25

Maria and Draco

While the fallen city sulked in cold darkness, the little girl and the aging woman rested in light. Diesel generators thumped morning, noon, and night outside of the house that never slept. The mako generators were gone. The age of mako was over. None of the bouncers, pimps, and entertainers said as much, but they could tell. No matter when they were ever able to look outside, they saw only a cavernous void. There was power, but their captor controlled it. Elmyra had never been so aware of how without power, they lived in the world's largest network of caves: built by man, for man. Midgar was the center of Shinra. Without Midgar, Shinra meant nothing.

After almost a week, they were still stuck. There was still no power. The Public Safety men who watched over them during the early days of their stay at the Honey Bee Inn paid less and less attention to their duty. Now Elmyra saw them only when they came to receive Don Corneo's gratitude in one of the many entertainment rooms. Their current guardians rotated. Some looked on them with lascivious eyes. This would end someday—how, no one could tell.

There was nothing to do but wait and hope.

Aerith opened her eyes. She had fallen asleep. It was that dream again. Waves rocked the rusted cabin to and fro. By the fourth day at sea, Tifa was concerningly nauseas. Vincent was nowhere to be found. He spent some of his time on the top deck to glean word of Midgar from other sailors, but fitting in had never been his strong suit. Aerith would have known that even if she had not shared his brain the better part of a week before.

The fishermen here were a private, suspicious lot. Aerith had never known many and could not tell whether this was on account of the nature of fishermen, or more particular to these ones. They were smugglers, though they would never admit it. Vincent payed more than what was fair or even sane to book them passage, but even then, no one trusted them. No one trusted anyone else on this ship.

The captain swept past on his way to the galley. He cast a cursory glance into the cabin as he did every day, as though verifying the mattresses were in place, the fortified wine had not been depleted, and yes, the cabin was still rusted. He was a bearded, patch-eyed man with the disconcerting name of Cid. Aerith had never noticed how common the name was until Vincent drew attention to it. Now the world seemed brim-full of Cids.

Tifa was watching her sleep. "Will we run into any trouble?"

Aerith shrugged. "I hear Public Safety's in shambles. Vincent talked to someone earlier who said no one's seen Rufus Shinra since Shinra Tower exploded. There's even rumor that there's been some kind of power grab within Shinra. No one knows. There's still no electricity. No media. It's as though…" she swore to herself she would not cry. "It's almost as though Migar's a wilderness."

Tifa leaned forward. Aerith caught the faint glow of her eyes. Brash and assertive: sometimes she really did remind her of an introverted, female Zack. "We'll find them, Aerith."

Aerith looked away and nodded.

So they sat in awkward silence for well over an hour. Aerith wondered what could be done once they arrived in Midgar. Tifa retreated again to her private, inner-world.

By the time Vincent arrived, Aerith sat reading in the far corner of the cabin. Whether or not he noticed the awkward energy about the room, he was nice enough not to say as much.

"What did you find out?" Aerith asked.

He unlatched his soggy raincoat. "No one patrols the waters nearest Midgar anymore. Smugglers come and go unchecked. Whoever is in control of Shinra has abandoned it. We should be able to disembark without too much trouble."

"Are there a lot of people there now?" Tifa asked.

"They say there are a lot…" Vincent said with unusual caution. "But the conditions are terrible. Food and water are scarce. They say Don Corneo's stepped up to fill the power vacuum and his reach is everywhere. He controls commodity prices and takes a cut of everything. He controls most of the city's entrances and exits. What's left of Public Safety is too scared to challenge him."

"What does it take to get into the city?" Aerith asked.

Vincent grimaced. "Can I tell you exactly what was told to me? The chief quartermaster said, 'You've got to know someone, pay someone, or fuck someone.' Suffice it to say most smugglers opt for giving Corneo a cut."

"Well…" Aerith said, "That limits our options, doesn't it?"

"Is it possible they've left the city?" Tifa asked. Aerith already knew the answer.

