Meliora - Emanate - 22

[lady_mab]

Rhys Darcy

I pick up Lionel a little after eleven, having to walk the rest of the way with the trains shut down. According to Kaito, all the lines are out of order so we can use the tracks.

Lionel sits at the top of the stairs that lead down to the street from his building, phone in his hand and screen illuminating his face. He looks up when my footsteps approach.

"Is Liala asleep?"

"Trying to," he answers, shoving the mobile into his pocket and rising to his feet. The lines of his face are taut and his lips are thin. He looks more tired than usual. "She's feeling a little better, but school was a bit rough today. Figured it would be easier to meet you out here."

We make our way to the nearest train station, passing a few clusters of people staring confusedly at their phones. Out of all nights for ALICE to shut down the trains, it had to be Halloween, when it would cause one of the greatest disturbances. So much for being subtle.

Kaito urged us to take the tracks to the middle of the city, where the hospital is located. There are no stations located directly under the hospital, so I'm not entirely too sure how we are expected to make our way there once we get close enough.

Lionel is quiet and tense at my side the entire walk. Normally, he manages to display some sort of confidence in any given situation. A sort of arrogance that I'm never entirely too sure the source of.

But right now, he's nervous.

This caught us all by surprise. We’re being gathered into one place -- drawn away from plans and parties. Our previous group meetings had been arranged in advance, so we could schedule around it.

The emergency lights in the tunnel offer very little illumination, and I hadn't thought to bring a torch with me. Lionel and I use our cellphones to highlight little patches several paces before us.

The tracks drop a bit as we move further into the city, which is barely noticeable while the train is in motion. The signs on the wall indicate that the next stop is the one for the city center. And right below one, a human sized gap in the wall exposes a mouth of darkness.

Lionel grunts and steps up to shine the light into the inky black. "There's old tracks in here."

I join him. "Old World rails," I agree.

"Do you know anything about this?"

I don't know how to react to the accusation in his tone. "Of course I don't. I don't exactly make it a habit of learning about everything in Eminence's past when it was still London."

Lionel shrugs and, without replying, pulls himself through the hole in the wall. "Looks like we're supposed to go this way."

Now is not the time to pry, to figure out what exactly he means. The event has been running for three quarters of an hour, and we still aren't at the hospital yet. Walk first, talk later.

I follow behind my younger brother, stumbling on some of the rubble on the other side of the wall. "This is fairly fresh."

"I would think so. Someone would have been bound to report any hole blown open in the tunnel walls." He holds his light at my feet so I can steady myself. "I wonder how many more there are."

"Probably a good number through all of the tracks. You think they plan on patching up every one before tomorrow?"

Another shrug as we face the dark hall before us. There are no emergency light strips giving a weak, warm glow. I think I might hear the slightest bit of sound in the distance.

As we move further into the abandoned tunnel, it becomes more evident that we are approaching voices. With the slow increase of light, I figure that we must be nearing the final destination.

I don’t realize just how far down the path slopes between the two tracks until we emerge into a decently sized chamber. The ceiling is a little over two stories above us, and the space is packed with people.

A large, echoing boom sounds through the chamber as Lionel and I enter, and the lights flare to a blinding bright.

I rub my ear as a second toll rattles our bones. And a third, and a fourth, the lights responding to the sound. It's disorienting, and by the twelfth and final toll, everyone is blinking blindly and looking around.

I don't quite hear Lionel over the fading sound, but I do manage to catch the word 'ostentatious'. He folds his arms over his chest, lips pursed in disappointment.

The crowd pulses around us, trying to figure out what is going to happen next. I'm not optimistic. Gathering a large amount of people into a closed space never ends well. Especially not when that space is a crudely vented, centuries old railway tunnel.

A recipe for disaster.

Another flash of light, not from the bulbs that have recently been installed into the crumbling stone walls, flares to life to my right. The crowd swings around as one.

There's a stage against the far wall, vibrant and too clean for the tunnels. Nothing happens for a very long moment. The stage watches us in silence.

Lionel shifts impatiently, and when I reach out a hand to steady him, he doesn't shake it off. I can feel the tension running through every line of his body.

A woman with long legs and a knee-length pencil skirt ascends the stairs to the stage, and I instantly recognize her as the woman from the reception desk at the ALICE building. Mary Ann reaches center stage as the people closest to the stage rear back -- the entire crowd rippling away. She's given plenty of room. The only sound is a collective hum of confusion.

