2: Shadow Puppets
For a good while, the lone Keyblade Master fought with herself—unsure how good an idea it was to pursue the line. Added to that, she couldn't be sure if the elven mage would even be awake at this hour. She very much wished she wasn't.
On the third floor hall most of the rooms had been blocked off with tape, wet floor signs, or scrawled notes begging any lost inn guests to please not go into the room in question. Only 32 had a clean, working door. Aqua paused, letting herself contemplate her options one last time, before sucking in a breath and knocking on the door.
There was no noise from within, but after a moment the door's handle rattled, dropped, and the door squeaked partly open. There was no one immediately beyond—a surprise, considering how tiny she knew the standard room to be.
She stepped in. This room, in fact, was very unlike the standard. Some time ago walls had been knocked down, stitching several together and adding several more far heavier, secure doors on each side into the other "unavailable" spaces. The walls had been stripped to brick but all furnishings had been cobbled together in expanded, jacked-up shelving rather than extra dressers, nightstands, and beds. Aqua stumbled forward with a cough as she stepped in further—at the wreath of a strange, pungent odor that had slapped her in the face just within the doorway.
The source of the smell was fortunately nothing truly foul; Oppidimy was waiting, it seemed, cross-legged on a loose cushion in the center of the enlarged room, facing a thick, elaborately-colorful rug marked with a worn, gold Alvkörs, or Elf-Cross. The scent was the tea steaming in a tiny, plain ceramic bowl in front of him, such a dark green it was practically black, and while Aqua had no direct experience with such things, she could guess it was heavily "enhanced" with hashish-resin. Once her footing was stable, she heard the soft click of the door closing behind her.
"So, you're interested?" The elf said, motioning towards a similar loose cushion on the other side of the rug in invitation. She nodded, moving to it and sinking down with a sigh.
"No thank you," she glanced sharply towards the stray baggies of the peculiar herb. "But I do want to hear more about how you could help me with my theft problem."
The mutant cackled, his head tilting back and a tentacle slinking out to lift up the bowl of tea.
"Should've been more clear!" He said before sipping, "Ah, well, no harm done. First things first," his vivid, now quite dilated, eyes sharpened as his grin faded, "Have you been followed?"
"No," she blinked. Of course, this shady character would be of a paranoid nature. The… substances she was unsure would make him better, or worse. Then again, those mutations had a story and she doubted everything about that story would be tidy. Or legal.
"Well, you're honest!" Oppidimy flashed a crooked grin, "How refreshing. Since we won't be heard now, I suppose it's about time for some honesty." His elven ears twitched. "Both of us."
Aqua frowned, watching with growing intrigue as the elf mutant sucked up more of the potent concoction. "What do you mean by both—"
"Nonono—let's not, Aqua," he cut in, expression halfway to an amused smirk, but a few notches towards sneering at the idea she thought he would not pick up on any of her "information omissions". He set down the now-empty bowl at the side of the Alvkörs.
"You're one of those Keyblade Masters, aren't you? Don't look so shocked—you're wearing it on you." His tentacles extended on one side of his arm and shoulder, centering on the Chi-Rho brooch that had remained in the open every moment she'd been here. "Not a soul notices, I'm sure. Then again, you have every reason to be shocked I recognize it. I haven't even gone into my, ahem, credentials."
"I could guess that you're a mage," she leveled out her voice, waiting for him to finish chuckling and go into more detail.
"Correct. More specifically, an alchemist."
"Right," her gaze pointed out the drugs once more, turning back to his questioningly, "Of the less-than-legal kind, I assume. That would explain why you've secretly taken over half a shady hotel."
"Hoh, no," For once, Oppidimy's giddy features faltered, a decidedly sober wince overcoming him, "This sacrament is personal. The alchemy is more or less standard. It's the rest that has me in here."
The Keybearer felt her jaw tighten. "Which is?"
"Do you want my assistance?"