Vincent shook his head. "Don Corneo doesn't want anyone leaving his own private empire. What I said just now applies for leaving Midgar just as well as entering it."

"If we had some idea… some starting point, it would be easier to find Marlene, Barret, and Elmyra," Tifa said.

"We don't have to spend a lot of time finding them," Aerith said. "Elmyra and Marlene are with Corneo in Sector Six.

Tifa narrowed her eyes. "What?"
"I dreamed of them," Aerith said. "They're at the Honeybee Inn."

"But what about Barret?" Tifa asked.

"I don't know," Aerith said. "I can't seem to find him." When he was wounded and on the cusp of dying, she had not been able to heal him. Now when she tried to find him, she could not. She was worried. Her best guess was she had cut himself off from the Lifestream in the same way Vincent had.

When the ship docked; Vincent, Tifa, and Aerith left with their provisions—clothing and emergency Shinra rations mostly. Tifa brought the Masamune. She draped it in a brocade sack. Just the same, it was obvious to any curious onlookers what the long, curved shape was, but no one was audacious enough to ask.

The trek to Midgar lasted through the afternoon. They rode in a long caravan to the city along with a geshtal greens smuggler. Aerith knew he missed his granddaughter. She plucked it right out of his brain. She also knew she reminded him of her. It was the only free ride they got all trip.

Only when they got there could they comprehend the horror. The stories were true. Damaged infrastructure radiated out from the mako reactors. Shinra tower was a desiccated corpse: part skin, part raw bone, and part nothing where there should have been something. Aerith remembered her stay there and did not miss it. Still, she remembered the night of the attack. The loss of life had been staggering. She glanced at Tifa to clear her thoughts. She did not even have to. Cloud never left her mind.

Tifa stared at the destruction, humbled. She would not say a word. She did not have to.

Poor girl.

They disembarked from the caravan. The grandfatherly smuggler got a hug for his trouble.

A large band of men and women coalesced near the gate. Some had camped out in tents, big and small. The sound of horns and strings emanated from one of the largest tents. Musicians or actors. A glance inside that particular tent revealed men and women cavorting about in various stages of period press, the likes of which Gaia had not seen worn day-today in centuries. A few bystanders seemed to be attempting to negotiate with Don Corneo's men, but received only irritated head shakes in kind. For the better part of an hour, they surveyed the area, not daring to venture too close to Corneo's men. Neither Tifa nor Aerith could remember much of the Honeybee Inn's staff. They could not say who might recognize them.

"I could teleport us all through," Vincent said. "The range is short enough."

"Maybe," Aerith said, "but what do we do once we're inside?"

Vincent quirked an eyebrow. "Was the purpose of this trip not to infilitrate the Honeybee Inn and then rescue your friends?"

Tifa and Aerith looked at each other. "We didn't leave Corneo on the best terms last time," Aerith said.

Vincent opened his mouth to speak, but did not have the chance.

"Maria, what are you doing over there?"

All three turned to the voice. He wore a tie and vest and was clean-cut—the most clean-cut man they had seen in months—yet his hair was frazzled—his face seemed wrinkled long before its time, perhaps by a perpetual glare of hypomania. He was staring right at them and coming closer. "Maria… we must rehearse. You have to put all of those thoughts aside so we can…" He hesitated. "Oh… you're… not Maria?"

Tifa and Aerith looked at each other and then him; said at the same time, "Me?"

The Impresario waved his hands. "Don't think about it. Just… stop thinking about it. The more you think about it, the less it makes sense, but suffice it to say, Don Corneo has… peculiar tastes…"

"We know," Tifa and Aerith said in unison. They caught each other's eyes and smiled, if briefly.

They sat in the Impresario's personal tent. Candlelight on red canvas cast eerie shadows across his books, scripts, and treatises. He could not stop staring even as he handed them the letter. They had not yet met Maria, but the resemblance must have been uncanny.

Tifa read the letter.

