Sylvia.

Astounding fronts, a line of young men as short as a mailbox, to taller than the adults. Club sitters, corner teens, troubled young men, vanquish singers, restless boys, reckless criminals and low life academics of poor heritage, or rather all of them shared poor virtue. their eyes spoke, tears dried up in the youngest of the bunch, eyes red like the soup they used to drink at school, their hearts tied and twisted in a jungle of control and mishap, a military dictatorship had swallowed their lives, restricted their family and took away their freedom, and now they had to die to make it last. They weren't all like that though, some wanted to kill rather than die, some supported the country and some went with the flow, letting whatever spilled- run down and fall onto the floor below.

It was all about restraint, admirable or not.

they all wanted to solve their life, 

that was the resolve of these corner boys.

'Trem De doido'

'Vento Fala'

'Contando Estar'

'Robertinho Silva'

'Grana Bunfufa'

some just wanted money.

but these were corner boys, on a mission, God knows where.

&

In the hands of a widow, rain began to fall near a small house on the outskirts of Tangara De Serra, it reminded her of her husband. A fallen solider of the era before Palma Curve, he was killed and sent off the cliff which overlooked the low town. The widow was deemed to be “dead” as she lost everything around her, retreating to her single hut in the far distance. Her hair cascaded down below onto her lost sons bed, draped in dusty grey sheets, withering in dust. Tears wet the dust and dryness, as her emotion fell below. 

A desk in the corner, wooden mahogany, covered in years of emptiness. Drawers, filled with loose papers and batteries, and hidden in the mess, was a singular sketchbook with its back down, showing the cover to the ceiling.

A faint sketch, a face, a scar near the tip of the nose, with hair that flowed behind and in-front of the ears.

Under the same sky, heavy rainfall began miles away, covering the city in faint vertical waves.

&

Riquelme looked to the dark and broody sky, his boot squelching on the wetness practically inhaling the grass. In the shadow to the tragic left, 5 teenagers huddled up on the wet concrete, tucked away in the back of a concrete shed. In the disguising sounds of heavy rainfall, his pocket bled vibration,

a phone call from de Sylvia. 

-

"Riquelme, you have begun already in Tangara? we might have an idea-"

Palma strut around the cabinet, tie and vest loosened as he stared at random things assorted in the room. 

a notebook,

a photo of a figure,

a castle picture,

soft blue leather,

a pen.

His eyes focused on the ballpoint pen, reminding him of his days as a schoolboy, fostering hate for this world, that is where it began for him.

he would kill "himself" if it was another child rooting against brazil, and he knew that child wasn't holy like him, a miracle. And so, he licked his lips, looking at his minister, sudden brown cabinet wood shifting into concrete.

"the school Riquelme, in the middle of the city-" De Sylvia he spoke over hard rainfall. And back into warm mahogany, a tusk laying on the desk of the president.

"start with the schools" he sighed dreamily, seeing faint figures out of his eyes, rainfall devouring his lenses.

Riquelme spoke, rain dripping down his face.

"in the city... ill send a few out, and we start there"

his eyes grazed on a far building in the distance.

The engineering building for youth.

&

Onlooking his PhD paper,  Hernan's eyes twitched to the page beside him. A students report, one that was in the 8th class, on the evolution of weapons in Brazil since the age of colonization. His brows raised, 'Wasnt this project for anything?' why would he choose that? he put down his own mastery and raised the teens report, overlooking each page. The teen was 13 years old, and wrote an extensive almost mechanic report on the history and evolution of weapons, detailing the fast production and improvement in power. He read it mostly lost, biting his lip, 'Why...' this was far past a childish like of guns, this was knowledge only known by a far enthusiast adult. This project was apart of the youth engineering building linked to the Highschool of the city, so the student was from there.

his eyes read the name,

'Sophia Gonzalez' a very popular name for Paraguayans.

a small blue paper fell out, looking eerie similar to a blueprint.

he held his breathe as he turned over the page.

'a blueprint for the Taurus Model 82' one that seemed to come from an engineer itself, from the factory.

He stared at the page.

"..."

Sophia Gonzalez.

&

outside of the city of Tangara, they had found refuge in a small bungalow in the village of Tine. Riquelme held the boys 'Contando, Robertinho and grana' here practicing their weapon use, all while holding a knife to the back of their necks.

he licked his lips as Contando made a mess on the target, ridden bullet holes abstract and absurd, 'Dont you dare stop... imagine it is nothing but a blur, and when we finish, it will all be over.'

He held the knife on his nape, as the boys ears began to bleed,

'train... repetition' he repeated into his ear as bullets were lost into the night sky and rainfall,

the others tied up and knocked unconscious by the foot of his bed, in a small bungalow home. 

he heard a sound near the front door, a knock.

he threw Contando to the ground and looked into the distance, no humans, just a stray dog strutting away, and on the ground was a letter.

'De Maria'

&

On the pavement, shoes stepped onto the playground near the main school of ' Bata.' Trem and Vento Fala looked into the distance, their hair gently swaying.

Trem put his fingers to his head, trying to look into the top of a school window, his sight slightly blurry when hit with light, his baggy grey sweater zipped quarter way. 

he turned his head to see Vento walking away, 

"Im checking out this section." he spoke softly as he walked, Trem nodded and went back to looking straight.

His eyes caught the sudden noise of teenage boys fighting in the distance, and a blonde haired girl watching from a few meters away.

He began to walk to the fight, eyes low before he peeked up and noticed the blonde girl staring at him, the fight only becoming more rough as seconds went by.

"who are you?" she spoke, staring daggers at him, almost protecting the group.