Fran stood in a corner inside the Crystal Palace, eyeing the scene warily. About 30 people had entered the palace when a man in the clothes of a Retiro gardener let them in without a word and closed the door behind them. He’d placed a sign in front of the door. PRIVATE FUNCTION, CLOSED UNTIL 10.
A few others watched from a discreet spot too, or walked around with eyes intense as a lighthouse beam on a moonless night. Crossed arms and hushed conversations everywhere, even among people who clearly knew each other.
Two groups were the sharp exception to the tense atmosphere: A tanned 30-year-old woman with long bangs high-fived a group of younger men and women, teenagers really. She must have had an amazing time at Mela, because no one else was close to that midnight rave energy. The teenagers faked a smile and returned some desultory high-fives.
A second group stood out. Four people with an air of relaxed confidence. They shook hands or kissed hello sharing quick, courteous words. They stood tall as if pulled by strings. They seemed out of a corporation board meeting where everyone held a knife to everyone else's back.
Five minutes to 8:30 and no sign of latecomers. The conversations became more relaxed, the voices louder. You could even see some sincere hugs and a couple kissing in a corner. Fran decided to take a walk around, pretend he was looking for someone and pay attention to everyone's talk. He first approached a young guy with blue spiky hair.
“I'm telling you the Stone City hides secrets in its library,” he said. The woman next to him nodded politely, then replied “That's in the opposite direction to Anvil Mountain, Luis. We have a mission.”
Next to them, two young men in shorts and leather sandals sat on the floor, lamenting that Arcabria didn't have the best lutes. “How does that make sense if that’s where every troubadour worth the name comes from? Bards everywhere get their material in those counties.”
“What about the mission?” inquired the other one.
“Music is my life’s mission, and it should be yours if that's your heart’s command.”
Fran walked on, tempted to join in but knowing it would be best not to.
“Well done on Friday, Esther,” said a man to his right. Fran peeked. The guy wore a tight shirt that barely restrained his chest. And he must have been almost two meters tall, but not lean and athletic as a basketball player but large and broad as a strongman. Brown wild hair and a crazy beard would have fit him, but he sported a brown crewcut and had the eyes of an innocent child.
The woman hugged him, then took a step back and crossed her legs.
“Loothordes are fun to destroy!” she exclaimed for all to see. “I love seeing the panic in those barbarians’ eyes. They fly out of control in my whirlwinds and I then switch everything off! Death from the sky! Today, I played with the wind on my way to the meeting.”
“Easy there,” said the man.
“No, no, it's all good. Some people looked surprised at the small gusts of wind, that’s all. Maybe I moved a car or two a little, but they were badly parked, so who's to blame, eh, eh? Oh, Bertrán, how can I just walk into the fucking office tomorrow? I cannot do this anymore, the week's going to be the death of me.”
Fran turned his head and smiled at the unusual couple.
“We should have monthly freebies,” he said. “Extra trip to Mela anytime night or day.”
The woman pondered the question.
“Yeah,” she said. “Make sure you make it monthly, though. If you gave this guy 12 annual passes, he'd use them up by January 15th.”
“Oh, look who's talking. That's called projection, Esther.”
Loud clapping echoed through the palace and everyone turned to the man and the woman at the center of the space. Both looked in control, the kind of people that expect others to listen to their every word. Also, the kind of people that would take seriously the joke that you don't need to outrun a hungry bear, you only need to outrun the slowest person the bear’s chasing.
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Fran scanned the room. Almost 30 people. 29, including him.
The woman's contralto voice recited a ceremonial opening that filled the room with gravitas.
“The New Alliance calls for the oath keepers of Terra! A multitude of dreamers united in loyalty toward truth, justice and cooperation. Madrid's chapter opens its 17th monthly session.”
“Thanks, Alba,” the old man said. “Welcome everyone, and excuse me if I skip the usual introductions and get to the point. Today's meeting is unlike any we've ever held. There are good months and bad months, we all know it. Months when the whole meeting is about remembering those we lost. The isolation we all experience demands that enjoy our triumphs and mourn our losses, together. There's no one else we can talk to. However, today's different. Well discuss initiation with the newbies before the meeting's over, but first, there's news everyone should hear. News that I'm sure you’ll want to discuss: Friends, it’s the last days. The last Friday is a year out.”