To my dearest Maria, I anxiously await your performance. When it is through, you shall be my caged canary forever.

Vincent sat with his arms folded. "So to summarize… Don Corneo has his sights set on this Maria of yours. And you're afraid he'll have her abducted. And you still intend to perform in Midgar because…?"

The Impresario folded his arms in kind. He seemed ready to eviscerate Vincent, as if that could happen. "Have you ever performed?"

"A long time ago," Vincent said.

The girls stared.

Vincent looked away. "What?"

The Impresario scratched his head. "Well, then you can understand that in these days of film and mass-media, you can take any stage you can get. Furthermore, wth spotty power at best, what better time is there to play in Midgar?"

Aerith suspected the Impresario did not grasp how Vincent probably defined "a long time ago."

The Impresario stood and paced. "It's not that if I can't play this show in downtown I won't be able to pay the cast. I haven't been able to pay them in weeks. Without this show, we're through. We'll never make it to the next venue with a stage of sufficient size. We need this. And yet, Maria is our most seasoned, best performer. I can't lose her."

"How sure are you she'll be kidnapped?" Tifa asked.

He winced. "Not quite a hundred percent, but reasonably close."

"Why so sure?" Tifa asked.

"Because he's done this before. In essentially the same way. An actress from Gongaga some years back. He had a peculiar fancy for her. He adored her work. His lackies kidnapped her and took him back to the Honeybee Inn. In the middle of the fourth act."

Aerith leaned forward in her chair. "What happened?"

"No one knows," he said. "They say he enjoyed her company for some time in whatever way he does. Then she ended up in his brothel."

Aerith stifled a grimace and wondered if this performer was one of the girls she encountered in her brief stay there. Disturbingly enough, that was a best-case scenario.

"All that to say," The Impresario said, "If I'm lucky, he won't kidnap her until late in the performance. Not that it matters. With her gone, we're doomed. Slain. KO'd. Nothing will be able to revive us."

Tifa glanced at Aerith with a questioning look—one that seemed to ask permission to take a chance. Aerith hoped the look she offered in return conveyed she had no clue what Tifa had in mind. Apparently it did not do so well enough.

"Would bodyguards help?" Tifa asked.

Vincent let his impenetrable social face crack for long enough to reveal he was impressed with the idea.

The Impresario appraised the three. Skeptical did not say the half of it. "Are you offering yourselves?"

Tifa sat upright, emboldened. "I'm a martial artist trained under the legendary warrior monk Zangan."

"I'm an ex-Turk," Vincent said.

The Impresario turned to Aerith.

"I'm a flower girl from the slums."

The Impresario did not speak for a long moment. "I have this strange feeling like I'm about to be hustled."

"Nothing of the sort," Tifa said. "We're not asking for much. We'll do it for free even."

"That makes me even more suspicious. What do you get out of it?"

"All we want is a cover to get into Midgar."

"You're not afraid of Don Corneo? You should be."

"We're not afraid of him. You could even say he's the reason we want to get into Midgar."

The Impresario leaned forward, suddenly riveted. "Oh? Do tell."

"There's something he has that we want back at the Honeybee Inn," Tifa said. "And that's all we need to say."

"So…" The Impresario's thoughts formed visibly. "Not only do you want to get into Midgar. You want a way into Corneo' stronghold. Is that right? And I take it you plan to give him his just-desserts."

Tifa smiled at Aerith. Piece by piece, the plan formed.

Vincent did not like it.

By the following night, they sat together in the stage's right wing. Of all the strange places their journey had taken them, the last place they expected may well have been the Midgar Grand Plate Theater. An opera house of all places. Tifa and Aerith passed nearby on their first evening out together. In hindsight, Aerith was glad they had not seen Loveless. They had had enough of that play. How different the sight had been that night. As they approached the theater that evening, the streets were lit, but without consistency. It was clear rolling blackouts were the norm. The saddest thing Aerith saw: the people. They seemed disheveled; traumatized. They watched the troup of outsiders with eyes that cried, "Save us."