"I…" Aqua took on a deep frown. She could feel the muggy room grow colder and heavier. "What's the problem?"
"If you still do, there's something you have to keep to yourself, Keyblade Master," he stared, the intense eye contact making her hands tighten on instinct. "My work relies on it—as would any chance you have of tracking down your precious stuff."
"So you are a spy," she mused, but this didn't seem to relax the elf that much, "Spying on who?"
Oppidimy finally broke his unannounced staring contest, becoming fixated on the woven Alvkörs instead. "Dark Mages." He smirked.
Aqua abruptly stood up; the sudden fury on her face forced the Rurcelan to drop all traces of confident humor in favor of a flush of panic—further cemented by the sudden flash of static, heat, and a rapid, inaudible vibration throughout the room, reminding him she had means to fight without any Keyblade in sight.
"Wait—wait!" He reached out both arms, gesture both flailing and begging—"Hear the rest at least! Don't assume I'm on their side! Or their level!"
Aqua glared down at the elf, impatient but so far making no move to detain him, or flee with her assumption intact.
"Whose side are you on, then."
"No ones. Yours, if you siddown and listen." His voice squeaked. It dawned on her that the grey elf was not that much older than her. Probably exactly Terra's age. She tilted her head; was that long enough a time to be all that different than him, especially minus the prime corrupter? It was too young to be effectively on the run for sure, never mind her own situation.
She returned to her seat, watching the elf lean back for a deep breath of almost tangible relief. She decided to confirm her suspicion first:
"You're a Darkness-user."
"Well," he nodded, "no better way to blend in with my marks. Besides," he shrugged, "I was indeed already familiar with the practice. The target of interest—this group—doesn't welcome anyone who can't prove themselves, anyways…"
"I should have known," she let out a soft, dry laugh of her own. "Just look at you."
"Hm?"
"Nobody gets like that," she made a sharp nod towards his mutations, "in a natural way."
A grin spread itself across Oppidimy's lax features, and before he spoke next a low snicker of derisive amusement made its way to Aqua's ears. "Oho… true, though assuming elemental Darkness was involved here is a little hasty." His eye twitched, grin lapsing and turning into more a lopsided smirk. "Maybe, if our working relationship improves, I'll tell you exactly the story behind this." His tentacles along one elbow gave a concerted writhe. Aqua glanced away.
"So," she kept her tone cool, not cold, through great mental effort, "Why should I keep your secret?"
"Because I can keep yours," the elf's voice was sweet and warm, but in an artificial syrup way. His gloved fingers laced together, "And I am still willing to work with you."
She blinked. A hot static-electric charge built in her chest that she hadn't felt in months—something she always pushed down, as long as she'd known it. Her upper lip twitched, and she withheld the sneer.
"What secret." She touched the Chi-Rho on her crossbelts, "That I have a Keyblade? I don't need to hide anything about that. That I don't go parading it doesn't make it a secret."
"Hmmm, really?" Oppidimy's sharp cackle made her jump, "Right—try finding someone else who really knows what Keyblades are. And will get it back for you." When her scowl grew, it only spurred on another chuckle. "C'mon now, you can't be that oblivious. Why else do you think your orders kept having such a hard time finding new people?
"Us mere mortals are sharper than you think, when we got a good reason to pay attention," Eye contact from the elf mutant stung her, but not more than his next words: "And I'm not the only one who's got some idea where the bulk of your tenderfoots have been coming from.
"No offence, if you happened to be one of them."
Aqua's fists clenched where they rested against the tops of her knees. The old, burning charge faded and was replaced by an ice-pit of rage; she grit her teeth to power through the topic. And the elf's grim, smug lip twitch as he sniped at her.
"Look, that's past. What I need is in the present. Nothing else matters." She leaned forward, her glare fixated on the Rurcelan's black pits of pupils. "I need my Keyblade back. There's people out there I care about, who are depending on me to have it. If I don't get it back…"
Oppidimy's brows lifted up, keeping his eyes locked to hers even as a pair of his hip tentacles on the left side roiled around and fished something dull, black, and square out of the pocket of his distressed jeans. A communication device—either a tiny mobile computer or a cellular phone; Aqua couldn't tell if it had a speaker or not.
