Warning: potentially violent and disturbing content.
[São Paulo]
The siren of MOTHRA's armored Skulltruck sliced through the midday air like a sharp blade, piercing the streets of the outskirts as its engine growled like a beast ready for war. The red light of the siren blinked frenetically, reflecting off the graffitied and worn-down walls, creating a grotesque contrast between the urgency of the mission and the desolation of the setting.
Inside the vehicle, Sergeant Lemos adjusted his helmet, the cold metal giving him a stern appearance. With trembling hands, he checked his ammunition, the heavy bullets sliding between his fingers as his mind focused on the task ahead. Captain Ferreira, as impassive as ever, kept his eyes fixed on a tablet displaying aerial images transmitted by a helicopter, the screen pulsing with real-time information.
- "Robbery in progress. Military cargo train. Cars carrying surveillance equipment, weapons, and restricted medication," Ferreira summarized, his voice cutting clearly through the tension in the air.
- "Black Blocs?" Lemos asked, trying not to spit inside the vehicle-an odd tendency to produce excess saliva making him restless. The tension rose.
- "Yes. But just foot soldiers. Nothing big on this op. This is a normal robbery, not a political coup," Ferreira replied, his eyes never leaving the screen.
The Skulltruck suddenly veered off the asphalt, entering a dirt road that ran parallel to the tracks, accelerating toward the moving train. The sound of the metal wheels tearing across the rails echoed powerfully-a growing roar that signaled the approaching clash. It was a colossal train, thirty cars and two locomotives, all under the control of criminals dressed in black. Some wielded AK-103 rifles, others held Molotov cocktails and sledgehammers-a full-blown arsenal in broad daylight.
In the midst of the adrenaline rush, Ferreira turned to his team, a determined look on his face.
- "We do this in three phases. One team boards the last car and clears it forward. The second team rappels down from the helicopter and takes control at the front. We breach through the middle, cut communications, and neutralize any resistance."
Lemos frowned, uneasy. - "What if they detach the cars?"
Ferreira's gaze turned ice-cold. - "They won't have time."
With a sudden brake, the Skulltruck slowed, and the rear door opened. Undercover MOTHRA soldiers jumped out, heavy boots hitting gravel and metal with a muffled thud, like war drums marking the start of the operation. Magnetic hooks were activated, and within minutes, Lemos was scaling the last car, Colt rifle in hand, followed closely by two hooded agents.
- "Boarding the train. Protocol 13 active," he whispered tensely into the radio.
Ferreira, moving with feline precision, climbed onto a side car, each step executed with near-supernatural accuracy. The first shot echoed muffled inside the container, followed by screams and the clattering of weapons hitting the floor-a warning bell sounding through the chaos.
- "Movement in the third car. Visual confirmation: three armed hostiles. Confirmed, Black Blocs," the helicopter pilot's voice broke through the confusion.
From above, ropes dropped down, and elite soldiers descended like falling shadows, sliding swiftly into the heart of the action. The plan was in motion-the train heist wasn't supposed to last long.
But as Ferreira advanced through the narrow metal corridor of the car, a cold premonition crept in.
An intense feeling that something inside that train was completely wrong overwhelmed him. Every step he took tightened the knot in his stomach, and the echoes of muffled screams and distorted laughter mingled with the sound of clashing metal, surrounding him in a tangible nightmare-as if the very flesh of the train were whispering dark secrets.
Gunfire erupted inside the train with a dry burst of AK-103 rounds, the thundering sound echoing through the metallic corridors like the beat of a war drum. Each shot sliced through the heavy air, amplified by the claustrophobic space, as screams of pain and the dull thuds of bodies struck reverberated throughout. Sergeant Lemos, leading the advance through the fifth car, was the first to engage. With a surge of courage, he took two firm steps-only to abruptly come face-to-face with a group of three masked criminals, their figures indistinct but clearly dangerous.
