The Terrorist Ch 01

This story takes place following the events described in "Back to Skool" and unfolds within the universe I envisioned in the "Portuguese Crime Reduction Act." For now, Sara Messias is the only character who appears in both stories. Every person in this story is of legal age at the time of the events

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The heat and smoke hindered my movements as I moved on the staircase landing to reach the second floor of the building. My mask is foggy and dirty. I hear screams behind the wooden door; the whole building is made of wood.

"More hose! I need more hose! And more water pressure, damn it!" I heard only static on the communicator.

"Pena, get out of there! I don't have any more water. Pena, that's an order. Get out of there immediately. Confirm. Over." How was it possible there was no water? I had contacted the fire departments myself; five tanker trucks were on the way, plus three were on standby.

"There are people trapped on this floor. I need water, pee into the tanks if you have to, but I need water. Damn it!" I felt the hurried steps of my colleagues as they descended the stairs and the screams of a woman on the other side of the door. I dropped the empty nozzle, took the ax from my back, and started breaking down the door with blows from the ax. I kicked the door, and it split in two.

Inside the house, a woman screamed desperately with a Western European accent, sometimes in Slavic.

"Sir, save my child! Vryatuy moyu dytynu!Save my child! Pane, vryatuyte moyu dytynu! zarady Boha." The woman screamed looking at me.

Between us was a burning corridor. I shouted into the radio again, "Water! I need water, I have people trapped."

"No water. Order to evacuate, Pena! Evacuate!NOW!" I heard the comms.

The woman looked at me and stood up from the floor, covered with a heavy cloth or blanket. Before I could do anything, she threw herself through the burning corridor. Her clothes began to burn, but she advanced towards me, carrying a child wrapped in a towel, shielding it from the flames with her body. I moved forward to meet her; even with the protective suit, the heat was unbearable. I extended my hands towards the burning woman.

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Today is a special day for me. It's my 18th birthday and also the day I take my last high school exam.

The exam room is completely silent. I review my answers for the second time and look at the clock. There are still 30 minutes left, but I'm so confident that I get up and hand in the exam. I'm almost certain I should get at least a 19, maybe a 20. But Portuguese is always a difficult subject. Anyway, my final average should be at least 19.5.

I look back as I walk through the deserted and silent school corridors. It has been 12 years of studying since I entered primary school at 6 years old until today.

I will finish my college degree in another six years if everything goes well. My average allows me to choose between medicine or veterinary medicine, as well as any engineering, but I will choose medicine. Since I was a child, I liked to perform surgeries on dolls, to my mother's despair and my father's delight.

I enter the Califa-Café and sit at one of the tables waiting for my friends. It is one of the main cafés in Benfica and even the entire city of Lisbon. The walls are covered with tiles and wood imitating the Arabic style.

I order a latte and a ham and cheese toast.

While waiting, I look at the TV. On SIC Notícias, the breaking news is a fire in a building on Rua dos Anjos. The reporter, with a somber expression, reports the death of two people and several dozen injured. The building, owned by Social Security, was used to house refugees from the war in Ukraine, almost all women and children.

"One of the dead was a firefighter and a 29-year-old woman. Miraculously, a 3-year-old child was rescued from the rubble, shielded from the fall by the body of the firefighter." On the ticker below, they were reporting the news I was waiting for: members of the Climáximo group disrupted traffic for 3 hours on the Duarte Pacheco overpass, and several members of the group were arrested.

She was quite pleased with the results of the action. Although she hadn't participated, she had coordinated the various members. This type of action was important, it gave airtime to the movement. The traffic chaos disrupted the capitalist society and caused public discontent. All for the cost of a few hundred euros in fines. The capitalist society would be destroyed. But that could wait; now it was time to eat my toast and browse the Apple store to see the new iPhones.

"Sara! Hi, how was the exam? Ready for the big party tonight? " It was my girlfriend, Rita.

"Easy, but exhausting. It was the last one. Now it's time to enjoy the summer vacation months before university."

"Look, have you seen my new shoes? We have to go shopping."

"They're very nice, were they expensive?" I asked her.

