lady_mab: (you shall die)
[personal profile] lady_mab

Jun Zhou

In the end, I decide to go to the meeting. I don't know why. There's nothing that I need out of it.

Perhaps it is curiosity. Perhaps it is because I had to travel halfway around the world to meet my uncle for the first time. He is one of the few people of any ethnic descent in Eminence. There is such a small collection of people claiming Chinese ancestry that I feel so out of my league here.

Despite all of the city's posturing for being new and 'ahead of the curve' when it comes to technology and medicine, they still have a lot of backwater ideals. Chief among them being the fact that they still boast a strong anti-immigrant standpoint.

So when I read the message, after the first of many lunches with Zone and the others, I grew curious.

Would this subject be addressed? People of other backgrounds are let into the country with a sneer or an uncomfortable acceptance, and now we cannot leave? I didn't come here to stay. I came here to train under Uncle Bao to learn how to run a successful restaurant and his skills as a chef.

It takes a bit of digging, but I manage to put together the clues from the message. There is a restaurant in the northern corner of the city center. It's close to what the locals call the First District, but since it is still in the heart of the city, it can claim a title of prestige. Just over a month, and I still cannot figure out why they organized the city in concentric circles.

I climb the stairs to the front of the restaurant with a sense of discomfort. The restaurant itself is fairly busy, and everyone is dressed nicely. I wear a pair of old white combat boots that sport too many scuffs and a knit moose cap to hide my pink hair.

There are other people milling around looking equally underdressed, so I follow. I will let them do the asking of the questions.

One of the meeting rooms in the back half of the restaurant has a sign out front that reads 'AFTERNOON TEA', and a large man stands in front of the door in a suit and a pair of sunglasses. He looks at a person, says a name, and hands them a sticker.

I approach him, barely coming up to his lower ribs, and he glances down his nose at me.

"Zhou Jun," he says after a moment's pause, and I nod. He must have facial recognition in the sunglasses. He hands me a sticker and points to a side table.

My eyes dart from the sticker to him, and spot an identical label on the lapel of his jacket. HELLO, MY NAME IS CHUCK.

The table he indicated to is littered with felt tip pens, and I quickly jot my name into the open section. I do not put it on as I enter the room, glancing around to see what everyone else is doing with the sticker instead.

People swirl about in a rush of bodies that I don’t know how to push my way through. They are coming and going between tables, muted conversations taking place between various people.

I suddenly do not want to be here anymore.

My feet very nearly turn me around and back out the door. My brain contemplates some kind of excuse I can give to the giant man blocking the way that there must be a mistake, I wandered in here by accident -- when I see movement and a flash of purple out of the corner of my eye, and suddenly, someone stands in my path.

"Hey."

I look up, and I get the sensation that there are several other people looking as well. His voice is loud and pointed, enough to draw attention to both of us.

He glares, the expression made all the more chilling by the ice cold grey eyes that not even the purple curls can soften. But the look is aimed at everyone else. He waves a hand dismissively. "Not you, you boring turds. Go back to your mindless business." When he finally turns to look me directly in the eye, the corners of his eyes loosen and his posture relaxes. "I'm talking to you, doll-face."

I fidget, looking around. Because I have no idea why he would be talking to me so casually. I even go so far as to point to myself to be sure. "Me?"

"Yeah, you. Christ almighty, look. Don't gimme that face. I just want to talk about your hair."

My hand lifts to the edges of my bangs that peak out from beneath the knit hat.

He approaches me and gives me a quick once-over. "What's your name?"

"Jun."

His brow crinkles for a moment before he places his hands on his hips. "I'm Jonas. I'm a hairdresser. Can we please take a moment to talk about your hair." He holds out his hands, and I realize that he must have a hard time standing still. His hands constantly flit about in the space around him, creating a bigger atmosphere than he already possesses.

As he waggles his fingers at my hat, I think he's going to comment about how bad it looks. I did it myself in my hotel before getting on the train out of Beijing. I haven't had the time to touch it up, but the dye has held well enough as far as I thought.

But as soon as I stuff the hat into my jacket pocket, and let the strands I had tucked away beneath it fall free, his face lights into a delighted smile and the nervous knot in my chest loosens.

"I absolutely love it." Jonas steps in closer and helps shake my hair loose, fussing about with it until he's satisfied. "How long have you been coloring it?"

"Um... It has only been two months really."

His eyes widen, and he smacks my hand away as I try to fidget with my bangs. "Do you keep it up all the time? There's a crimp in it that is distracting me."

