Meliora - Extricate - 39

[lady_mab]

Lysander Stavros

The message is almost a welcomed distraction from the awkwardness that has been this conversation. I’ve gotten used to Jonas from the few times we’ve been at Kaito’s bar together and his occasional text message. I know Ayn, as much as it feels like I don’t sometimes.

I don’t know Fletcher. I’ve only spoken to him once, and after learning that he’s Zoné’s brother, I know even less about him than I thought I did.

Also, I have no idea how their team can even manage to function, because all they do is bicker and snark at each other. Or at least, Jonas and Ayn do, and Fletcher plays the silent mediator.

After all our phones go off at once, the message from the unknown sender became the topic of whispered conversations form the groups all around us. Despite our shared confusion, no one reaches outside of their clusters to figure out what it could mean.

I’m parsing through the possible hidden meanings when Jonas’ strident voice says, “Even the harpy agrees.”

This isn’t the first time this evening that he’s used that turn of phrase to refer to Ayn and I’ve had it up to my eyeballs with him calling her that. “Fuck off, Jonas,” I grumble and he turns a sneer in my direction.

“You fuck off, Reject Apollo. No one invited you to this group.” He swirls a finger in the air between himself and Fletcher. “And by this group I mean me and him so take your girlfriend elsewhere.”

Ayn and Jonas exchange eyerolls and Fletcher turns his gaze to the ceiling, begging a silent and absent god for help. “I’m on your team, Jonas. The least you could do is accept my presence here.”

“Nope. Not accepted. Byeeee.” He waggles a hand in her face and she smacks it away.

Christ, they’re like children. Any evidence of Ayn’s postured self that she displays when in public is gone. Jonas, from what I can tell, is just being himself.

“Are we going to keep talking about how much we all hate each other here, or are we going to talk about this message?” Fletcher waves his phone to get their attention. “And how it’s not from any known ALICE contact?”

“Already on it, pumpkin,” Jonas says, texting.

Fletcher gives him a long, blank stare before turning to Ayn and me. “Thoughts?”

“A well-timed message.” The irony of the date and location is not lost on me.

With a snort, Fletcher shakes his head. Everything he does is so much more subdued than Zoné. “The message has nothing to do with the event, if you think about it. Besides, how many people do you think understand the reference?”

It’s kind of annoying that he knows exactly what I’m talking about, but I’m trying to let myself not be petty. “I’m certain it’s an easy enough search.”

“No one is going to think about searching for the date when Guy Fawkes was executed.”

“And yet you knew the date without me having to say anything anyway.”

He repeats the snort and headshake. “I work in a library and I am a very smart man. I know these things. The average person would not.”

I look to Ayn, to see if she would back either one of us up, but she’s too busy staring at her phone. So it’s just me and Fletcher, pointedly not arguing. Great.

Ayn does, however, hold up a hand to cut us off. “I think it must be a warning to ALICE that they might not have the control they thought they did.”

Jonas visibly hesitates before dragging his attention away from his phone. “To ALICE? How do you figure?”

“The Man in the Macintosh.”

The words mean absolutely nothing to me, and makes even less sense than my thoughts on Guy Fawkes. It’s odd that she thinks it is to ALICE, instead of from them.

Jonas makes a disgruntled noise. “Is that supposed to mean something?”

Ayn highlights a line of text on her phone and recites, “The chap in the macintosh is thirteen. Death’s number.”

Her Informant throws his hands in the air. “For fuck’s sake, when I say that you’re speaking gibberish, I don’t mean just keep on talking.”

Fletcher moves in between them to cut off any further arguing. “It’s a reference to a character whose purpose has been debated by literary critics for years. Was he the personification of Death, or was he just there to make people think he was important?”

“Someone is calling out ALICE -- specifically, the Program Manager -- on their approach to the game,” Ayn adds. She turns to Fletcher, eager, since he understood her reference. “We were promised a way out of this city, right? Then why play a game when they should be that benevolent being and let us go without having to participate in their missions?”

“It sounds like they’re accusing ALICE of playing favorites.”

“It’s most definitely accusing them of tampering with the Participants.”

A frown of doubt pulls at my lips. “Do you think it was a Participant who sent out this message? What about that blog -- the Lady and the Ghost?”

Jonas’s thumbs falter in his constant texting but he doesn’t say anything.

“It could have been,” Fletcher admits, though he doesn’t sound convinced. “I doubt that Lianel would have been the only one to gain access to that list.”