- "Get down!" Lemos's shout rang out, his voice cutting through the adrenaline surging in his veins. With no time to think, he fired, his weapon unleashing a rapid stream of bullets. One of the projectiles hit its mark, but the response was almost immediate. One of the enemies ahead fired back with deadly precision. The shot struck Lemos; pain exploded in his left flank like wildfire, and he staggered backward, a muffled cry escaping his lips as blood gushed and spread.
He collapsed painfully onto a torn sack of supplies, breath ragged as his body writhed under the weight of agony.
- "Sergeant down! I repeat, Sergeant Lemos is hit!" The urgent message echoed over the radio, his voice a grim warning.
Captain Ferreira, close behind, witnessed the scene unfold in what felt like slow motion. The chaos erupting around him briefly faded, and the sound of gunfire merged with a distant past.
The courtyard of Carandiru, October 1992, crashed into his memory. The deafening roar of the ROTA machine gun, booming like a baptism of fire from his youth. Piled bodies, blood flowing across the horror-stained ceramic floors. A young Ferreira, in uniform and paralyzed, watched the screams and pleas. Men on their knees, executed under the indifferent gaze of violence. And the echo of an order etched into his mind: "Shoot to kill!"
He blinked-and reality came crashing back with a painful jolt.
The masked criminal was reloading, and Ferreira, without hesitation, advanced. A single, surgical, and precise shot struck the shooter's shoulder, making him drop his weapon and collapse, a choked scream stuck in his throat. But Ferreira gave him no time to react. He dove onto the man, kneeling on his chest and delivering a solid punch to his jaw.
- "You'll live. But you'll learn to pray for death," Ferreira muttered, his voice deep as thunder, while the criminal struggled to regain a grip on reality.
Still breathing but unconscious, Lemos needed help. Quickly, the surrounding soldiers rushed to assist him, beginning hemorrhage control and preparing him for evacuation to the waiting helicopter.
The Black Bloc soldier who had shot Lemos was cuffed, bloodied, and dragged to the armored truck. Ferreira threw him onto the metal floor of the van, his gaze cold as steel, showing no trace of compassion.
- "Take this trash to Bangu 3," he ordered, his voice emotionless, echoing in the tense atmosphere.
- "Captain... are you sure?" one soldier hesitated, anxious.
- "I am. I want him in a place where they'll remember him every day-that he almost killed one of our brothers. I want him somewhere even the rats are afraid to sleep."
The Skulltruck rumbled off, its deep engine noise echoing over the asphalt, heading toward Rio de Janeiro. In the rearview mirror, the now motionless train stood-a desolate image, its cars overtaken by MOTHRA's overwhelming force, with a thin trail of smoke rising into the sky.
Captain Ferreira said nothing more.
The train operation ended with the MOTHRA team sweeping through the last cars. Three rebels dead, five wounded, and two captured-plus the one taken by Ferreira. The vehicle was fully recovered, the train conductor rescued unharmed, and the improvised explosives removed by a specialized squad. With the train secured and Sergeant Lemos stabilized in the evacuation helicopter, Captain Ferreira gave the final command over the radio:
- "We're done. Railway is clear."
There was a tone of relief among the soldiers, but also a cold taste of irony in the air. They had just won a battle, but the war they fought was much greater-and infinitely more complex.
The Skulltruck drove off from the combat scene, its deep and rhythmic engine hum echoing along the asphalt toward Rio de Janeiro. In the rearview mirror, the halted train stood in grim silence, its cars overtaken by MOTHRA's relentless force, and a wisp of smoke curled skyward.
Captain Ferreira remained silent during the entire ride. The silence in the cabin only heightened the tension he tried to contain. Every soldier inside the armored vehicle breathed heavily, carrying the weight of battle on their shoulders. Their thoughts were all on Lemos, who was fighting for his life, stabilized in the helicopter waiting for them at a nearby city fairground.