"A deeper motive… that's more like it," he lifted the little rectangle to chest level, sweeping a fingertip across it to bring its screen to life in a flash of vibrant lavender. A half dozen tentacles sprouting from elbow to shoulder hovered their nubby points over the keyboard portion. "Alright. The first steps are simply. What I need from you is details, and I especially need to know where you saw your Keyblade last."
When Aqua sucked in a breath, the elven Alchemist tilted his head. By his dog-like, open puzzlement she knew he had read the reluctance and uncertainty on her face. She released the breath in a forceful sigh; she would go nowhere without explaining the "dreams". Why was she even scared of disbelief—her first glimpse of this weirdo grey elf should have assured her that here was the one stranger with a high chance of taking such a story at her word:
"Okay," she gathered the memories, plucking and balancing and arranging like an obsessive florist, "This may take a while."
The first days alone in the Dark Realm she was too numb to be afraid. She could only replay in her mind the thing that stayed bright and important in it: With as much detail as her brain could fill in for her, those few seconds where Terra's limp arms forcibly a sienna tan and his disheveled hair forcibly silvered were slung across her Keyblade Glider, vanishing upwards as if into the sun. And she continued to sink into the unknown, gazing after him, unable to know if she'd done enough. Or done right.
Survival came next. She was a talented young mage, and things like heat and hydration were easy to come by. This Realm had not been at all what she expected. Based on the lore kept by Keybearers in their castle's open library zones, what she'd been led to expect was… nothing. A vast plane equal in size to the Realm of Twilight, reduced to a cold, empty hell. A place where only slow suffering had any place. But above all things, Aqua found over the lonesome months a wilderness of stone, scouring winds carving intricate lace patterns in entire biomes of sand, gravel, and a thick, black clustering moss. Runs of slithering floodwaters ebbed and flowed with the arrival and dispersal of gray mats of fog and cloud, leaving prolonged drizzles in their wakes and then filtering away into the distance. Twice she saw lightning scarring purple arcs on the horizon, but never met any storms.
She followed the edges of exposed crystalline ridges, and the low, latent glow of magical compounds running through them, until she reached the shores of black lakes. And she followed the lake shores, shocked to hear grass underfoot. Ahead she beheld the undulating basin, filled with the marches of dry, platinum-hued meadow. Dotted with hovering lights of bioluminescent creatures—fireflies, flickering white crickets, and uncommonly big nightcrawlers.
Across this prairie the fog and drizzle fell. And that was when she saw the lights, bright against the black sky and even more so with their spectra reflected back from the stratus banks. The city that shouldn't have been—none lived in the full darkness. And yet, as she stood blinking and staring awestruck, she could not unsee the faraway metropolis. She could, in the damp quiet of these outskirts, do more than see it. She could hear it, and she could feel it: Sounds of creation, the metal-working, the foundation-grinding, the power humming, the pumps gushing to full function and drawing up the springwaters none had ever tasted. Or hadn't tasted in over ten thousand years. She felt the expanding city's life beginning to pulse underfoot—the idea of another, any another, refreshing her sanity strained by half a year's isolation.
That was the "night" the first dream came to her.
It began normal enough. Amidst dull retinal flashes of muted, half-remembered sub-dreams she felt a chill of strength rush towards her. Something like a hand of fog pulled her to it. Fingers, or tendrils, strong enough to drag her but not solid enough to replicate clutching around her wrist or bangs or throat despite trying. Aqua drifted in empty space before the destination appeared. She jolted. The high-ceiling, the broad cylinder, the marble-white walls felt disturbing in their realness—perhaps more because she herself felt very unreal and unconscious. Because here she knew she wasn't real, and she was unconscious. Terror pressed its talons into her chest: She knew this room. She knew the Chamber of Waking—and as the center dais unblurred in her sight the absence of Ven made her scream.
