Fran didn’t want the dreams. They blew over Europe’s nights like an ill wind, foretelling the greatest clash in human history. A new era, triggered by the blood of billions. From the Urals to Spain, millions dreamed the birth of this spine-chilling new time for Earth. Fran was one of them. He hated every moment of it.
In the morning, the chosen dreamers woke up frazzled and confused, wondering what that new era could be like. Their nocturnal visions provided no details, just a warning that the existence of mankind was at stake. Millions over the planet had received the nightly visions, and now they had reached Europe, Fran had become their victim too.
Some yearned to know more about this historical event. Others feared it. Fran ignored it as much the intensity of the dreams allowed him to. He believed that looking the other way was the only logical reaction to such an unknowable mystery. What could he do about it anyway? Nobody knew what to do about it! His parents never mentioned it, and neither did his sister.
An arm reached over his shoulders. “A dream is a dream is a dream,” said a voice behind him. It was Rafa, one of the two friends he clubbed with every weekend. A tall guy with dark green eyes and an air of joyful enthusiasm about him, Rafa was ever ready to dismiss worries and concerns and always made Fran feel better when he had a problem.
“They’re more than that, lately,” said Fran.
“Do you mean you’ve been having them? No one admits to.”
Rafa was right. In the streets, people avoided each other, aware of a cold shadow: The fear that the biggest event of the 21st century would soon come front and center into everyone's life.
“Sleeping would be nice,” Fran replied. “I’ve been coding 12 hours per day the last couple weeks, and next week will be more of the same. My parents won’t talk about the dreams, but they turn up the TV every time the news mentions the dreamwave.”
“It’s the same everywhere,” said Rafa. “A dream of the end of mankind. Some claim they’ve seen a place other than Earth, and people who aren’t people. What else?”
“Humanity realizing its full potential like it never has.” continued Fran. “But billions of deaths, too.”
Rafa laughed. “Who the hell knows what it all means?”
The question summarized Fran's perspective on life. He believed there must be more of a future out there, but what exactly? He was 19 and studied Computer Programming at a Technical School. He loved the endless possibilities and the sense of accomplishment he derived from coding. But the life ahead of him came across as dull and regimented. He’d finish studying in two years and get a job. A better one than his friends studying History or Biology, but nothing special. His parents had lived a stable lower middle class life and instilled in him the notion that no ambition, no regrets.
“Obsessing about the dreamwave is pure narcissism,” he said to his friend. “No one’s been able of figuring out its origin. Sure, it could be the planet complaining about the way we treat it. Or some government testing a new technology. A dream intrusion technology with global reach, imagine that.”
Deep inside, it was his own perceived narcissism that Fran wanted to control. The dreams had convinced him that he had a role to play in this grand drama. But why would he? Imagine being responsible for the survival of billions of people. The thought made him shiver.
A synth line kicked in and thousands were on the floor, dancing alone or in small groups. Fran felt a sharp pang of pain running through his body and the song died just as it had started, replaced by a deep heartbeat. The multicolored lights that bathed the dance floor went off at the same time, turning thousands of dancers all black, white and gray.
A couple stood out on the dance floor. Strangely for a large mainstream venue, they were cosplayers. The short-haired girl dressed in a yellow and black short dress and wore medieval leather gloves. A hidden blade shone deadly under her right hand. The guy holding her by the waist wore a flowing white cape decorated head to toe with a yellow Egyptian ankh and held an ivory staff. The ivory became a pattern of sea waves at the top, partially covering a bright red jewel, a ruby. The man’s presence emanated power.
A moment passed, and the pop hit was back in full force. The club returned to normalcy, including the couple, who actually wore normal clothes like everyone else. Fran made a note to give his manga obsession a break. Or at least switch from too much Delicious in Dungeon to some real-life seinen, finally read Goodnight Punpun.