Meanwhile, at the crime scene, the operation on the train reached its climax. The MOTHRA team meticulously swept through the last cars, conducting methodical searches through debris and the fallen bodies of the three rebels killed in the confrontation. The soldiers' shadows moved in coordinated patterns.
Five wounded men-both allies and enemies-received immediate aid. Paramedics worked under pressure and urgency, pressing gauze into deep wounds and trying to stabilize those who were still breathing. A bittersweet look marked the soldiers' faces as they tried to separate the injured.
Two Black Blocs were captured, handcuffed and seated in a corner on the iron floor of the train car, staring into the void, as if grasping what had happened was beyond their understanding. Ferreira, overseeing the operation, silently observed, taking notes on his tablet.
The team had successfully recovered the military vehicle. The train conductor-who had been in control of the train-was rescued unharmed, his expression a mix of confusion and relief. The train had been disassembled. A specialized GATE squad carefully removed the improvised explosives, each move made with meticulous caution to avoid greater disaster.
[Rio de Janeiro - Bangu 3]
The walls of the interrogation room in Bangu 3 were streaked with sweat and peeling paint, the aged surface revealing a history of neglect and pain. A single flickering fluorescent bulb cast dancing shadows that twisted in the dimness. The air was laced with an agonizing cold, yet the captured rebel-a young, thin man-was drenched in sweat, his skin glistening under the pale light. The ill-fitting orange prison uniform clung to him, and his wrists were red and bruised from the handcuffs chaining him to a metal chair. He hadn't been tortured-yet-but his posture was tense, coiled with fear of the unknown surrounding him.
The door creaked open. Captain Ferreira stepped in, his presence filling the room with a mix of authority and ominous weight. He didn't rush. He moved with the confidence of someone who was fully in control. He wore a black shirt, neatly tucked into his pants, and his boots-still dusty from the earlier operation-reflected not only the terrain he had tread but also the burden of the decisions he had made.
Sitting directly across from the prisoner, Ferreira crossed his legs and pulled out a clipboard with blank sheets-a blank canvas, stark against the oppressive atmosphere of the room. Silence settled heavily, thick with expectation and nearly suffocating.
After long seconds that seemed to stretch endlessly, Ferreira broke the silence.
- "Name, age, role." His voice was firm, reverberating through the room.
The rebel said nothing. He kept his gaze fixed straight ahead, defiant, but his trembling hands betrayed the courage he was trying to project. Ferreira allowed a smile to creep across his face-a smile that became increasingly unsettling as it caught in the harsh light. The coldness of the moment deepened.
- "Alright... you know what's easier than interrogating punks? Watching them drown in their own silence."
He reached into a folder and pulled out several photographs, tossing them onto the table. The images showed the corpses of the rebels killed on the train, the still-smoldering explosives, and one photo of the prisoner himself-cuffed and subdued. Ferreira watched the young man's expression shift.
- "These ones won't be talking anymore. What about you? Still playing this little act? Because I know you know who's in charge. I know you know where they went. I'm just giving you a chance to keep your teeth."
The silence stretched on-a response trapped between them. Ferreira stood slowly, making sure the prisoner felt the weight of his presence. He began to walk in slow circles around the chair, his footsteps setting a calculated rhythm. Then, suddenly, he turned off the light.
- "Ever been in the dark with someone who won't speak?" Ferreira whispered, his voice brushing the rebel's ear. - "Ever been in the dark with someone who doesn't need fists to break you?"
He flicked the light back on. It buzzed and flickered, its strobing glow revealing the desperation now creeping behind the young man's mask of defiance.
- "You're in Bangu, kid. Here, pain's just the beginning." His tone was calm.
At that moment, the rebel's silence began to seem less like a shield of conviction and more like a deep reflection of the fear taking hold inside him. Ferreira watched every movement, every breath... then exhaled deeply...
- "Officer... bring me the broom."
