Cherry frowns. She looks out the way John pointed for a while, then tracks a hand-sized purple beetle as it crawls across the wall opposite. It wasn't there a few seconds ago, was it?
"I know what I said. Our mayor is everywhere." She sighs. "Very pretty words, by the way."

She looks at John. She looks for the beetle again. It's gone.
Back to John. "I paint, I speak, I type. No one moves. Either I hear 'yeah, that's fucked,' or they leave. And you're telling me, go forth, find your following? Sure, and you can write my speeches, starting now, grab a pen. Oh, you can't! That's new!" She turns to face him fully, slaps the wall beside her. "Just watch me try for a day!"

day, day, day...
She curls her hand into a loose fist and exhales.
"I like that you'll listen, but that's because you know you don't have a choice. Everyone else is content in this malaise. I'll love it if you prove me wrong. If you know anyone I don't - if I'm just an awful communicator - anything. We can try it. Either you'll see, or I'll get somewhere for once."

Catherine entered the long, narrow hallway behind the Heritage bar, heavy duffle bag tucked under one arm and an excited grin on her face as she hurried towards her goal. The back entrance was seldom used, but the owner allowed performers to go in and out that way, to give them a bit of privacy. Anyone caught loitering near that entrance was quickly disabused of their foolishness.

She could barely contain her excitement. She’d spent all day half dreaming of tonight, and her belly was so crowded with bumblebees and butterflies she half expected some might come flying out if she opened her mouth. Well, none did, but there was always a chance. And wouldn’t that be a sight to see.

Giggling to herself, Cat slipped into a back room and shut the door behind her, locking it to make sure no one would walk in on her. Then she took a deep breath and set her burden down on the vanity. The room was about as small as the master bedroom in her and Angie’s apartment, with a large vanity taking up a quarter of the space and a few standing racks for hanging dresses or suits, a closet for storing her belongings, and a small washstand for cleaning off makeup or just washing hands.

After refreshing herself in the small bathroom outside, Cat tore open her bag and began taking out her equipment and the outfit she’d chosen for tonight. Bottles and jars of makeup and paints, vials of strong perfumes, ribbons and hair ties, and jewelry of a dozen different varieties. Long and thin strips of metal as well, which she set aside, separate from her other pieces.

The dress was a thick, woolen affair of variegated colors and patterns she’d made herself while she’d lived with a tribal clan what seems a hundred years ago. It came in two parts—a loose, layered blouse with a shawl that covered her chest and shoulders but bared her midriff, and a long skirt that curved about her hips and twisted down her legs to end in loose tassels that brushed her ankles. The tassels swayed hypnotically as she practiced swinging her hips, remembering the dance she learned so long ago.

Once satisfied with her dress, Cat sat at the vanity and grabbed the jars of paint and makeup, then set to painting the skin on her arms, her face, and her midriff too. Swirls of blue and lines of gold decorated her tan skin as her brush danced over it, her top removed so she wouldn’t smear paint on the cloth. She painted the tips of her fingers, and had to wait for them to dry before painting the fingers on her other hand. She had time, though.

With makeup she changed her face. Her cheekbones went higher and became more prominent, her full lips drew color, and shadows made her eyes seem larger than they truly were. She tied long strings of beads to her hair, and they clacked as they brushed together. When it was all done and she saw herself in the mirror, even she had difficulty recognizing her own face. It was someone else’s face. Someone more beautiful by half.

“I am Zia the Enchantress,” she said aloud, meeting her own gaze in the mirror. A spark of amusement tickled her chest, and she couldn’t help but laugh. What would Angie say, if she heard her say that?

When all the paint dried and she checked over herself again, she redressed and sat down to wait. She wouldn’t be going out until the hour struck, and she still had a few minutes to kill before her time. Besides, those butterflies were still churning her stomach, and she wanted a moment to rest and settle her nerves. She hadn’t waited long when a rap sounded at her door, and before she could get up to answer it, the latch on the door shifted aside.

Zia tensed, then relaxed as the owner of the Heritage stepped into the room, gently closing the door behind her. The owner, Star, was wearing that snapback she always had on, ponytail snaked through the hole in the back and her head tilted just far down enough to hide her eyes. Still, eyes down or not, she gave Zia an appraising look, folding her arms across her chest.

Star was an imposing woman. She was of a height with Zia, but the way she carried herself—even while slouching and at ease—height never seemed to matter. This was a woman in full control of herself, her surroundings, and everyone in her proximity. A woman who was who she wanted to be, and unafraid of it. Zia envied her.

