Meliora - Emanate - 03

[lady_mab]

Rhys Darcy

Les Petites Portes is a fancy restaurant in the Northern Quarter of the city center, often hosting events and meetings due to its prime location. Kaito took me here once years ago, back after I approved of his plan to start building his second night club. But generally, it’s too fancy and expensive for my tastes. 

There are several other people wandering past the maitre d’ stand, sporting vague looks of confusion that undoubtedly match my own. I ask the smiling host if there was a meeting taking place, and she points me in the direction the silent crowd wafts toward.

After being greeted by name at the door by a large man inexplicably wearing dark sunglasses indoors, I knew that I was in way over my head. There was no need to display an ID. The man labeled CHUCK in thick bold letters gave me a quick once-over, marked something off a list, and handed me a blank HELLO, MY NAME IS sticker. 

I carefully pen Rhys into the blank space and place it above my heart. Everyone else has a similar sticker. 

Despite my best efforts, I cannot find any sign of Lionel in the crowd, even though he texted me several minutes before I walked through the front doors to tell me he was already seated and ready to go. 

Minutes pass, and I don’t recognize anyone as I make my way through the room to a mostly-vacant table. 

There are four people at the table. Two women have a chair between them to indicate that they do not know each other. The other two talk together in low voices, though from what I can pick up from their conversation, they’ve only just met. Which I wouldn’t have believed, as the young girl sports bright bubblegum pink hair and the man has a mess of purple curls and they look like they could have been out of some sort of street fashion magazine Kaito would alway thumb through. 

I sling the strap of my briefcase over the back of my chair and drape my jacket over it. Acknowledging a cursory glance from one of the silent women with a nod, she returns it by looking back down at her phone. 

From my bag, I pull out my tablet and open up a new document. It might be wise to take notes on what is going on. Even though I tend to work better with numbers, having things in front of me to review always ensures I don’t miss an important fact. 

About half an hour after the time in the email, the man in sunglasses appears in the front of the room. He fidgets with the mic stand for a moment before a whine of feedback stops him. The silence that follows makes it stand out like a thunderclap. 

He leans down to reach the mic and says, “Ladies and gentlemen, the Program Manager.” 

Several people clap, and there’s a scattering of snickers. No one at my table reacts. 

A well dressed man ascends the four stairs onto the makeshift stage with slow, measured steps. His fingers button his suit jacket, pulling it into place as if he had just been sitting down among the chairs with the rest of us. 

The Program Manager folds his hands behind his back and addresses the silent crowd with a benign smile. “Greetings, fellow citizens of Eminence. My name is Patrick Mercer -- the man behind the game Meliora that you have all received an invitation to join. If you are here, then you have interpreted the first set of clues and proved yourself curious to the cause.” 

A screen flares to life on the wall behind him, and the lights in the room dim. I twist about in my chair to get a better look. 

“I wished to bring you all together to speak with you face to face and officially ask you to partake in this event. It is more personal than a mass message.” Mercer takes a step back to reveal the message that we received on the thirtieth.

My eyes scan over the lines, trying to pull more information from it now that I am here at the meeting. I hear my phone go off in my bag, but I don’t pay any attention to it. 

“You are here because you want information. You want answers. Most importantly, you want a way out.” Mercer holds up a hand to tick off each item on a finger. Somehow, he manages to make the speech sound unrehearsed and genuine. “I promise each of you a chance at these things, but you in turn must prove yourself capable and worthy of earning them. You have been selected because I feel you are the ones worthy of finding out the truth.” 

A hand goes up in the middle of the room like a single flag asking for peace. The man on the stage nods to it. “This is great and all,” a woman asks, “but what’s the hitch?” 

“Hitch?” Mercer seems personally offended by this question. “There is no special catch. I am doing this for you.” 

“Does it cost money to join? A monthly subscription fee?” she prods, and scattered laughter follows. 

He frowns. From where I’m sitting, I can see the tip of one finger behind his back tapping an irritated rhythm against his forearm. “I can assure you, ma’am, that it is nothing of the sort. There are some out there who are more interested in philanthropy than they are self-service.” 