“Whoever it is, they have a lot of guts doing something like this.” Jonas runs a hand through his mop of curls and slips his phone into his pocket. “I’m mostly surprised ALICE has taken so long to respond.”

Right on cue, a woman flares to life on the far side of the hall -- causing those closest to the stage to make sounds of confusion as they press back.

Speak of the devil and he will appear, I suppose.

A hand lands on my shoulder, and I turn to find Ayn using both me and Fletcher to lift herself up on her tiptoes. “It’s the same woman from before…”

Fletcher adjusts his glasses and glances around the room. “No sign of those two men in suits either. I wonder if someone plans on pulling another violent stunt like last time.”

While I’m certain he means Halloween, when the team brought a gun and a knife against ALICE, I can’t help but think of the monsters that Zoné and Jun confronted.

“I’m going in for a closer look,” Ayn announces.

I catch onto her wrist before she can pull away. “I’ll go with you,” I say at the same time Fletcher says, “Be careful.”

I shoot him a glare that he ignores.

Ayn’s smile thins as she reaches out to remove my hand. “It’ll be easier if I go on my own. There’s a lot of people here. Nothing is going to happen.”

“Did you just miss the part where he said that someone might try something violent?”

“I’ll be fine,” she says, tone flat.

On her other side, Fletcher continues his casual study of the woman on the stage. “Have a little faith in her.”

Irritation, at his tone and his flippancy, flares in the pit of my stomach. “Kindly keep yourself out of this, Fletcher.”

In the pause between us, Ayn’s breathless, “You’ve got to be shitting me,” is barely audible.

Jonas smirks, clearly enjoying this. “You took the words right out of my mouth.”

The woman springs to life and her voice rings out across the hall. “Participants of Meliora, my apologies.”

Before I can realize what happens, Ayn twists completely out of my grip and disappears into the crowd. “Wait--!”

“She’s an adult. She can handle herself.” Jonas twirls a curl around his finger, hip cocked to one side. “Just let her go, dude.”

“I don’t need your opinion concerning me and my girlfriend,” I growl. Now I’ve been left with two people I don’t know that well, and have already decided that I don’t like.

On the stage, the woman holds her hands out to placate the crowd of people. “We at ALICE had nothing to do with that message. We are doing all we can to track down the origin of the email and reprimand accordingly.” Her image flickers, and then the loop picks up. “We at ALICE had nothing to do with that message.”

Fletcher crosses his arms over his chest and shifts his weight on his feet. “Reprimand accordingly. They’re doing just what the message is accusing them of doing.”

Jonas taps a finger against his lips in thought. “Hey… question…”

“Hm?”

“That guy Fox you two Old World nerds were talking about--”

“Guy Fawkes,” Fletcher corrects. “It’s French.”

“Uh-huh, yeah, tell me when I care. Who was he?”

I laugh despite myself, pulling myself back into the conversation at hand. “Really? The Gunpowder Plot? Robert Catesby leading a bunch of Catholics in a plot to overthrow King James?” Hundreds of years is far too long to remember the true meaning of the fifth of November, apparently.

The sound that escapes the back of Jonas’ throat is difficult to describe but is somewhere between annoyed and anguished. “See, it’s hot when Fletcher nerds out over history. Leave your hoity-toity Old World pretentiousness for bedroom talk with Ayn. Maybe she gets a kick out of it, I don’t know, but major ughhhh.”

Fletcher reacts immediately, stepping in and putting a hand to Jonas’ chest to push him back. “Don’t,” he warns. Then, surprisingly, turns to me. “And don’t engage him.”

I don’t appreciate being spoken to like a child with an overbearing nanny, but Jonas somehow managers to find every single button of mine to push. “Wasn’t going to,” I say, taking a step back of my own.

“The Gunpowder Plot is not really well remembered in this new era,” Fletcher goes on to explain. His voice is about as thin as my patience. “Especially with things like the Thames flooding and America’s political structure collapsing and all that. It used to be a chance to remember the day when the plot to destroy the House of Lords, which is very close to where we are now, was supposed to be staged.”

“During the course of a few hundred years, it became a day to simply celebrate. But today, the thirty-first of January, was the day that Guy Fawkes was executed.” I clench my hands into fists, digging my nails into my palm. “My vote is for ALICE trying to tell us that any rebel uprising will be squashed.”

Thus, the timing is perfect.

There’s motion on the stage, and the three of us turn to see an old man taking the place of the woman in the skirt. His face is passive, thoughtful, a man surveying his kingdom.