Lionel tugs on my sleeve, unable to tear his eyes away from the stage. I have to lean over to obey his request. "She's not here," he mutters. "There's no way. Neither is the stage."

Ah, so that's why everything looks so hyper-real. It's a hologram. If we hadn't been herded into such dingy and dirty surroundings, they might have been able to fool us longer.

"They invite us all the way out here and don't even bother to greet us in person." His lips twitch, uncertain of which expression to make, and then his green eyes flicker in my direction. But he doesn't say anything else, and I can't tell if he's waiting for me to fill in some sort of blanks.

Mary Ann smooths her hands over her skirt and smiles at the crowd. Her dark eyes dance in the light from the unseen projectors, or whatever it is they are using to show her image to us. "Greetings, everyone. You might remember me as the receptionist at the ALICE building from when you took your tour there. I am here to speak to you on behalf of the Program Manager, Patrick Mercer."

Two shadows flank the stage, here with us, and very real. The tall, dark-skinned man named Chuck, and the weedy blond whose name I never learned even though he took ours when we registered. The blond focuses on his phone, and a moment later I hear a muted Welcome, Rhys Darcy from my pocket -- chorused around me by other Welcomes.

Ah, so he's checking in everyone within the room manually.

"I've got to get my hands on his programming." Lionel sighs, sounding almost wistful.

Up on the projected stage, Mary Ann smiles out at the crowd. Her gaze seems to linger on each of us in turn, and I wonder if she has a video feed that lets her see the gathered congregation. "I hope you have all enjoyed the events leading up to today. If you are here now, it means that you are not only a cut above the rest, but well on your way to completing the game. Have you learned new things about Eminence since we have started?"

"Fuck no!" someone in the crowd shouts, and uneasy laughter radiates from the source.

Her eyes swiveled to pinpoint the speaker. Her painted red lips never drop the smile. "I'm sorry you think so. Even though your Informant has worked so hard to get you to this point, you cast it all aside by not even coming up with some sort of theory?"

A theory? To what? Why we're caught up in this game, perhaps? What the truth to the game actually is -- the truth that we were promised back at the initial meeting.

At my side, Lionel rubs a hand over his chin, but doesn't look any closer to figuring out her words than I am.

Another person takes up the cry. "What clues have you given us so far? It's a little unfair, don't you think?"

And another, and a third, before the crowd is a mass of shouted accusations swelling to the ceiling above us.

She waits for them to finish. The men on either side of the projected stage don't move a muscle from their casual position. "You might not be thinking you are learning a lot, then. But we, on the other hand, have learned plenty." Her hands spread before her, encompassing the crowd that flinches back. "We have learned that despite your very vocal protests, you have earned a spot here in this room right now. Any team that did not make it has been disqualified. You just need to take the time to put together all that you have learned."

Lionel shifts back on his heels. "I figured. What do you think this means for Lia?"

"I don't think it means anything." I squint, trying to see any little details of the woman on the stage that might reveal why she's not in this room with us. The Program Manager wouldn't have sent his assistant into a room that would fill with poisonous gas, unless they had some augmented masks to save them. Some other sort of mass catastrophe, then?

I don't voice my concerns to Lionel. He will likely just scoff. "The other teams will stop receiving the messages."

"And you think that's enough to stop them from finding ways to participate?"

"I think it does, though I have a feeling you're hinting at something else." How did Mercer put it? They would simply continue on, none the wiser.

Lionel starts to uncross his arms, but decides against it and once again hugs them to his chest. "I can't be the only person who has found ways around their roadblocks. Rain is participating, he's a programmer as well. He's just as curious as I am. Any of the disqualified teams could easily do the same, or find a way to beat the block for messages."

I think about what he told us about the application we installed for this game -- how it corrupted a phone that was not a registered user. It all but destroyed the programming, disobeyed any commands it was given. "And you don't think ALICE will put up even higher blocks on those teams?"

"No, I don't."

We stare at each other for several seconds. I am trying to figure out what he has done to ask this question in the first place, to give himself this level of confidence. I can’t be the only person who has found ways around their roadblocks. What ‘ways’? What ‘roadblocks?’