"No, I bought them on sale. We should go shopping together," she suggested.

"An excellent idea. We could all go for pizza and then shopping. Let's just wait for Zé and Teresa to finish the exam." I said while drinking my latte.

"Sara Messias?" a man addressed me firmly. I looked at him. He was a man in his 30s, in a suit and tie, elegant, with impeccably polished black Oxford shoes.

"Yes, that's me. And you are?" I replied.

"Agent Coutinho, judicial police, counter-terrorism division." My heart skipped a beat, but I tried to stay calm.

"Do you think we are terrorists?" Rita asked provocatively.

"You know, young lady, terrorists are vile creatures who hide behind the sweetest smiles and words. Isn't that right, young lady Sara?" What did a counter-terrorism agent want with me? The demonstrations and actions of the Climáximo were always non-violent, we took care never to respond to aggressions. Besides, our operatives were always minors.

"I suppose so. You can't judge a book by its cover. But what does a judicial police agent want with a high school student?" I tried to hide my anxiety and held Rita's hand.

"We both know you're not just a student. The SIS has had a dossier on you since you were 15 years old." I trembled but took a deep breath. If they had a dossier on me and the movement, they also knew I had never done anything violent in my life.

"Good, then you don't need to waste time asking questions. It's all in the dossier." I responded.

"But I'm not here to ask questions, young lady. Finish your latte and come with me. I'm here only to arrest you and also to ensure your safety." Rita turned pale. I had been arrested several times, but never by a counter-terror police officer.

"May I know the reason for my arrest?" I was sure it was nothing. But it wasn't worth resisting or arguing.

"My orders are only to arrest you and take you to the headquarters of the judicial police. And I ask you not to resist. The PSP officers are not as polite as I am." I saw that outside the café there were several intervention police officers with dogs and bulletproof vests. Something strange was happening. I drank the latte in one gulp and kissed Rita. "Call my dad, he's a lawyer." Rita was petrified as Agent Coutinho handcuffed me and led me out through a side door.

"Can I know why the police show of force? I haven't done anything illegal, as you well know." I said as he drove the dark-tinted Volkswagen Passat to Nº 157 Avenida Gomes Freire.

"I don't know what you did. My orders were to arrest you discreetly and safely. But I can tell you the police show of force is the responsibility of the Public Security Police, which is itching to catch the terrorists responsible for the death of Deputy Commander Paulo Pena." He said professionally.

"But wasn't this Paulo Pena a firefighter? And he died in a fire; it was on the news." I didn't understand what was happening.

"You youngsters are so ignorant. Deputy Commander Pena was a legend, he was decorated by the President of the Republic with the Order of Christ, twice. There are at least 20 police officers who are alive thanks to him, but he must have saved hundreds of people over the years" I sensed some emotion in his voice.

"Yes, he was a great hero and died. I'm very sorry, but I have nothing to do with it. During the time of the fire, I was in a room with 50 classmates taking a Portuguese exam." He didn't respond. When we finally arrived, he just took me out of the car and handed me over to two women.

"Agent Coutinho, always a pleasure to see you. Did the terrorist say anything useful?" asked one of the women. They were both dressed in white coats and wearing white sneakers.

"No, nothing. She just played innocent. Anyway, my orders were just to arrest her discreetly and safely. But I think you in section Z will succeed." What was section Z? Why did they refer to me as "the terrorist?"

"Who are you? Why did you arrest me? I want to speak to my lawyer!" my voice must have sounded desperate, but the two women remained indifferent to my pleas and protests.

"Follow us," one of the women said dryly as she grabbed my arm and led me to an elevator. The elevator buttons marked from the 7th floor to the -4 floor and then a button with just the letter Z on a red background. When the elevator doors closed, I felt an urge to escape, but it was not possible.

The elevator descended: -1, -2, -3, -4, and then, after an equal period, finally Z. I guessed I must be at least on an 8th floor, but underground.

The elevator opened to a corridor. The walls were unplastered concrete, with electrical wires and plumbing, looking like a service tunnel illuminated by fluorescent lamps. We walked about 30 meters to one of the several doors along the corridor.