That scream had her neglect to notice it the first time. The next night, it came again, and she was more prepared for it. The center dais unblurred in her sight and, this time, Ven's absence did not take her by surprise. Still silent with horror, she didn't find emptiness but lying there in disjointed pieces was her Keyblade armor, likely in the state it had degenerated from once the Glider form had lost energy, and her Keyblade leaned up against the helm's side. She took a second quick study of the Chamber of Waking—no. It was not. She should have found between the wall panels the smooth, organic seams of their castle's warm and pale stones, cut perfect and clean. She should have made out the soft engravings of the Chi-Rho seal, surrounded on several great wall slabs by smaller, less-understood old symbols the precursors had left—winding heart-like vines and lotus flowers and elaborate seedpods that vaguely resembled crowns. These marks were rough, angular, and many were absent as if considered unimportant. This was a mechanical facsimile, trying to be it.
Trying to reach it. Pipes and cords laced up between pallid metal sheaths of the walls, manufacturing the echochamber just so. To replicate what it was capable of, but lacking the soul of it. Who might have a desire to recreate such a thing—who could not find the true room—made her innards feel like they'd liquified and been replaced with dread.
Aqua omitted who she believed would do that from her story. Very few outside of the Keyblade Masters knew the name Xehanort; she did not yet trust the elf with that.
The lights of the city in the darkness got stronger; the dreams evaded her the next two nights. She had come across the low pits of a quarry the mysterious denizens of this new land had left several miles outside the furthest urban reaches, and in the shelter of one of their bore-hole tunnels the third dream arrived.
Echoes. This visit to the false Chamber brought with it the usual sights—and added sounds. A deep voice, barely a whisper, but also as if far away and needing to pierce through the glinting metal of the reflecting walls. Whether it was speaking to her, or to the ether was not known.
"Where," it hissed, "Where is this. Show me."
Images wrenched aside. She'd materialized in the passage, dank and stinking of mildew between the moist, ancient stones of the foundations. Cut again with pipes—some of old style. Brass with more primitive riveting, laced over with fresh galvanized cable sheaths and tubing. Coiling into the crawlspace areas under the laboratories and storage, leading straight to the sealed, hidden doorway.
"…There?" She had barely heard the disembodied murmurs as they carried on, heedless of her mind drifting amongst the vision and words, "That place… I know that place. Why do I remember that…?"
Aqua felt a brief camaraderie with the puzzled voice; she too was confused. This was built into the lowest workings of a castle, but not a castle she knew. It was too run-down, marred by water and time, to be the one in the Land of Departure, and its old layers of technology were too obvious, and too recent to match the truly timeless Keybearer's castle. Too primitive, of the mid-eras, after uncountable cataclysms, falls, and scientific backslides.
"Come to me, Aqua."
A new voice—it slashed in. It knew full well she could hear and see. Its insistence plowed the other over, and its violence instantly split Aqua's head with a migraine. She wished she knew how to plug her ears in a dream—or now, what was a definitive nightmare. She knew this voice. Or, really, she knew who was puppeting it with cruel energy; she knew that cruelty no matter what form he stole. She could taste the copper-tainted rot of its undertone.
"You must. There is no point resisting."
"What will you do, Aqua? I've borrowed your Keyblade—now don't you want it back?" And it laughed at her. "Borrowed", right. When she threw Terra's body back up into the light. It laughed harder, feeling her regret and her pain through the strands of the dream-state.
Her Keyblade made no response; yet, she didn't need it in her sleep. Something angry became something sharp in her, and she found herself able to cut herself out of the situation. And suddenly awake.
This was not the last time she would hear the more sinister voice trying to puncture her sleep. The Chamber of Repose, Waking's opposite, seemed designed to allow such a thing. It didn't take much for her to put together that it was the presence of her Keyblade in this hidden room that allowed him to invade her dreams. Was he also the one dragging her awareness to it every time she dreamed? Maybe. Maybe she was being pulled from multiple directions—the first voice, the softer one, may have dragged her there knowingly or not.