Even though this is my first time seeing him, I have no doubt that this is the Program Manager.

“Participants of Meliora, thank you for coming out this evening to attend.” He keeps his hands folded behind his back, voice projecting throughout the hall. “Your continued dedication to this game is just what we would expect of the fortunate few allowed to participate.”

There’s a sour taste in the back of my mouth and I dig my nails in deeper to my palms. “And what the fuck of those of us acting as Informants? Why even invite us here?”

“Dedication to our teammates,” Jonas says, whip quick and just as sharp. “Don’t be so selfish.”

I’m bewildered that he would say such a thing, or even respond to me at all. I shift my focus to him, and it takes a beat before he returns my study.

Jonas doesn’t look away. He doesn’t cower. His eyes narrow, intensifying his bright pink gaze to a narrowed pinpoint, before realization springs to life on his face. He turns, jaw tensing. “Oh… Oh you little shit for brains bastard.”

This isn’t exactly the reaction I expected, and I definitely don’t know what it’s in reference to. “Excuse me?”

“Shh--” Fletcher starts, but Jonas shoves a hand into his face.

“Shut up. Let the homewrecker do some work for this team for once.” He rounds back on me, pushing himself across the distance between us with his grip on Fletcher’s face. “You, on the other hand.” His finger jabs out and catches me in the chest. “You plan on leaving, don’t you?”

Fletcher tenses at those words, but otherwise doesn’t immediately interact.

I, on the other hand, don’t know what sort of emotion to display. So I fight them all down and attempt to maintain an even tone as I say, “I do.”

“Are you fucking insane?”

A thread snaps, white-hot. “No. You are. You actually want to stay in this city? Perpetuating the continued ignorance by letting this company do what they want?” I take a step in to match Jonas’ and try to return the jab to the chest, but he smacks my hand away. “Don’t look so surprised. I’m not making a secret of it.”

“You’re the reason they were attacked!” Jonas’ voice cracks and jumps. He visibly shakes with a mounting frustration. “What happened to Jun and that stupid whatever his name is is your fault!”

Fletcher’s hand lands on Jonas’ shoulder, but it does little to actually stop the brewing anger between us.

I draw back my shoulders. The idea that I could have been the one at fault, that Jun and Zoné’s injuries were a result of my actions, definitely weighed on my mind since that night. Despite their reassurance that it’s not, that there was nothing I could have done to change it, I know that there is still some possibility.

I just don’t need this idiot telling me what I already know.

“Don’t talk like you’re better than me, Jonas Quinn.”

He sneers and the expression oozes from every part of his posture. “At least I have enough brains to cover my tracks so my team doesn’t end up in the hospital--”

“Jonas!” Fletcher’s voice cuts through the tension like a knife. “Enough.” Again, he turns to me, tension lining his jaw and his eyes. “Does Ayn know?”

I unclench my hands, trying to work out the frustration. It doesn’t help. “I told her.”

Fletcher grinds his teeth, picking his words carefully. “If anything happens to her because you are careless--”

“You’ll what?” I snap, glancing to Jonas, hovering just behind him with all the pent up rage his slight frame can hold. “You’ll sic your puppy on me?”

It all happens too fast. One moment, I’m locked in a glaring contest with Fletcher.

The next, Jonas’ fist connects with my jaw and I’m stumbling back into the people around us who had stopped to watch our argument development.

It doesn’t hurt so much as it catches me completely by surprise. I touch a hand to my mouth, relieved to find no split lip.

Fletcher waits until my gaze flickers back to him. “No,” he says, calm and collected and I hate him for it. “He’ll sic himself on you.”

How the fuck did Ayn team up with these people?

Jonas tugs Fletcher away, and they are swallowed up with the crowd. Everyone around me quickly diverts their attention back to the stage, where the old man still talks, paying no attention to what just happened in our corner of the crowd.

“Everything okay?” one person asks, voice uncertain.

“Fine,” I lie, rubbing the spot where I can still feel the sting from Jonas’ punch. “I never knew these meetings were so exciting.”

They offer up a weak laugh in response before returning to their group.

I’ve had enough of this. I pull out my phone and send a text to Ayn, telling her to call or text me when she’s done.

Then I push my way through the crowds until I reach the open space in the back. Without checking to see if anyone notices me, I leave. There’s no reason for me to be there. Not when it seems like no one is interested in anything outside of their own egos

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