“I see you’re ready,” Star said, leaning back against the doorframe. Even doing that she looked in control. “The bar’s packed. There will be quite the crowd when you go out there, but I suspect that’s what you wanted.”

“I will go out in a few more moments,” Zia agreed. She tried to pitch her voice to match the owner’s tone, calm and confident, but what came out was all breathy anxiety. Star’s lips curved into a small smile.

“Relax, Catherine,” she said. “You won’t be any good tense like a coiled spring. Stay focused, but relax. Deep breaths.”
Zia tried. She really did, but there was only so much breathing could do for her. “I’m Zia right now,” she said. “I’d prefer if you called me that while I’m dressed up. It helps me...disconnect.”

Star frowned. “I think you have something backwards, Catherine Winters. Disconnecting yourself from your stage face is all well and good, but remember which one you’re supposed to be right now. You are Catherine until you walk onto that stage. Only then can you be someone else.”

“It helps me,” Zia said defensively.

Star shrugged. “Fine. Suit yourself, kid. Just remember, reveling in the spotlight is all well and good, but if you let it control your life and everything you do, you’ll get burned out quick. You could be a decent actor, if you play your cards right, but you won’t ever be more than that.”

Despite herself, Zia flushed red and almost leapt from her chair. “You can’t—” she cut off, biting her tongue as Star raised a hand. That was all she did, but it felt more like a slap in the face than the earlier comment.

“Take one from a woman who’s been where you are before,” Star said. “Leave Taygete before you can’t get out anymore. This life will suck you in, and it won’t spit you out until you’re as withered and dried out as a corpse. Go to the country, find a farm somewhere or a husband or both, and give your life to something worth doing. You don’t belong here, kid, and I don’t mean any of this as an insult.”

Star nodded to her, then turned and left before Zia could utter a word. She was still opening and closing her mouth, trying to figure out what to say in that empty room, but nothing came out. Zia...or Cat, or whoever she was, fell back into her seat and stared at her hands, her mind racing but no thought coming to the surface.

A man in a sharp suit jacket sat in The Heritage, pulling up his sleeve to check his watch every so often. The contact was running late as usual, or by his own standards arriving precisely when he intended to. He turned his head to glance over his shoulder once more, as if trying to will the contact into existence. No such luck. The bartender Aurora set a bottle of beer in front of him before making her way back. The man watched her, admiring the view of her walking away.

“Whatever thought you have in that skull, forget it right now. Else I make you forget your own name with it.”

The man jumped with a start, turning see the club owner sitting in front of him, cross-legged and judging him with her head resting on her palm. He looked down to see his hand instinctively on the gun in his shoulder holster, but eased it away, fully realizing who he was looking at. No sudden movements. The last thing he wanted to do was piss off the lioness in her own den.

“Dave,” she greeted tersely.

“…Star.”

“You behaving yourself tonight?”

“Like an angel.”

“So you’re a comedian now, too? Are you going to be on that stage tonight?”

“Hey, give a guy a chance, will ya?”

“I’ve already told off one person for conducting business in my club. I won’t use words if I have to do it a second time.”

“I’m just meeting up with a friend for a casual chat, no money involved. Honest.”

“Keep it that way. If you see me again tonight, then it means you’ve fucked up. Take care.”

Star disappeared into the dim crowd, leaving Dave leaning back in his seat in relief. Dave felt a tap on his shoulder and his body reared for a heart attack. His contact arrived with impeccable timing.

“Don’t fucking do that, Ern,” Dave scolded, sucking in his breath through his teeth. “How long have you been there?”

“Long enough to see you nearly shit out your own skeleton,” Ernest laughed, taking the spot Star left. “You looked like you were about to cry.”

“Yeah, real fuckin’ funny, cocksucker. I wouldn’t have had to deal with her if you chose a better spot to meet.”

“You sure it wasn’t because you were eyeing Aurora again?”

“Shut up.”

“Well, normally I would’ve brought us somewhere else but tonight we need to be here in particular. Remember the shit that went down at ‘Sleight-o’-Hand?’”

“Yeah. My insiders tell me it was done by RFS.”

“What you probably didn’t know was that it was a one-man job.”

“Get the fuck outta here.”

“It gets even more batshit crazy. Shots were fired, but no bullet wounds on any of the bodies. Some psycho actually stacked the body count with a fucking blade! It’s like something straight out of a fuckin’ comic book.”

“What’s the point of all this, anyway?”

“Gettin’ to that, Dave. You said you were looking for ‘special’ people, right? The ones you see talked about on Pasithee?”

“Yeah, and?”

Ernest gave a grin, and pointed out at the stage.