When she ventured first into the streets of the city in darkness, she avoided the people she saw there. None of them seemed to speak; though, sometimes, they would spot her and oggle from across the avenues in groups of three to ten, shifting weight from foot to foot and watching in equal wariness. There was a variety to them—and without much exception they wore clothes and armors which covered up much of their bodies, making their species unclear. Some had small wings folded on their backs, and quite a lot of them had thin, slender tails. Still more were noticeably smaller than most Humans and more akin to a Hob-fae in size, while others towered several feet over her. None ever attempted to bar her way or accost her. Then again, she was furtive in this place, and felt like she had "behaved herself"—never trespassing anywhere not open to her, and never approaching or acting like a threat.
And while they never spoke aloud, they acted like they very much were communicating amongst each other. A slender, armor-suited sword-wielder appeared after the first day she spent among the buildings. This one was very similar in build to Aqua herself, and only slightly taller-looking due to the high-domed, slitted helmet they wore, and a group of silvery-suited ones which had been nervously watching the Keyblade Master pointed and gestured between Aqua and the sword-wielder. With no fear in their stride, this one nodded to the presumed subordinates, and took a few paces towards Aqua before stopping about five meters off. She noticed this one had one more distinguishing feature: Unlike others who had similar armor and blades, this leader-type figure had a few locks of scruffy, black hair poking out around the sides and back of the helm. Very human-like.
As she studied them, they studied her. After a few minutes they turned on heel with a disciplined precision and crooked a beckoning hand back over their shoulder to her. Knowing nothing else to do, and having no reason to be distrustful of these mute, strange people, she followed up several streets. Everyone she met gave her and the silent escort a wide berth; beings of all shapes watched their passage, many pausing in their recreation and labors alike, as if stunned to see a very ordinary Human girl in such a place. After a short walk, the armored sword-wielder paused at the entrance to a curious building with a large and familiar neon sign above its humble door. White neon, red neon, a border of blue and green—a Moogle's face.
Finding Stiltzkin was a blessing—and a miracle, considering that The City That Never Was truly was only a tiny dot on the vast landmass and waters of the Dark Realm's known plane. Had she never found the city growing under the daily additions of the heavily-covered folk—the Moogle referred to them as the "Nobodies", a turn of phrase she wouldn't understand until much later—she may have never found anyone able to deliver her from her stranding. The Moogle was down-to-earth, talkative but never overbearing, and not unable to listen. His natural telepathy seemed to give him an ease of communicating with the Nobody populace here, and he spoke fondly though with an underlying stress and sadness of them. From his balcony, she was shown the center of the city and the deep foundry pit that had opened up in it, above which on tremendous stone-and-steel melded scaffolding was the framework and partial construction of a stronghold of gray, warm, and cool machinery. Stiltzkin sounded proud as he pointed out the last visible portions of the magitech engines dominating the bottom layer—smiling as he described providing the prima materia necessary for powering and focusing them.
She had a place to sleep for the moment. Not that she slept much. For the next two nights she was plagued by the laughter in her head. Sometimes, Xehanort chose to sound like the old Elveshmean man she'd know him as prior—and sometimes, he adopted the affected voice of Terra-Xehanort as he mocked her one moment, and then commanded she come to his mock-Chamber the next. Going there would be death; not hers, but Ventus's. That's surely what he wanted her for. Only someone going there for the right reasons would be able to open that door—not that Xehanort of all people would understand that the requirement was not just her, specifically, but a benevolent motive. With that knowledge, she resisted his bidding, even while her sleep only came in snatches of half-hours. Every morning she huddled under a soft blanket on the Moogle's balcony, listening to him tinker and fumble through books and databases of atlas material, working on his way of giving her freedom of travel again. And watching as, each morning, a new module chunk of the future flying fortress had appeared in its place, sharp arcs of welding and tiny, distant figures crawling over and through. Never noticing her, as their attentions were fixed on finishing their new home.