The officer watching from the door hesitated for a second. Knowing what that meant, Ferreira looked over his shoulder and repeated, impatiently: "Now."
The tension in the room increased. The prisoner began to sweat even more, and for a brief moment, his eyes lost their focus of resistance, the pressure dropping. He knew that something very bad was about to begin.
Captain Ferreira approached the handcuffed rebel, his movements measured and deliberate. He held out the handle of the broom, its rough surface contrasting sharply with Ferreira's polished boots. The prisoner's eyes widened as he realized what the instrument represented.
With a quick movement, Ferreira grabbed the prisoner's chin, forcing him to look up. Their gazes met, Ferreira's cold and unyielding, while the prisoner's conveyed only terror and despair. - "Speak," Ferreira ordered, his voice low and menacing, "or this will become your new best friend."
- "I won't talk, sir..." said the rebel. Trying to look away, Ferreira directed his sole under the body of the handcuffed rebel. - "I see that you value a little anarcho-apartmentist group more than dignity..." then, knocking him to the ground and calling the guards.
- "Hold him there. Take off his pants."
The rebel's initial screams echoed off the interrogation walls, a cacophony of agony as the wooden end of the broom was shoved into his anus. The pain was excruciating, violating his insides in an attempt to rupture the subject's colon. Ferreira continued his torture, noting the prisoner's contorted face, the tears streaming down his face, the desperate pleas for mercy that went unheard.
Ferreira pulled the broom handle, which was covered in blood, and threw the handle aside and then kicked the tortured man in the stomach, who was in tears.
Finally, broken and sobbing, the rebel spat out the names of his leaders, his voice barely above a whisper. Ferreira took in each piece of information, then leaned back casually in his chair, as if he had merely asked for information. "That's all for now," he said, standing up and motioning for his chief to put away his broom. "Throw him into the cells, we've got enough information."
[São Paulo. Improvised Studios of Mídia NINJA]
The muffled sound of keyboards filled the warm room. Old fans spun in sync, trying to push the heat out of the graffiti-covered walls of the warehouse. Colored LED lights illuminated cameras, editing desks, and boxes of equipment marked with masking tape: "RESISTANCE," "OCCUPATION," "MILITARIZATION." Larissa Martins stepped into the room with firm strides, her eyes tired but alert. Her denim vest still bore stains of tear gas from the last protest coverage. The journalist dropped into a swivel chair, powering up her laptop with nervous finger taps. She put on her headphones. The recording icon began to blink.
On the screen, a draft of a dossier: "MOTHRA INSTITUTION - TRUTHS BEHIND THE WALLS"
She opened her digital folder filled with files and field notes. Pixelated images. Rushed photos. Anonymous interviews recorded in the dirty hallways of occupations and in union building restrooms.
Document 01:
Statements from a former public security officer: "They've got an underground prison. It's not run by the government. It's a parallel project. If you go in there, you don't come out. My brother disappeared after the 2017 strike."
Document 02:
A hacked satellite image, allegedly showing the camouflaged entrance of one of MOTHRA's complexes, with unusual traffic of unofficial vehicles inside a government-declared "deactivated" area.
Document 03:
Encrypted audio of a conversation between military personnel: "...protocol ███████ was used in ████ █████... two ██████ didn't survive the ███."
Larissa squinted as she listened to the last audio clip. She rewound it and turned up the volume.
A man's heavy breathing. Shaky words.
"...they threw a guy in there like he was food. It was a test... a test with that thing..."
She paused the audio. The silence screamed in her ears. She took a deep breath and grabbed her pen. At the top of the page, she wrote:
"If anyone still doubts the existence of monsters... they haven't looked closely at MOTHRA."
Larissa leaned back in her chair, staring at the bulletin board in front of her, where red strings connected names, events, and entities: Captain Ferreira, MOTHRA Institution, Black Blocs, the disappeared, unmarked trucks, the 2017 protests...
She knew: she was in serious danger.
But she wasn't going to stop now.