It was a small, white room: ceiling, walls, and floor immaculately white. A door on the side wall, a stainless steel cabinet, a stainless steel table with stainless steel chairs. Everything was very sterile.

One of the women removed my handcuffs. I rubbed my wrists; they were sore and red.

"Thank you," I said, scared. I had been arrested several times; the police identified me and then released me. They were usually polite and professional. Sometimes I was fined, but my dad is a lawyer and always solved my legal problems, as well as my colleagues. This time was different; something was very wrong.

"Miss Sara, I am the special prosecutor in charge of your case, and this is my assistant." She couldn't be more than 35 years old, and the assistant was about the same. I noticed that, unlike Agent Coutinho, neither of them identified themselves by name, nor did they have any identification badge.

"What case? May I know what I am being accused of? I was at school all morning, you know that." I said, trying not to sound scared.

"We know everything, Miss Sara. We know about your involvement in the attack, your connections to the Russian secret services, and how you plan to undermine and overthrow the democratic regime." I looked at her perplexed; I did not know about any attack.

"What attack are you talking about? I have nothing to do with any attack. I want to speak to my... to my lawyer." They looked at me with a sneer, as if I had said something idiotic.

"Terrorists have no right to lawyers, Miss Sara," said the prosecutor, the way she pronounced Miss Sara was always provocative, I knew my age, and that I was an adult only in age.

"I'm not a terrorist! Defending the environment is not a crime and certainly not terrorism." It was the mantra we all say when confronted by journalists or the authorities.

"Miss Sara, we are not on television. There is no audience here. Only the truth can help you here," replied my captor.

"And what is the truth?" I asked. My truth was different from hers; she served the interests of a corrupt state.

"The truth that allows you to go home, to your parents and relatives, to celebrate your birthday. The truth in which you cooperate with the Portuguese Republic in the fight against its enemies, denouncing your little terrorist friends and the foreign agents they serve." She placed a sheet of paper in front of me, a confession of how I had planned the protest to coincide with the fire in which Vice Commander Paulo Pena and Marya Braskova, the wife of a Ukrainian drone specialist had died. There was a list of names of the persons I had conspired with, most of whom were my comrades, but some I didn't even know. I was afraid but even if it could mean my freedom I would not betray anyone.

"I can't sign such a thing; it's all lies. We are not connected to the Russian government, our fight is only against the capitalist system and for the defense of the environment, and I don't know any Svetlana " I said, genuinely outraged, I was also surprised by some of the things they claimed we did.

"A pity. I had hoped you would be smarter, with your top-of-the-class grades. You waste your future in the name of an evil ideal that has only brought death and misery to mankind. And today of all days, on your 18º birthday. Imagine the sadness, think about how your parents will feel when you don't show up for the dinner party tonight." She spoke as if she were genuinely concerned. The assistant must be the one who plays the role of the bad cop. But it didn't matter if I was going to dinner today or tomorrow; my dad was going to get me out of here and then we would sue these bitches and the fascist State they serve.

"Do you who know everything also know who my father is and what he does, you do don't you? Especially what he does to corrupt and incompetent police officers?" I reached into my pocket to grab my phone and call my father, which should have been the first thing I did. They smiled, and I expected them to try to stop me or take the phone away, but they just smiled as I struggled to make the call unsuccessfully.

"Petulant girl, we are 50 meters underground. Here, only what we permit goes in and out, and your daddy won't come to save you this time. If you wanted to talk to your daddy, you should have signed the confession; you would have stopped being a terrorist. So be it, you want to be a terrorist, you will be treated like a terrorist." The prosecutor's voice was stern and menacing. the assistant rose from her chair and retrieved a garbage bag from inside the inox cabinet.

"Shall we really proceed with the special procedure, chief? Don't you think we could try one more time, she is just but a child?" It seems the assistant was the one playing the good cop.

"A so-called child who killed two people and destroyed a government building, I hope you're not getting soft on the enemies of the nation." The prosecutor's voice was stern. The assistant turned to me with the garbage bag in hand.

