The air was fragrant, cloying, an overwhelming blend of incense, cheap cologne and fried food. It screamed Wall Market, Barret thought, as he waited in the tiny reception area, elbows on his knees. The taste was unfortunately familiar. The slums might be his home, but some parts would never feel welcoming, no matter how hard they tried to be. He hated the gaudy falseness of Sector Six.

The damned woman was keeping him waiting. Almost half an hour past their scheduled "appointment" time, and he was still sitting there, on a rickety wooden chair that creaked every time he shifted his weight, listening to the dull thump of whatever music the venue next door was blasting through the wall.

Everyone knew Wall Market was the place to come for information, and everyone knew Madam M was the queen.

Creeeeak. Barret moved, gun-arm falling idly between his knees. Warm light shone on the weapon's polished metal. Apparently, the nervous reaction of the receptionist hadn't translated to her employer. He'd heard a hushed argument in the hallway behind the ornately decorated screen door before an angry exclamation cut the voices off. The girl never returned, and neither did the Madam. She wasn't pleased that he was there. That was made obvious by the fact he was still waiting.

To hell with this. He stood up, heading for the door at the far end of the room. If Madam M wouldn't come to him, he'd find her.

"Mr Wallace." The voice was low and sarcastic. It came from the front door of the massage parlour, bringing with it a welcome rush of cooler evening air. "To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?"

He turned, feeling guilty. "Heard this is the place to come for information."

"Here? I deal in hand massages. Wherever did you get such a ridiculous idea?" Narrowed eyes watched him from the doorway, lined and carefully painted. The woman was elegant, hair pinned up with gold pins, the pattern on her dark kimono glittering in the light. When she realised Barret was staring, she twitched her sleeve, revealing a little more skin, glossy lips forming a faux-professional smile. "Perhaps I can interest you in a massage? Half-price, of course."

She was staring at the weapon grafted to his forearm, and maybe the smile wasn't so professional now. Maybe it was a smirk.

Barret bristled. "Don't act like you don't know what I'm talkin' about."

"What are you—" she coughed pointedly, "—talkin' about?"

"Maybe I should go speak to Chocobo Sam?"

"Sam?" The painted smirk faded, her expression turning nasty. It fit her better somehow, more natural than the staged simper. "Don't make me laugh. That imbecile wouldn't know hot gossip if it bit him on the—"

"So you can give me information?"

"Fine." She shrugged, and the movement exposed enough satin skin to make his face red. "Name your price and I'll tell you how inadequate it is."

"Five hundred—"

Her laughter was warm and unnecessarily long. She pressed her fingers to the corners of her eyes, dabbing away tears. "Five hundred gil won't get you directions to the Coliseum. I thought Avalanche had deep coffers, hmm? Aren't Wutai paying you your pocket money?" Her tone changed again. Barret didn't miss the jab in her words. I know exactly who you are. "Or is it true you've gone rogue?"

"I… ah…" He scratched the back of his neck, unusually flustered. "I wouldn't say…"

"Of course, if you have cut ties to Avalanche HQ—" she stalked towards him, heels ringing out on the wooden floor. "—perhaps I could be open to negotiation?"

Suddenly, Biggs' wry warning about coming here made a lot more sense. Barret liked to think he was unflappable, but something about Madam M had his tongue all twisted up. Her eyes turned liquid as she approached and try as he might, he couldn't seem to tear his attention away from the shadows of her cleavage.

Mouth dry, he licked his lips. "Negotiation is more my kind of style," he squeaked, and it was a squeak, much to his annoyance. "If you're open to it…"

She flicked her fan open, fluttering the rigid black and gold paper in front of her face. The soft scent of jasmine floated through the air, carried by the much-needed breeze. "Rarely. But for a man like you, I might make an exception."

Barret towered over her. The top of her head barely reached his shoulder. That didn't seem to matter; somehow, he still felt small. Sweat prickled the back of his neck and he fought the urge to wipe it away. "Six hundred—"

"Don't make me laugh. One thousand."

"Six-fifty?"

"Nine-fifty."

He swallowed again. Had she always been standing this close? Her sleeve tickled his forearm when she snapped her fan shut. He shifted his weight between his feet. "You don't even know what information I'm lookin' for…"

"Well, then… What would you like to know?"

Mind blank, he stared.

"A little Chocobo told me that security around the Number One reactor will be short over the weekend," she offered, smiling sweetly. "The Captain of the guard took ill and needs to see a…specialist. He should really be more careful where he's sticking his baton."

How did she know about their plans for the reactor? "When?"

"And venereal diseases can be so contagious," she continued, her breath ghosting his cheek. The whisper of warmth made his skin tingle. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

"Seven-fifty."

She bit her lip. "One thousand gil and I'll get you the exact appointment time and a list of the patrols that have been compromised. And I'll throw in a massage…"

Alarm bells were ringing. Barret couldn't seem to hear them over his pulse thudding in his ears. She was strangling his senses left, right and centre and all he could picture was how those graceful fingers would feel against his skin. "Alright," he gritted out. "One thousand gil."

"Perfect." Madam M stepped back, slipping the fan into the folds of her kimono. The sultry smile disappeared, replaced once again with a brittle, professional veneer. "I'll take the money in full and don't even think about going back on our deal." She turned on her heel, heading behind the desk in the corner and reaching for a black ledger. "And tell Biggs I want my winnings by Friday."

"What?"

She scribbled a hasty note. "From our bet… he was so sure you wouldn't pay over seven-fifty…" Her smile softened a touch. "How naïve of him. You men are so predictable."

"Wait a damned—"

"It was a pleasure doing business with you, Mr Wallace." She tore a page from the ledger and held it out to him. "Now be a good boy and close the door on your way out."

Barret ripped the paper from her fingers and stumbled from the parlour. He barrelled through the crowds of revellers, heading for the relative safety of Sector Seven, ego severely dented. Someone else could drop the money off. When he got his hand on Biggs, he'd wring his scrawny neck.

The scent of jasmine stayed with him, long after he washed the stench of Wall Market from his skin.