― que será, será. 𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 will be, 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐁𝐄.
the future's 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒 to see.
CLICK HERE FOR AGENT DOSSIER. mateus dos santos carvalho, field biologist (bravo-04) with the BSAA. written by luca for OPS416.
“YOU THINK THAT’S BAD? WAIT TILL YOU’RE DEALING WITH THE THREE H’S, YOU’LL HATE YOURSELF. [...] WHAT ARE THEY? OH—HUNGRY, HORNY, AND HUNGOVER. I KNOW. NOT IDEAL IN MY LINE OF WORK.”
( wagner moura. cis man. he/him ) MATEUS DOS SANTOS CARVALHO, 46 year old FIELD BIOLOGIST ( BRAVO-04 ), assigned to THE BSAA ( SHADOW PACK ) for 4 YEARS. field reports describe him as SHREWD AND STEADFAST, though firsthand accounts suggest he is equally RESERVED AND MACABRE under pressure.
OPERATIONAL INTERVIEW
001. WHAT'S YOUR STORY? ARE YOU KROVOGRAD-BORN, NEWLY DEPLOYED, OR JUST ANOTHER POOR SOUL WHO ENDED UP IN THE WRONG PLACE AT THE WRONG TIME?
> In the distance, (like a video-game opening cutscene) he hears the echoes of a place that no longer exists—faint laughter, a child's voice, the dying whisper of love smothered by fallout. A tragedy that could only happen in his stupid life. Mateus comes from a small village in the Brazilian countryside, now just another biohazard footnote on a BSAA casualty report. He remembers the first patient—just a weird cough, maybe the flu. Then the fifth. Then the tenth. Then people started dropping faster than cassava during harvest. He and his father were the only doctors for miles. By the time the BSAA rolled in with tight-lipped experts and quiet urgency, whispers of government experiments hung in the air like smoke, but the conspiracy was buried with the bodies—his father’s included.
The relocation came with a generous helping of nightmares, PTSD, rent hikes, and a divorce signed across a table that had once held their wedding cake. After that: a roach motel of an apartment, rats for roommates, and an upstairs couple who fought and fucked with the same violent rhythm. He worked nights at the local hospital morgue, studied when he wasn’t sleeping or breaking down, and tried to be a weekend dad without turning into a traumatic episode his son would have to pay a therapist for later on. Then came the knock—two men in suits, sidearms barely hidden. They weren’t recruiting, they were selecting. The BSAA wanted someone who knew what a biohazard looked like up close and didn’t flinch. That was four years ago. Now he’s here, deep in another hell, chasing disease through developing warzones and creepy forests.
Mateus' voice is carried by a cordial, affable tone. “Deployed.”
002. THE CITY IS A WARZONE, CRAWLING WITH THINGS THAT SHOULDN'T EXIST. WHAT'S YOUR TAKE ON ALL OF THIS? FEAR, DUTY, OR SOMETHING ELSE ENTIRELY?
> The power flickers. Mateus slouches in the metal chair and nurses a half-empty thermos labeled ‘WARNING: DO NOT CONSUME’. The words linger in the air—“crawling with things that shouldn’t exist,” “what’s your take?”—followed by the tension of expectation. Mateus almost feels sorry to disappoint.
“I try not to think too hard anymore. I still think it’s duty to humanity and all that,” he waves vaguely, “but humanity keeps making these damn viruses on purpose—allegedly.” He takes a slow sip of the mysterious thermos liquid. “Honestly? I stay for the samples. And because my apartment’s rent-controlled.”
003. OUT HERE STRENGTHS KEEP YOU ALIVE, WEAKNESSES GET YOU KILLED. TELL ME, WHAT'S YOUR BEST ASSET IN A SURVIVAL SITUATION? AND WHAT'S GOING TO BE YOUR DOWNFALL?
> Mateus takes a moment to assess his survival toolkit—his personal arsenal of traits that might keep him alive when everything inevitably goes to hell because God hasn’t punished him enough. Strength? Not really. Brains? In very specific, wildly unhelpful areas during a shootout. Street smarts? Enough to not buy drugs from a guy named “Chainsaw” twice. He smacks his lips, furrows his brows, and comes to the grim, honest conclusion: he’s survived this long because he’s surrounded himself with an entourage of highly skilled, deeply unstable coworkers. Some are borderline feral. Others have the social graces of a wet boot. A few communicate exclusively in gunfire. But they’re good at what they do.
Mateus? He’s always been nice to them. Friendly. Supportive. Never hogs the coffee. Remembers birthdays. That’s his real survival skill. Strategic likability. He grins, just a little. “I’m nice to my coworkers. I figure they probably won’t let me die. Call it optimism.”
Then, faster than he could think of his best asset, he says, “my downfall—that one’s easy—I’ve always had a hunch that my curiosity is going to get me killed.”
004. DESPERATION MAKES PEOPLE DO UGLY THINGS. WHERE DO YOU DRAW THE LINE? OR SHOULD I ASSUME THERE ISN'T ONE?
> “There’s a line. I just keep stepping over it, then backing up to redraw it. Cartoony crime scene chalk, usually. The problem is that it washes off easily.” He shrugs, digs a cigarette out from his coat, and lights it with a battered silver lighter. The flame flickers across a face that hasn’t slept well in… probably ever. “I worked as a family doctor for a long time before I became a pathologist. You know, some schools believe that taking oaths only encourages self-importance, others see it as a bid for respectability—the church, the bar, and the armed forces all swear oaths.”
He takes a long drag, eyes tracking the smoke as it curls toward the ceiling. “But my father made me take them. He was the one who taught me medicine. He called them 'declarations', said they were more modern. Something he’d read.” Short, hollow laughter briefly fills the room. “Please, we were from a vila where our morgue was a small, walk-in freezer.” A fond smile remains on his lips. “I still believe in them, though. Still believe in first, do no harm. But sometimes, harm is the only thing that keeps something from reproducing through your goddamn spine.”
Mateus leans back with an exhale. “I don’t like killing. I don’t like death—that’s not my preoccupation. The brutes (narrator’s note: said with loving familiarity) clear a room before I walk in with my cute little smears and scalpels. I’m an undertaker, most of the time. Just comes with the job,” he lifts the cigarette and lets it hang off the corner of his lips. “You could say I’m the one who deals with the ugly things desperation breeds.” Mateus stares blankly ahead. “Well, the remains of them. I just try to understand why, and how to save the next person.”