"Strip, child, and put all your stuff in this bag," She said firmly. I stood there shocked, crossing my arms and legs to shield myself.

"No! You can't do this, I have rights," I protested, as the assistant stepped closer to me.

"Strip down and place all your belongings in the bag. If we have to call for help, you'll end up naked anyway, and it will be more embarrassing. You still have time to sign the confession. Trust me, you don't want to walk through that door either dressed or undressed." The boss bitch shot a disapproving look at her assistant. I took a deep breath and concluded that compliance was the wiser choice. I knew I was innocent; these fascist bitches wouldn't coerce me into signing anything.

"Contented? Enjoying the show?" I was never shy to undress, especially not in front of women; the damn prosecutor had dark brown eyes and dark eyebrows the way she stared at my naked body scared me, but I also found her attractive, It was the power play that truly unsettled me.

A pitiful sight, with those breasts you resemble more a boy, and that bushy cunt of yours, is that what your lesbian girlfriend fancies? She said it scornfully.

"She does have a cute, round little bottom, boss," remarked the assistant.

"Yes it is a nice bum, you hear me, love? My assistant thinks you've got a nice bum! Come on, let's move that lovely bum of yours." She said as she opened the door to the other room, the door I should not cross, and gave me a smack on my bum, pervert cunt.

The room was larger than where we had been before, but also entirely white, a sterile and unsettling white. A man around 40 years old sat at the desk with a computer. I jumped when I saw him and quickly covered my vulva with my hands. He smiled.

"Good morning, ladies. So, do we have a new client? What will it be today?" The man glanced at me with an indifferent expression. He must have seen countless naked and frightened women before; to him, I was just another one.

"Good morning, professor," She greeted him as we entered the room. "This young lady here needs to provide us with some details about today's attack. Could you please set up your device?" The professor's gaze lingered on me, assessing every detail, before turning to address the assistant prosecutor.

"Sit her on the examination table while I go and turn on the equipment."His words drew my attention to the side of the room where an examination table similar to those in medical offices sat, but next to it stood a metallic exoskeleton in a frame with multiple Velcro straps clearly intended for restraining and immobilizing prisoners, like me. I instinctively took a step back.

"Do not fear, miss? What is your name?" How could I not feel fear in this place? Everything here was designed to instill fear - the stark white walls, the stainless steel furniture, my own nakedness.

"My name is Sara, how can I not be afraid, I'm in a room with three people who are going to torture me?" The professor smiled at me.

"Sara, I assure you that I will not torture you, why would I do that? Some of the procedures may not be pleasant but you have my word that I will not cause you unnecessary pain. Now please take a seat on the examination table." The calm voice with which he spoke made me sit on the examination table. Perhaps I should have tried to escape, but the time for fleeing had passed. Maybe at the Callifa, I could have managed to evade Agent Coutinho and the other policemen. For now, all thoughts of escape or resistance had to be put on hold.

"I am sitting here, naked waiting. If you're not going to torture me, what exactly do you plan to do to me?" I asked him, my tone was defiant.

"Allow me to offer you a way for you to avoid unnecessary pain and torment. Sara, please tilt your neck back, just like that, thank you." He measured my neck and then retrieved an item from a drawer, a metallic collar, identical to the one worn by my history teacher.

"What you have in your hand is a slave collar, and I will never be a slave! Never!" I leaped to the ground and dashed towards the door. I shoved the prosecutor to the floor and swung open the door. What was my plan? I had no plans, only a fierce determination not to let them collar me like an animal.

"I believe she is starting to regain consciousness, Professor." It was the assistant's voice that I heard. What had happened to me? I was lying on the table, bound by feet, hands, arms, and legs to the metal structure a metallic exoskeleton, connected to a frame that allowed them to manipulate my body at their whim. I also felt the infamous slave collar around my neck.

"How do you feel? You shouldn't have done that, now I'll have to immobilize you, is your head okay? You fell and hit your head on the door during your pathetic escape attempt." The professor's voice flowed smoothly, wrapping me in a deceptive cloak of warmth that masked the violence of his words.

"I feel fine, never been better, how do you think I feel? You filthy pervert?" I spat in his face.