He checked the time on his phone. It was 3 AM on a summer Friday night at Fahrenheit, the biggest club in the Metronome complex right by Callao, in the heart of Madrid, an area bursting with life night and day. The Metronome complex spanned 3 blocks interconnected by both aerial corridors and underground tunnels. Inside, dozens of clubs, large and small, catered to the tens of thousands of Spanish youth who rushed to it every Friday and Saturday. A few clubs offered Sunday morning sessions for hardcore ravers.
“We gotta make the most of life, man, real life.” said Rafa as he dragged Fran into the dance floor.
“Not now, I need to use the bathroom.”
“You and a thousand others. Good luck with that.”
Fran grinned.
“I know a trick.”
He moved through the crowd in the opposite direction to his friend. Thousands enjoyed this club every weekend, but Fran was indifferent to it. It wasn't the music he listened to at home, but all three of them, Fran, Rafa, and Alberto, enjoyed it that the crowd was easily 50% women and also that it was a good place to meet friends from high school, people they weren't in contact with anymore. Fran had learned that every time a girl from school met him at Fahrenheit and said “It was fun being with you in high school,” a walk to a discreet corner was close.
Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.
He descended a stairwell and the blasting music receded. A few more steps and it disappeared.
The cold underground floors of the complex were a mystery to most. Not dangerous, not exactly, but definitely unwelcoming. Hostile, even. The clubs downstairs were ran and frequented by small groups of zealots that listened to music that hadn't even been defined yet. No genre. No labels. Yet they somehow knew how to find each other. They resented outsiders with ferocity.
As a result, 99% of the people upstairs didn't know was that you could find less crowded, cleaner bathrooms outside the clubs downstairs.
Fran entered one. It was completely empty. After he finished and washed his hands, he was walking back to the grey metal staircase when a flash of neon blue flashed before his eyes and rendered him still like a deer before headlights.
He didn't know the name of the club, but he'd seen the people exiting it a couple of times. They favored leather hoodies and knee-high black boots. They wore clothes halfway between a black metal guitar player and a futuristic parkour aficionado.
Three of them stood outside the club’s door, which looked like an ornamented cathedral door. Fran was shocked. Hand-shaking. Ear to ear smiles. Admiration. And all for a guy who couldn't look more out of place. A lanky guy with pale skin and blonde wavy hair, perhaps French, almost definitely a foreigner. He wore tartan trousers, shiny brown dress shoes, a long dark blue coat and a nautical-themed red and white cravat.
The door opened slowly and someone emerged from the club. A guy with long black hair and a leather vest over his naked, muscular chest. The modern-day barbarian wore diagonal war paint on his face and eyed the outsider with undisguised contempt. He smiled with disdain and called for his buddy's attention by tapping him with his elbow. Words were exchanged and the short angry barbarian reached for the foreigner and shook his hand in admiration as he screamed something at him, perhaps his name.
Suddenly, Fran’s pain returned, so intense that he had to stop himself from screaming. He felt dizzy like he was riding a rollercoaster that took a sharp turn down. Everything went black and white except the hugging strangers in front of him. But they’d all changed into something else. The guys from the club now looked like demonic knights from a soulslike video game. They wore full armors an0d metal mouth guards with protruding vampiric fangs. The foreigner had become an elf with completely black eyes and a sinister smile. Fran's heartbeat boomed loudly, synchronized to the agonizing waves of pain running over his body. He placed his hand against a wall, winked and everything was normal again. Still, no good. This wasn’t just fatigue. Deep inside, he knew it was the dreams widening his perception, pushing him towards something. He wanted to reject whatever it was, but he felt helpless. Fran was truly scared now.
He felt the weight of the night with every step as he returned upstairs. A frantic beat hammered his ears and men and women danced all over the place or tried to hold conversations. Perhaps the loud music was the perfect excuse to get close to each other.
He couldn't find Rafa, but he did spot Alberto talking to the couple that Fran had thought dressed like cosplayers. Alberto dismissed them with his hand and walked away with an angry frown. He could be like that sometimes. He had problems at home, and it wouldn't be the first night that he didn't say a dozen words the whole night or only spoke when spoken to. A troubling trend that had intensified this summer, for reasons Alberto refused to explain. He didn't like to whine, as he called it. But what good is friendship if you can't open up to your friends?