A part of me wants to know, to protest, to be the older brother, but I don't. I know better than to act like the overprotective sibling. Especially here, in the presence of ALICE agents.

Mary Ann waits patiently until the chorus of voices has once again died into a distant murmur. "I would like to remind all of you that just because you have made it this far, it does not mean that you are exempt from any further events that require your participation. We do monitor each check in, in order to prevent cheating. We are playing fair, and we want to know that you are as well."

"Bullshit," Lionel coughs, low enough that only the few people surrounding us can actually hear.

That doesn't stop the momentary crease in her brow or the strain to the corners of her mouth as she continues on. "I am sure you are aware, but teams that have performed exceptionally well thus far will be earning challenges that will offer a better understanding."

"So much for playing fair," a voice to our left bleats. "That's giving people an advantage."

Finally, after several painful seconds of hesitation, Mary Ann turns to seek out the new speaker. "Then shouldn't it mean that you must work harder to catch our attention?" She doesn't mean for it to be a joke, if the serious tilt to her mouth is any indication, but it doesn't stop the scattered laughter from the crowd.

"This is a challenge to find out which of you is worthy of learning the whole truth, or did you seem to forget that?" She lifts her chin, staring defiantly down at the crowd.

I can feel the frustration seething in the bodies around me.

"You might have forgotten that not all of us have the same resources!"

"Are you suggesting that we make a challenge for truth an even playing field? I said we would play fair if you do, but you are misinterpreting my words. To be fair to each team, we must adjust our standards. Fair for one is not fair for another, but we are not giving one specific pair an advantage." Anger flashes in Mary Ann's eyes, an emotion so real and personal that it's easy to forget that she's not standing before us in the flesh. That's her safety net, to allow her to lose patience. "A simple task versus a more challenging one is subjective."

"Then just tell us the same thing why don't you?"

Her head cocks to the side. "I am telling you the same thing now."

"Why not give us all the same challenges?"

This time, her shoulders shake, once, and a humorless smile twists her mouth. "I hardly think that is a wise choice. If you are a team that struggled to make it here, how would you feel pitted against a team that had no problems? You take to the field at a disadvantage if the Program Manager was to send you a challenge against a far superior team."

I run a hand back through my hair, tugging at the roots. Kaito was able to send us an answer fairly quickly, but he made it obvious he wasn't working alone. He never aimed to work alone, made his bar a hub for Informants and those participating to share and spread information. "I wonder where we lie in the scheme of things..."

"I'd say we're doing fairly well, all things considered." Lionel's arms have finally dropped to his sides. His expression is flat and bemused, lips pressed thin in annoyance. "Kaito was right in saying that he should be our Informant."

I make no indication that his thoughts lined up with mine. He has been useful thus far. "True. And based on what she said, I can see how it would be stupid to give everyone the same challenges. I would hate to think that we're competing against someone better than us." There's only so much that Kaito can do from his spot on the sidelines.

Lionel's fingers twitched. "I hate those terms. It's obvious how much it really is just a game to them."

I watch him a moment longer, remembering how much I argued in the beginning that it's not a game. Because despite what they say, their phrasing and their pitting teams against one another, to those of us participating it is far more dangerous than just a simple game for information. Success means a chance for freedom that we've been living without realizing it has been taken from us.

Failure means ignorance.

Lionel's gaze slips from mine to take in the faces of those surrounding us. I turn to Mary Ann as she continues to answer questions from a frustrated mass. She is just another face of ALICE, a pretty and well-composed one to try and soothe us. The Program Manager said he would no longer be in contact with us after the game started, so he uses emissaries.

Mary Ann, the receptionist who greeted us all when we came to the office building for the tour. Chuck, whose role I still haven't quite grasped in the scheme of things. The blond man, the Assistant Program Manager. Or perhaps 'Acting Program Manager' is more accurate.

A harsh boom floods the underground room and, on the stage, Mary Ann's image flickers and shorts out for an instant. When she returns, her eyes are round and her lips form a perfect 'o' of surprise. People scream and surge away from a point in the crowd.

Lionel and I catch onto each other at the same time, but when I try to follow the flow of the tide away, he tugs me forward.

Dirt and pebbles fall from the ceiling at a second boom. This time, Mary Ann's image doesn't come back.

A man and woman stand in the middle of the circle formed by the retreating Participants. He holds a gun in one hand, the weapon sighing as it cools down from the shots. At his side, his partner maintains a level of calm. She doesn't even blink as he levels the gun for a third shot.