"In buns, mostly. It keeps it out of the way when I am cooking, and I've realized the teachers are less inclined to give me looks when it's not loose." The culture is at least progressive enough to let me have pink hair. I wonder if the looks I get are more due to the choice in color or because I'm Chinese.

Jonas puts a hand on my shoulder and starts to guide me towards a mostly empty table. "Well, Jun. Your hair is adorable and I absolutely love it. If you are ever looking for a new hairdresser, give me a call."

There are already two women sitting at the table with a chair between them. They don't look up as we sit, and so Jonas carries on with a conversation about anything he can think of. We exchange phone numbers just as a fifth person joins our table.

He glances at us briefly, as if checking to make sure it's okay to sit there, but no one pays him any sort of mind so he drapes his jacket over the back of a chair and sits down.

Nearly half an hour passes before CHUCK appears in the front of the room. Our table is close to the center, and so we have a very nice view -- though of what sort of presentation, I am not completely certain.

He adjusts the mic stand, leans in, and says, "Ladies and gentlemen, the Program Manager."

My table is silent as a well-dressed man rises from the middle of the crowd. I had not even noticed anyone wearing such a nice suit, but I had been quite distracted when first entering.

He is bald and looks to be close to my grandfather's age. But his eyes are bright in the spotlights that illuminate him. He folds his hands behind his back and smiles. "Greetings, fellow citizens of Eminence. My name is Patrick Mercer -- the man behind the game Meliora that you have 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."

I frown as lights start to dim and a screen flickers into view. I would not have called myself curious to the cause. Merely curious to the purpose.

"You are here because you want information. You want answers. Most importantly, you want a way out." He lifts a finger for each item. I wonder if he thinks he is speaking to a crowd of soldiers with the clipped, efficient way that he speaks. It is not like telling a story. It is delivering the message to make us move.

"I promise each of you a chance at these things, but you in turn must prove yourself capable and worthy of earning them." His head swivels back and forth as he gazes at the crowd. A chill goes down my spine as his eyes light over our table. We cannot be more than dark shadows from his perspective, but it definitely feels like he is pinpointing each and every one of us. "You have been selected from the citizens in Eminence because I feel you are the ones worthy of finding the truth."

Odd. I'm not a citizen. I have a temporary Visa. I wonder if that made a difference when selecting me, or if it had been random.

A few tables away, a hand goes up. Patrick Mercer nods in his direction. "This is great and all, but what's the hitch?"

"Hitch?" He looks as if the woman asking the question had struck him. "There is no catch. I am doing this for you."

She carries on without hesitation. "Does it cost money to join? A monthly subscription fee?"

Patrick Mercer frowns. Is it in disappointment or confusion? "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."

At my side, Jonas shifts in his chair and releases a huff of breath that might be a sigh or a snort of amusement.

There is another hand floating up in the crowd. "What are the risks, then?"

"Ah, a very important question, to be sure." He nods as he moves a few steps across the stage. I cannot look away from him, the way he holds himself. Everything is trained to present to us. "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?"

There's a murmur of confusion at the tables around us. "What do you mean by 'risks to our person'? Are you saying there's a chance for bodily harm?"

He arcs an eyebrow, giving that affronted look again. "I'm not saying that anything will be intentional. 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."

The other man at our table scribbles on his tablet. The other two women look on, unimpressed with the show.

"Now, for the nature of the game and how it will proceed," the Program Manager says, once again resuming his spot in the center of the stage. "I am going to require you to form teams."

That nervous knot that I thought had retreated during the conversation with Jonas immediately springs back into place. I glance back at him, but he's rubbing a hand over his chin, squinting at Patrick Mercer as he tries to calm the crowd. Could I actually ask him? I do not know anyone else who is participating. Do I even want to participate?

"Please, silence. I think that the formation of teams is very important when it comes to this sort of procedure. What one of you lacks, the other will succeed in."

What if what one lacks is friends in this city? People that they can trust? That still does not explain the complete nature of the game.

Suddenly, Patrick Mercer's eyes land on me, and I wonder if he knows what I am thinking -- if he will say something to calm me the same way he calmed the crowd.

But instead, Jonas starts speaking. His voice is lower than when we chatted earlier, and I cannot help but stare at him curiously. "How many people are you allowing access to this one way ticket out of the city?"

"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." Patrick Mercer nods his head in our direction, as if this information will relieve the tension. "I do not expect to turn teammates against one another."