“Fran! I thought you'd gone home or something. Hey, listen. I want to talk”
“Alberto, I gotta go. I'm dead, just dead, and the music isn’t helping. Call me. It will be good to go for a walk between coding sessions.”
“I meant now, but I guess it’s not the time. Just remember, remember we're friends, okay? We have to take care of each other, especially when life's not what it seems. Bad things can't go on forever. What kind of life would that be?”
Fran nodded. This kind of talk was very surprising coming from Alberto.
“Go now, bro.” Alberto continued. “Let's talk soon. Stay out of trouble out there.”
“It’s safe out there.”
“Safety,” said Alberto “is no longer a setting in the video game of our lives.”
----------------------------------------
On the way home, Fran reveled in Madrid's nocturnal ambiance. The architecture left a lot to be desired compared to more beautiful Spanish cities like San Sebastián or Barcelona, that much he had to reluctantly admit, but he loved the atmosphere. Hundreds of people walked up and down the Gran Via avenue day or night. Groups laughing, eating bocadillos sold by small stalls and street vendors. The perfect summer night temperature, the sweet smell of a city at its best.
He turned left at Callao square and strolled down towards Plaza de España, a large square. A crowd gathered, surrounding the statue of Don Quixote and his sidekick Sancho Panza. Fran had enjoyed that book's humor, but he couldn't sympathize with the protagonist. Don Quixote has become so dissatisfied with reality that he willed himself into a world of giants, knights, damsels in distress and evil sorcerers. What for? Escapism won’t change the real world.
Large banners became visible as Fran neared the crowd. NO PSYOPS, NO DREAMVASION. NO DEMOCRACY WITHOUT FREE MINDS. The chants got louder as he approached the crowd. He was surprised. It wasn't just a handful of weirdos. Thousands of men and women filled the area to the brim and chanted slogans chaotically. A large banner dominated the demonstration. STOP THE MIND TAKEOVER.
His mind must have been taken over too, because he thought he’d glimpsed the curly dark hair and mauve coat of his sister Marta. Except it couldn't be her. Marta didn't have a conspiranoid bone in her body. Fran walked on with a feeling like he he was about to vomit any second. STOP THE MIND TAKEOVER. There was nothing he’d like more.
Soon, he was home, taking a shower as quietly as possible. The warm water made him feel renewed, but his body knew it was time to crash. The prospect of another night of strange dreams made him feel apprehensive, but he was too tired to resist sleep. His eyes closed the moment his head touched the pillow.
Immediately, sunlight hit his eyes. His hands were wet with morning dew. Birds chirped. Fran opened his eyes in confusion. He was lying on a grass-covered hill, wearing gray and green clothes and brown boots. Why did he look like a medieval peasant? He stood up and assessed the landscape around him. The Sun shone with a beautiful golden light, and a large aquamarine blue moon accompanied it. The sky was a light blue, streaked with sapphire, emerald and magenta clouds. In the distance he could see hills and a valley littered with farms and olive trees. A track led to a town of small white brick houses protected by a wall.
Instantly, he knew he wasn't dreaming.
Dazed and confused, Fran stumbled on a rock hidden in the grass. He fell forward without control over his legs and almost fell on his face, but regained control at the last second. Embarrassed, he looked up again while he caught his breath. The Sun wasn't as aggressive as the one back on Earth. He could look at it directly. And the moon to its right had a beauty he could watch for hours. It was about two times larger than Earth’s moon and blue, a deep, rich shade of blue. Its surface seemed covered by a dense liquid that moved in some areas, creating awe-inspiring ripples and shades. Did anybody live there?
He reconsidered the question and decided to make it more immediate: Did anybody live here? Fran hadn't yet decided whether he was experiencing the government mind control that the crowd protested. He didn't know what was possible or true. But he did know in his heart that this place was real.
“I know you're there, newcomer!” shouted a voice. “Stranger! Newbie! Come on, don't you want to survive? I traveled for two days to explain things to you, so don't waste my time.”