She braced herself for the third night. But the voices were gone; both of them. She did not see the room; after having enjoyed a solid ten hours of rest, she woke with a hazy wellness that she had become a bit unfamiliar with. At the balcony, Stiltzkin joined her in watching a large cylinder module be lowered telekinetically into its designated space by a lone figure at the topmost spire of the nearest great building. He explained he was ready to help her, and presented the folded Black Cloak.
She first refused. She could sense the energetic helixes of magic threaded all through the garment—intertwined with the Lightness was a powerful Darkness. But after the Moogle's insistence, she took a weak grip and held it a bit away from her body. He led her inside and his antennae twitched as he lapsed in his telepathic voice, concentrating. Concentrating. A pit seemed to open into the air itself, a Dark Passage, something Master Eraqus had always forbidden.
The Black Cloak is a wonderous thing, really, Stiltzkin said as he turned to face her again, Such a thing will keep you stable, no matter your skill level. I doubt you really need it, but it should make you feel much better about this.
"Are you certain," she said, shooting a cautious glare towards the whirling, purplish mist forming the borders between the darkness-filled lane between and the brightly-lit, comfortable atmosphere of the Moogle's workshop. Stiltzkin nodded, a paw waving over the open atlas data on the small computer nearby.
What you fear of that is nothing. What you might find on the other side, well, I would keep on your toes. The universe has changed since you last were aware of it. His tiny claw tapped on the World of Balance, and the town labeled "Salamand"—closest to the Land of Departure in the Septentrian mountains and the place she'd requested he try to send her. This is the only sure way in or out of the Dark Realm, so it's your only choice. The darkness must resonate with the Realm, and it'll let you free. Afterwards, well… I hope the next I see you you're still in the best shape possible.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Never mind, never mind. Chah! Just know that cloak will help you. It's armor, you know. Until you get your hands on your own it should keep you safer. Especially from sources more "dark", mogu?
Oh yes—and if my Nobody friends spot you in it, you'll be good to go. Just tell them I lent you one if they get funny, okay?
"Of course. Should I expect help from them in the future?" Aqua knelt down and let the fuzzy gray creature charge into her arms for a hug. The Moogle chittered in a laugh.
Maybe, maybe not. They'll surely carry messages between us, though. They're rightfully skittish—you help them, they help you—and slow to trust. Just be careful, young 'un.
Aqua's emptiness after spilling much of her more recent history left her tired; the poor sleep the night before helped, but it was a warm tiredness, as if she'd dropped a coarse, grating burden lashed across her shoulders. Oppidimy eyed her where she slumped, tapping once more on his mini-computer to save the progress of his notations, a pensive look creasing his slim face.
"You weren't kidding." He peeked over at the cheap digital alarm clock across from him. "You've got hours of good stuff in your head, ciruí. Think you need a break." He winced, "I need a break, at least."
The Keyblade Master noticed the time and suddenly her muddled headspace made perfect sense. Hunger gnawed at her in retribution for being so ignored.
The Rurcelan stood up, offering a hand but retracting it in a sharp gesture as Aqua dragged herself to her feet without even noticing him. "Come on, with any luck they'll still have terrible cheap breakfast out."
"Oh good," she grunted. With more than a small dose of side-eye, she detected his slow gait and massive pupils again, "… are you sure you're in any state to leave this room?"
"On the contrary, this state is the best suited to continue living on diner swill," he snickered. Aqua blinked, embarrassed she'd forgotten something like… that. She really was sheltered. She opened the door, stepping up swiftly to be far enough ahead of the elf mutant that he would not stagger into her. The secretive part was over; she was much less eager for grease-bucket fare than for the potential that Oppidimy would have somehow dredged up and crafted something to give her in return from his addled brain.