“Try to enjoy the show, Dave.”

Cat lost her persona. Zia slipped away from her like water in sunlight on a hot day She turned to steam and drifted away on the breeze. She reached to grab it, to pull it back, but her hands grasped only smoke. She sat in the changing room, mere minutes before her performance, her hands gripping her knees so tightly her nails dug into her skin. They left impressions, like miniature scars.

Leave Taygete before you can’t get out. Star’s last words to her rang in her head, as loud as the church bells back home. They rang every Sunday, and her father always give her and her little brother a piece of candy after service. The anticipation of getting that treat always made Cat love going to church on Sundays, and now that she was older she recognized the clever scheme for what it was. She hadn’t been inside a church for years.

What would it be like? After she left home and began traveling around the world, religion was one of those things that changed wherever she went, and after seeing the similarities between all of them, she wasn’t truly sure if she could follow any one. She followed none of them, but at the same time, she followed all of them.

This life will suck you in and won’t spit you out until you’re as withered and dried as a corpse. Cat grimaced. She did feel tired more often than not lately. With her job pulling her one way and her night life pulling her another way, the tiny apartment she was only able to rent because she had a roommate to split the costs, and the mold growing in the air conditioning, it was a wonder she found sleep at all. Angie was a wonderful friend, and Cat really did love her, but…

Star was right. This life was draining her. Straining her. Every day felt the same, and the bits of joy she managed to eke out of her life seemed like pitiful embers compared to the blazing bonfire she’d known when she was traveling around the world. Why was she here, in Taygete? Why did she stop moving from place to place? She didn’t need to come here, not when there were hundreds of other cities she’d yet to see. She could have performed around the world, and her notoriety would have spread that way.

So why was she still here? Why?

Go to the country, find a farm somewhere or a husband or both, and give your life to something worth doing. Cat would have liked to find a husband. Children were one of her life’s goals. But she didn’t want to stop traveling either, and to do that, she’d need to find someone willing to leave everything behind for a life on the road. By the time she saw every end of the world, maybe then she’d be ready to settle down in one place for a time and raise her sons or daughters. She’d treat them better than her mother had treated her. Her family would be whole and unbroken. That was something worth devoting her life to, wasn’t it?

The clock ticked the hour, and Cat knew she was running late now. She tried to reach for Zia’s persona, but the mask again slipped from her reach. Closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, she stood and walked out of the changing room. She felt oddly calm. Her nerves should have been a frazzled mess—she should be halfway to panicking—but instead she was…ready.

No singing tonight, Cat thought, moving through the dim hallway towards the stage. No music, either. Just me.

She could hear the crowd in the Heritage. The club would be packed by now, and the lengthy pause between performances hadn’t gone unnoticed. The stage manager was giving her a dirty look as she approached, but she ignored him and moved out onto the stage. As she did so, she let her mind drift, letting it focus on the nails in the boards below her. With a subtle turn of her awareness, those nails turned into magnets, gently pushing against her skin until she strengthened her aura and directed it into the nail-turned-magnets.

The result was that she rose into the air with every step, as if she were climbing a set of stairs no one could see. Her shoes, with nothing left to support them, fell off her feet and clattered to the ground. Cat stopped center-stage and looked out at the crowd, perfectly aware she was giving the front row a chance to look up her skirt. She didn’t care. Let them see. They wouldn’t find any strings holding her in the air.

For a moment she merely stood there, scanning the crowd and waiting. She recognized few of them—only the regulars who came almost every night, though she didn’t know them personally. A pair of men in the back were watching her closely, but no more closely than anyone else trying to see what was holding her up. They’d never suspect the truth. Nothing held her up.

Then, finally, the mask of Zia fell over her eyes and took control. Relief flooded through her, and Zia began her dance. She swayed to the music in her mind, the tune in her soul and the beat of her pulse. It was a fast beat, and it grew faster as she danced through the smoke-filled air, the scent of cigars and off-brand tobacco or weed heavy in the air. She danced, and she let her multi-colored dress shift and dance with her, until she appeared to be not just one, but two separate dancers in the same body.

She threw herself across the stage, the beads in her hair clacking with the rhythm in her heart. She twirled and twisted, spun and pirouetted, and flared her skirt out so far she exposed herself to half the crowd. But she didn’t care. She didn’t see a crowd anymore. She saw a field of grass and a bonfire so bright and hot the wintry breeze never touched more than the sweat on her brow. The tribe danced with her, and there was laughter, singing, and clapping in time with the beat of the drums.