The crowd inched in, mesmerized by the man's words. One of the bards shook his head in denial. Bertrán the giant and Esther exchanged a joyful glance of satisfaction. Others nodded stoically.
The old man called for silence before continuing.
“The last dreamers are in. Actually, the rumor among the Inner Ring is that the very last dreamer arrived from Spain. Personally, I don't think that matters. It's the principle that we need to pay attention to. Whether you've been visiting Mela for a year or a week, the time of inaction is over. In a year, in 52 Fridays, a great unknown event will take place. We need to be ready, but that road won't be easy. We don't have the wisdom, the training, or the power.”
“Too many of you have been slacking,” shouted the woman next to him. “You profess to despise the irresponsible parasites wasting this unique opportunity to become heroes and save mankind. They want a cozy life! Respite from the real world! You mock them, but at the end of the day, you act exactly as they do. You contribute the minimum effort toward the New Alliance's missions and quests. You assert that you didn’t know, that you didn't have time, or that complications prevented you from finishing your assigned quest. There's always an excuse, isn't there? An excuse to have fun in the castle's patio with the duke's knights. To declaim poetry by a pond with the tiger counts of Xian Gun. To visit the forest apothecary that's two weeks away from anywhere useful.”
“We're not asking you to charge head-on towards a chaos flux,” said the man.
“But you'd have to if we did,” continued the woman, ignoring his attempt at defusing her wrath. “Earth could be destroyed! If a spawning champion of chaos shows up at Puerta del Sol and his daemons kill your father and rape your mother, you'll only have yourself to blame! We've been chosen for a life of struggle and glory, long or short doesn't matter.
The atmosphere had turned tense. Most attendees looked at her with undivided attention, but a few were turning away or exchanging looks of aversion and dismissal. Fran made a note of them, the targets of her speech.
“In Mela, yesterday was the last easy day,” said the man. “A sad truth, but things are what they are. The Inner Ring doesn't know the future, but clues and presages gathered by our best adventurers point to severe changes in the way our world interacts with Mela, and also in the way we dreamers interact with Mela. Dreaming is changing. Evolving. There's a strong probability that our time in Mela will increase progressively. We don't know how, but don't be surprised if eight hours of sleep become two Melan weeks instead of one.”
The woman took impulse like a singer about to jump into an arena crowd.
“Don't you dare use the bonus time as an excuse to chill! It's extra pressure you should be feeling! I've buried too many colleagues, and I swear, I fucking swear I wouldn't mind burying some of you.” she said. Her big, black eyes met every single person in the room one by one. “I'll fucking dig a knife in your necks myself, moooooootherfuckeeeeeeeeeers. I'll bring harm to your bodies, and I'll bring harm to your minuscule, crunchy souls.”
The man extended his hands in peace at the stunned crowd.
“More bad news, I'm afraid, although they only affect active Terran travelers,” he said. “A killer's on the loose in Germany. Someone who found out about Mela and dreamers. Remember how easy it is to kill us, and how much fun it would be for a psychopath. A few words could trick us into thinking this guy is a fellow dreamer. We reply, and we drop dead. Mistakes mean death, people. Here even more than in Mela. Many of you believe that the zombies, the wights and the ogres are the threat. No, the true challenge lies on this side of life.”
The woman raised her hand like an excited pupil.
“Find safety in the New Alliance.”
“Always,” answered the man.
“Always find safety in the New Alliance. Avoid anyone you've never met in Mela. Always ask the three questions to ensure you're in the presence of a New Alliance adventurer in good standing. There are ten bodies in a Hamburg funeral home, are you listeniiiiiiiiiiiing?”
“Mistakes mean death, my friends.”
“A single mistake means death, you dumb-dumbs!” The woman hopped frantically now. In the crowd, not a single person appreciated her antics. The number of annoyed faces increased. Only a handful of people displayed Fran's perplexity. His fellow newbies, meaning that this woman’s show must be on repeat at every gathering.
The man clapped his hands once. Immediately, the woman stopped hopping and extended her hands bracing for a hostile predator.
“On to better news and better times”, the man said. “We'll have time for questions, but let’s do the introductions for new members now. Some of you are joining us for the first time. If you're not an initiated member of the New Alliance, please move to the front now.”
Fran was the first to take a step forward. There was no point in hesitating.