What did they expect from actors and actresses?

Act One was over. Aerith paid little attention to the long soliloquy about the fall of the West. The script called for a squadron of chocobo-mounted cavalrymen to trample Draco. With only costumed men, it was hard for the scene to come across as serious. This story had an antique feel, yet it was only about twenty years old. Did anyone write stories so cloyingly sentimental anymore?

Form the stage's right wing, Aerith rubbed her temples and poured herself a glass of wine—a fine fortified vintage from the Impresario's personal stock. In lieu of monetary payment, it was his showing of hospitality. Aerith would have thought it a bad idea to dull her senses even a little now, but she needed to take the edge off. She had needed to do it for the better part of… well… what month was it anyhow?

"Can I have a drink?" Tifa said, sitting beside her.

Aerith sipped and waggled a finger. "Ah ah ah."

Tifa's smile was rueful and she fought back tears. "I forgot."

They had not talked about it since their encounter with Cloud.

"Have you thought of a name?" Aerith said.

"I will after I decide whether or not to keep it. If any of us are even alive or the world doesn't end tomorrow."

Tifa watched her with eerie eyes that betrayed nothing of her heart's inner turmoil. She had had a lifetime of masking that. "Are you mad at me?"

Aerith tilted her head back and tightened her lips. She was quiet for a thought-collecting minute. "No. I'm not. Let down."

Tifa's eyebrows furrowed.

Aerith stopped her as she prepared to speak. "I don't want to hear your reasons why. I just… don't. I don't even know myself."

The problem with lack of specificity in their conversations of late had at least one critical problem: a great many topics seemed off-limits.

The Impresario entered the wing. "Are you ready?"

Tifa and Aerith sat upright and turned their attention to the stage.

Vincent walked onto the stage through a wooden door. The audience cheered, none the wiser. How the dress fit, none could have guessed. With the exception of their cup, Maria was almost exactly the same size. After months without a cut, Vincent even had her long, black locks.

Vincent would have been deathly pale if not for the rose blush. He sauntered to the fore of the castle set.

Then he sang.

"Oh my hero,

So far away now,

Will I ever see your smile?

Love goes away.

Like night into day,

It's just a fading dream…"

His voice was, deep, rich, and beautiful, if not irritated.

Aerith and Tifa stared at each other long and hard.

The Impresario watched. His jaw nearly dropped as he listened. "I thought it was a silly idea until I heard the voice in dress rehearsal. But hearing him on stage like this… it's like magic."

Aerith and Tifa turned to him.

"You see, Maria's also a baritone," he said.

Aerith watched Vincent ascend the stairs to the high balcony and pitch his flowers off the imaginary turret into the imaginary moat below. It was a bit clumsy, but that did not seem to overly bother the Impresario.

"Do you think… no… I could never do that to my Maria. But perhaps your Vincent might consider becoming her understudy?"

When Aerith really thought about it, she did not expect Vincent to have much on his plate if they somehow managed to save the world. "I'll run it past him after the show."

Aerith found Vincent's irritability palpable. Then again she was finally open to his emotions. Still, she could not shake the feeling that on some deep level, he sort of liked it. Regardless of his personal feelings, Prince Ralse needed his dance partner. The scene ended to thunderous applause.

The curtain drew. The stage crew carted the bulky superstructure of the castle behind a parallel set of curtains and pulled out the carpeted staircase. Banners dropped from above. Vincent exited stage right. He stood beside Tifa, Aerith and the Impresario for the better part of a minute. He did not speak—just glared. The Impresario was wise enough to hold back on any questions or inquiries he may have had. Then the stage manager prompted Vincent to prepare for the ballroom sequence.

The orchestra struck up a sentimental waltz. Vincent looked strangely helpless; powerless. Extras started into a spirited gait and the curtain ascended.