The man in glasses sighs in something that might be relief. I glance at him, but he's too busy worrying at his bottom lip with the end of his stylus.

On the stage, the Program Manager continues to explain, though it does very little to actually make sense. "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. The third person on your team will be the Informant. They will remain in Eminence, and they will be your direct contact between me and my team."

Oh. So we have to make friends with people only to leave them behind? I have no idea what he think the point of this all is. It makes no sense. There is no reason that we should have teams if we are going to be divided like this.

The screen flicks to a new image, sporting a very fancy building that I do not recognize. It is a powerful enough image, however, that people fall absolutely silent once again.

Patrick Mercer waves a hand at the image as he crosses the stage towards the stairs on the side. "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."

That must be the hospital, then. I remember the school nurse telling me that I would have to make an appointment to get a shot, that it was something that every citizen had to do. Something about keeping our immune systems boosted.

Jonas leans forward, and I can feel his presence hovering just behind my shoulder as he gets a closer look at the screen. "So that's how it is..."

A voice goes up on the far side of the room. "What for?"

Something resembling a pleased smile quirks the corners of Patrick Mercer's lips. "That will be your first challenge, I am afraid. But let me reassure you by saying that 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."

I finally cave and twist around to close the distance between Jonas and myself. "What does he mean by that?"

"By what?"

"The shots. Yearly inoculations. Is that something that you all do?"

Jonas shrugs, though the carefree motion is offset against the concern in his expression. "Vaccines, you mean. It's not something we think about. It's just the way that it is."

"But now you have to go in more often."

"Now we have to go in more often."

The Program Manager's shoulders heave as he takes a breath. He looks at all of us with an unreadable expression. "We will meet again at the end of a week, and you will be expected to register your teammates by this point."

A week? I only have one week to figure out exactly all of this means?

The lights in the room begin to brighten. "From there, we will get in touch for how to proceed. Meliora will officially start on September first at midnight. Missions will be sent to your Informant's mobiles."

My head reels, trying to keep up with all of this information. Missions? Challenges? He never mentioned anything about this, did he? Or was I too distracted by the presentation to pay close attention to his words?

"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."

I am in way too far over my head. It will be easier to just back out now. I came, I listened, and I did not learn anything that made any sense. It might niggle at the back of my mind for who knows how long, wondering just what happens to everyone participating, but I don't have enough of a reason or information.

CHUCK makes an appearance at Patrick Mercer's elbow, though I did not see him approach. He whispers something into the smaller man's ear, and receives a nod in response.

The Program Manager turns to us with his soft, almost amused smile. "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." His arms spread out before him, presenting his words to us for our consideration. "I will show you the truth of this city, my fellow citizens. And you, too, will begin to see the darkness in our utopia."

I stare at the stage in shock as he walks off. The rest of the room explodes with noise, everyone talking at once now that they have something to actually discuss with one another.

"This is weird," I say, shoving my hat back onto my head. "I do not know what I expected, but this is just...."

"Weird," Jonas agrees.

The man at our table is talking on his cell, shoving his tablet into his bag. The other two women lean towards one another to hold a muted conversation.

Jonas taps my shoulder as he rises to his feet. "So, doll-face. What do you think?"

"I think I do not ever want to think about this again."

He grins and waits for me to rise before holding out a hand to let me go first. "I kind of agree, but I'm so very curious. And I do love a good mystery."

I snort in frustration. "You are welcome to have this mystery."

He winks and salutes me with the tip of his fingers as we make our way out of the building. "Well, give me a ring if you decide to participate. We might be able to pull off a decent team, if not one of the most fashionable."

A small bubble of warmth floods my stomach and makes it a bit easier to hold my head high. "I will. Same to you." I give a quick glance at my phone, noting the time. I had told Uncle Bao that I was going to this meeting, and he said nothing beyond 'be sure to be home before it is too late'.

I'm not too sure what 'too late' entails for him, but seeing as neither he nor my cousin Lily have called, I figure I must be safe. "I have to go, but it was nice meeting you, Jonas."

"Same! If nothing else, we'll get coffee and you'll come to me to get your hair done, and we'll still be best friends." He blows a kiss in my direction before taking off down the sidewalk at a brisk pace. His curls bounce with the movement.

I stand in front of the restaurant for several moments, and people flow around me to go their separate ways. I don’t think that any useful information came from this meeting, nor was it entirely clear on how things were going to proceed.

But it was enough to spark my interest, and perhaps that was the entire point.



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