There is a long silence as we absorb this thought. Could that be true? Could he really be doing this because he somehow knows information that could benefit the rest of us? 

Another hand rises. “What are the risks, then?” 

“Ah, a very important question, to be sure.” Mercer relaxes to move on to the next topic, shifting across the stage. “As with anything, there are going to be risks to your person if you partake in this game. But what in life comes without risk, hm?” He smiles, though it doesn’t quite fit in with the tone of his words. 

“What do you mean by ‘risks to our person’? Are you saying there’s the chance for bodily harm?” 

“I’m not saying that anything will be intentional.” Mercer’s fingers resume their tapping. “You might stub a toe, or fall from a considerable height if you are not careful. Never will anything be presented to you that will mean any harm.” 

He waits a beat, grey eyes casting about for any more questions that might arise. I’m scribbling notes in shorthand on the tablet during the pause, adding in open-ended questions to discuss with Lionel and Liala later. 

“Now, for the nature of the game and how it will proceed. I am going to require you to form teams.” His hands automatically rise to placate the eruption of groans and protests. “Please, silence. I think that the formation of a team is very important when it comes to this sort of procedure. What one of you lacks, the other will succeed in.” 

That’s not exactly how I remember the nature of group projects going while in school, but perhaps he is being optimistic. Perhaps everyone will be forced to contribute. 

The one thing that it does mean is that I can ensure Lionel and Liala’s safety during this game. I can work directly with them, and it won’t be an issue. That thought alone is enough to make me relax back in my seat -- only to see that the purple haired man is raising his hand. 

Mercer’s attention shifts to our table, glancing over all of us before settling on the man with a nod and a thin-lipped smile. 

When he speaks, the man’s voice is pitched lower than it had been when talking with the teenager next to him. “How many people are you allowing access to this one way ticket out of the city?” 

The concern that had been wiped out by his proposition of teams returns in an instant. I hadn’t thought of that -- that only one of us might be allowed to leave, while the other has to stay behind. I’ve let the twins live on their own for a few months now, but I’ve always been at hand. 

The idea of letting them out of my sight isn’t worth it. Not with Liala’s health issues. They wouldn’t be able to survive on their own. 

“It will not be one person. The entire team, or, if so decided upon in the final stretch, multiple teams, will be allowed to leave. I do not expect to turn teammates against one another.” 

I let out a breath in relief, earning a curious stare from the pink haired girl. 

Mercer continues to explain his set-up for teams. “There will be three people per group. Two that will be labeled as the Participants -- you here now are those lucky enough for that title. You will be the ones in the field, so to speak, and you will be the only ones allowed to leave.” He pauses again, letting the words sink in. He knows the effect his words have. 

“The third person to your team will be the Informant. They will remain in Eminence, and they will be your direct contact between me and my team.” 

I tap my stylus against my tablet and contemplate this piece of information. Why force a third person onto the team only to know that they will not be able to leave? That’s an awful compromise. There doesn’t even need to be a middle man. 

The image on the screen changes to the immaculate facade of the city’s major hospital. It resides in the center of the first quarter, alongside the headquarters for Project ALICE. Mercer steps out of the way, lingering near the edge of the stairs. “Should you choose to participate in Meliora, you and your teammates will report here for your inoculations once a month. Timelines will be sent to your Informants, and I ask that you please adhere to this new schedule, even if it seems a bit excessive.” 

The purple haired man shifts in his chair, leaning forward as a shrewd expression that somehow manages to be neither a smile nor a frown crosses his face. “So that’s how it is…” he mutters, brows furrowing. 

I want to ask him what he’s figured out, but I’m not too keen on the idea of breaking the awkward silence that hangs over the table. 

Someone in the middle of the room shouts out a question without even raising their hand. “What for?” 

“That will be your first challenge, I am afraid. But let me reassure you by saying it is nothing more than the yearly boosters you already get. Some of your challenges might require you to stray close to the city's edge, so we want to ensure you are well protected against whatever diseases might be lingering out there.”