In hindsight, Aerith was sorry it happened right when it did. She did not even get to see Vincent dance. A trio of men clad in brown and gray vest cut through the orchestra pit, crawling over tubas and woodwinds. They leapt onto the stage and dropped an enormous burlap sack over Vincent's head. He wanted to react. Aerith knew that much.

He also knew the plan.

A few stage hands ran after the men, but the men were large—at least seven feet tall each—and had long legs with agility to match. The bowled past any passers-by and raced out the emergency exit. Doubtless, there was a getaway car outside.

The Impresario walked out onto the stage and calmed the audience. He allowed about ten minutes before ferrying the real Maria onto the stage to the loudest applause yet. No one asked how. It was magic. The Impresario's magic. Vincent's magic. Maria's magic. None in the audience would ever forget the performance, even if the fourth-act plot twist did not make a lot of sense.

When the show resumed more-or-less according to script, the Impresario joined Tifa and Aerith in the wings. Tifa had already gathered her things and was prepared to leave. Aerith sat transfixed by Maria's performance. If not for her rich brown eyes, she could have been Vincent's transvestite twin. Regardless, she could certainly sing.

"So…" The Impresario said. "I suppose Don Corneo likes them a bit on the… Um…"

"He likes it any way he can get it," Aerith said.

That was the truth.

A miasma of dust and debris hung in the dark air. This place never recovered from the calamity. The fuzzed, spotty brown light fueled by the backup generator kicked in and out. It was like this in all of the neighborhoods with Shinra facilities. "Corneo is trying to choke us out," he heard the Public Safety men whisper while they thought he slept.

Only there were no Public Safety men now. They patrolled the hallways past his cell twenty-one times every hour. He timed it once before the clock above the holding cell door stopped. Now no one came. No one had for what may have been minutes or may have been hours. He hoped he might at least die a martyr. No. He would die abandoned and forgotten.

The lights failed. Whether it was night or day, he could not tell. He had long-since lost track of which twelve hour cycle he was on. Since the power failed, night and day were the same inside the detenion facility. They were the same in the underground plate.

Barret sat in darkness and waited.

A door opened outside. A faint motorized hum like the buzzing of a bee started at the end of the hall and drew closer. Barret clutched his sheets with his remaining hand—his bad arm amputated even higher than before and left a bandaged stump. The buzzing bee sound stopped at his door. Barret awakened from a fog of weeks or months and watched his cell door slide open to an even deeper pit of darkness.

"Barret?" a strange, familiar voice said: an eerie recording in which the pitch was right but the inflection was all wrong.

"Who are you?"

"You know who I am."

Barret squinted. The hallway's black gave way to dark gray. He shifted back. He had heard the guards tell the story of the fall and he spoke without filtration "That's fuckin' impossible."

"You'd be amazed by all of the things that are possible Barret."

"You're supposed to be dead."

"You would be now too. You should thank your friends for being such a good distraction."

"How did you get in here?"

"I had a little help. You see, I'm not as resourceless as you might think, given my circumstances." A tall, bestial form stepped into view, next to the hunched figure's side.

"So you have things made now, I guess. I suppose we're going to act like none of this happened and you're gonna help me get outta here?"

"Not quite yet. I'm only trying to be practical. I thought maybe we could make a deal."

"If I could punch the snot out of you right now, I would. I've been in this goddamn cell for so many days I've lost count. I don't owe you shit."

"Fair enough. Then maybe you'd like to rot in this cell. Did I mention it's desserted? I don't think anyone's coming here ever again. You can do without water for a lot longer than you can do without food."

Barret was not sure whether to laugh or cry. "What do you want from me?"

"Your expertise and your connections?"

"The hell you need that for?"

"I have a few friends… granted… but what I want is what you want."

Barret sat on the edge of his bed. "Oh?"

"There's someone in Junon I'm just dying to meet."

The motorized wheelchair drew closer. Beneath a white cloak, blue eyes smiled. The air grew cold.