Chuck appears on the edge of the circle, the flock of participants scattering at his presence. The gun swings in his direction, but the man looks too scrawny to do any real harm as Chuck looms over him.

"You can't just herd us together like cattle!" His voice cracks and hitches with emotion, but from our spot on the far side of the circle, I can see the wild tinge to his eyes. "How are you going to keep us all contained if we don't want to be?"

Chuck doesn't say a thing -- doesn't have to, not with his bulk. He reaches out and wraps his fist around the barrel of the gun.

The man shrieks, bordering on inhuman and possessed, and his finger jerks back on the trigger.

I yank Lionel back without even thinking. He yelps in protest, but doesn't resist as the shot goes wide toward the ceiling.

In a series of movements too fast for me to catch, the gun is jerked up and back. Chuck's fingers curl together as dirt rains down on our heads. In the dead silence that follows, Chuck wrenches the gun free and tosses it aside, barrel warped and useless.

The woman moves this time, cutting off her partner’s stammering and pushing him into the imagined zone of safety.

He stumbles, right in the spot where Lionel and I had just been standing. Hands reach forward, reach around us. I can't see who they belong to. Just a mass of limbs stretching from a mass of bodies to push him back. They don't want to be associated with this man's betrayal.

Words of dissent are one thing. Actions are another.

Chuck merely leans to the side to avoid a swipe from her pocket knife -- the weapon so small and puny in her thin hands. When a jab comes to his side, he catches her wrist like it's nothing.

She grunts, tugs, and suddenly her feet are swept out from beneath her.

The huge man flips her to the floor, presses his arm to her throat. Her knife skitters away, lost in the forest of feet.

The blond man in the suit takes his time pushing through the crowd.

No, on second thought, he doesn't even have to push. He's not as bulky as his counterpart, but there is an aura around him that allows him to pass through unhindered. Everyone quietly parts around him.

His dark blue eyes are narrowed in disgust. "Shameful. You would involve the lives and safety of everyone here for something as mundane as shooting a hologram?"

A part of me wants to laugh. I thought they would be shooting at us, not the other way around.

"As the Assistant Program Manager, I hereby declare the two of you unfit for participating in the remainder of this game. Your Informant shall be notified via text as soon as you have been taken care of." He nods to Chuck, and the mountainous man heaves the woman to her feet.

She attempts to struggle, but one of his fists clamps down on both her hands to successfully incapacitate her.

Chuck catches her partner by the shoulder. The man doesn't even put up a fight this time around. He just stares blindly at his mangled gun, confusion and rage fighting for dominance on his face.

The crowd obediently cuts a swathe wide enough for Chuck to pass through, dragging the pair behind him with minimal effort.

Bodies rush to fill the space after they pass. Lionel and I are buffeted on either side as the gap shrinks to nothing, and the blond man is swallowed into the crowd.

The stage and Mary Ann reappear in our field of vision. She looks just as shaken as I feel, even if she hasn't been here to share in the horror. So perhaps there are security cameras installed to have her keep track of us.

Lionel trembles at my side, still clinging to my arm.

"M-my apologies, ladies and gentlemen." She makes an attempt to smooth her hair, running her fingers through the strands. The display of humanity shakes her. "You are all free to go for the evening. There are--" Mary Ann draws in a breath and takes a moment to study her shoes.

When she looks back up, the professional smile once again radiates across her face. "There are lights to show you to the nearest exit. We ask that you please go straight home. The trains are back in order, and will run as normal."

The audience moves as one to the door at the back of the hall. Tension runs high.

I wonder why the trains are up and running now, why they're not forcing us to walk back around the tracks or to wander the streets of Eminence in the dark.

Mary Ann's voice rises above the muted sound of the mass exit. "If there is anything to take away from this meeting, it is that we will react to any threads of violence with extreme precision and efficiency." The words are clipped and even, so unlike her previous tone that I stop and turn.

The other participants move around us without protest -- numb and obedient.

Then, almost like an afterthought, she says, "I do not want to see any more teams disappearing like this."

The image stills, as if someone hit pause. Then she fades, and with it, the lights in the room dim as well.

I am left with the haunting image of Mary Ann, smiling sadly as she disappears, and the memory of gunshots filling my ears.