The colorful-hair pair at the table speak to each other in low tones. I wonder if they’re forming a team, or discussing their plans. Are people supposed to come into this game knowing each other? Lionel and I do, but that could technically be considered a fluke. If he really did go and create an existing person out of Lianel Lions, then there is no reason for that person to know Rhys Darcy. 

“You have a week to create your teams. Participants are only those whom we have selected. You can only invite an outsider to be your Informant. My team and I have selected you for specific reasons, and we will not be pleased if you break that reasoning and our trust in the matter. Involving outsiders beyond an Informant will result in your removal from the game.” Mercer says all of this with a light smile in place, though his tone is dark and heavy. 

The murmuring that sprung up through the room settles into silence. I cast my gaze about once again, trying to find my brother. My phone begins to vibrate in my bag, its low hum echoing beneath Mercer’s next words. 

“We will meet again at the end of a week, and you will be expected to register your teammates by this point. From there, we will get in touch for how to proceed.” The image behind him fades and the lights begin to rise once again. “Meliora will officially start on September first at midnight. Missions will be sent to your Informant’s mobiles. Not all missions will be distributed evenly. We will keep careful observation over each team’s performance, and those who are more successful will be rewarded thusly.” 

Chuck appears at Mercer’s elbow, hands folded behind his back. He whispers something into the Program Manager’s ear, and receives a nod in response. 

Mercer turns to us with the same smile he wore the entire meeting. “I wish that you take this opportunity seriously. We have only the best expectations for each of you. Please select your team wisely, for that is what will ensure your victory.” He spreads his arms and the smile widens a fraction. The light catches his bald plate. “I will show you the truth of this city, my fellow citizens. And you, too, will begin to see the darkness in our utopia.” 

He is guided from the stage by Chuck, and the two disappear through a door against the wall. There is a heavy pause before everyone erupts into chatter. 

“This is weird,” the pink haired girl says as she shoves a knit hat onto her head. “I don’t know what I expected, but this is just...” 

“Weird,” her companion supplies. 

I ignore the rest of their conversation as I turn off my tablet and pull my phone out from my briefcase. The first thing I see on the screen is a missed call from Lysander. I swipe that out of the way and see a text from Lionel right beneath it. 

I have a hunch as to who is behind this.

“What?” I say aloud, earning a few stares from those around me. I jab the call icon, and wait for him to pick up the phone. 

“Yo--” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Ah, it was stupidly easy to track through the email they sent us. So either it’s a false trail or a poor IT team.” 

I cradle the phone between my shoulder and ear as I shove the tablet back into my briefcase. “Where are you?” My attempts at trying to find him aren’t working. It’s too crowded with everyone rushing the doors, and he’s very good at slipping away. 

“Out of there. Hey, I pulled a list of people who got the email. Want it?” 

“What good does that do me?” 

“I don’t know, it was just an offer.” 

I wave a hand before me, nearly smacking someone in the face as he tries to swerve between the bodies. “Fine, sure. I’m going to call Lysander--”

Lionel groans and I can just imagine the way he sags rolls his eyes. “I don’t want Lysander to be our Informant.” 

“Why not?” 

“Because he could be my history teacher next year? Because he is a teacher?” 

“He’s clever and knowledgeable about things besides the Culture and Evolution curriculum, Lionel.” 

“He’s still a teacher. And would you really want to invite him to be our Informant? You really think he would appreciate that?”

“No,” I say without even having to think about it. Lysander always described his life before Eminence as someone who blew in and out again on a breeze. To be stuck here for two years is new and different and he says he doesn’t mind with a strained smile. But I honestly can’t think of someone better suited for it than him.

There’s another sigh from the phone. “Whatever. I’m going home, and I’ll talk to Lia about it. We’ll text you later.” 

“You two need to decide--”

“I know. Don’t worry about it.” 

“I have to worry about it.” 

He laughs, and then hangs up before I can get another word in. 

With a frown, I adjust the strap to my bag over my shoulder and pull up the text messages. I’m not too sure why Lysander wanted to call me, but it will serve as the perfect excuse to ask him out for a drink to discuss this so-called game.