonymous message from an unknown number:
>> YOU'RE NOT LOOKING FOR PEOPLE. YOU'RE LOOKING FOR GHOSTS.