She danced with the men. She sang with the women. She laughed with the children. Sweat flew from her brow as she danced on the stage, but Zia was reliving a memory now, and paid no mind to it. She danced long into the night, and she remembered the young man that had come to her. Picking her over of a dozen women from his own tribe to dance with. She remembered his hands on her skin. The touch of his lips. The spice on his breath.

“Stay,” he had whispered to her. But she refused. Back then, she didn’t need to think about it to know she didn’t want to stay grounded in one place for too long. If she had stayed, she would have become his wife and would never again leave the village. She’d have children by now. Sons and daughters, and plenty of both. But that life wasn’t for her.

So why Taygete? Cat wondered, the slip in her mask almost causing her to stumble. She slowed the pace of her dance, her eyes still closed. Compared to life here, she would have welcomed her chance to join one of the tiny villages and live the rest of her life there. So why here? What made Taygete so much more appealing a place to stay?

Slowly her dance came to a rest, and Cat let herself drop back down on the stage. She opened her eyes, and saw a crowd of eyes staring back at her. She blinked, startled by the unexpected sight. There was no bonfire here, only cigar and cigarette smoke, mixed with the scent of alcohol and her own sweat. She was drenched. Sweat poured from her brow, and her breathing came in dry, ragged gasps.

How long have I been dancing? Cat glanced to the side, aware of the stage director’s stern glare, and swallowed the lump in her throat. She gave a deep curtsy to the crowd, then briskly exited stage right. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Star’s figure again, and her final words echoed in Cat’s head.

You don’t belong here, kid.

“I know,” Cat whispered. “I’m going to leave.”

“Finally!” the stage director grumbled. Cat started. “First you’re ten minutes late, next you go almost half an hour over your allotted time. We have other performers waiting their turn, so if you don’t get off the stage when I tell you to, you’ll lose that privilege. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes sir,” Cat said. “I’m very sorry.”

The man harrumphed at her, and Cat took her chance to scurry away. She returned to the changing room and quickly washed the sweat from her face and hair, then changed out of her clothes. She moved quickly, wanting to be out of the Heritage as fast as possible, and on her way back to her and Angie’s apartment. She’d spend the night, pack her things, then leave in the early morning.

She wasn’t sure where she would go. But she had already decided to leave, and for now that was enough. She stormed out of the Heritage, and into the night.

“Ern, what the hell was that?”

Dave eyed Ernest angrily, who could only give a defensive shrug. “I swear, Dave. You should’ve been here the other week, her act was entirely different.”

“Just get me a beer while I figure something out. Knox was expecting to hear back from me by the end of the week. I was supposed to get someone he can use, not some dancing bitch who fell on her own ass.”

“Holy shit, you’re going to see him?”

“Fuck that, he’s a fuckin’ psycho. If I show up empty-handed, I leave with an empty sack—‘cause he’s gonna take my balls. I’d be lucky if that’s all he takes.”

The sound of his own heartbeat wracked his mind as he clutched his temples. He was in too deep, and now the walls were closing in. “You’re a fuck-up, David.” The words of his father rang in his head. “You’ll always be a fuck-up.” Ernest watched his friend with concern, sliding a bottle over to him. Dave snatched it quickly and downed it in a blink, desperately trying to grasp the first plausible idea that he could come up with. Like hell he was going out like a cornered coyote.

“Alright,” Dave said, his nerves dulled by alcohol. “Remember what I said last time we met up?”

“That we’re professionals.”

“That we’re goddamned professionals, Ern. And what don’t professional do?”

“They don’t crack under pressure, Dave.”

“Fucking right. Now, you mentioned before that you got insiders about that RFS job?”

“Yeah but—Dave, I don’t like where you’re going with this.”

“Well I wouldn’t be fucking bringing it up if we had any other option. This isn’t Plan B, it’s Plan Z. Plan Fucking Zed, Ern. You’re gonna hate what I’m asking for here, but if we don’t make a move we’re done.”

“…I’ll ask my guys.”

“Do that. In the meantime, I gotta duck Knox for a while. He won’t be too happy about me being late, but if we bring in a real ringer, I’ll at least get to keep my boys. Let’s get moving. Quickly.”

With that final exchange, the two of them parted ways and left the Heritage. Catherine bolted towards the exit at the end of the hall but would be stopped by the sound of chimes, and a sense of dread in the air. A voice then called out to her with an ominous warning.

“I know not where you seek to go, but you will not get far without direction.”

When Cat turned to the direction of the voice, a familiar figure stood before her. An old woman presented herself, wearing a black shawl and purple silken dress. Half of her face was obscured by a decorative mask, and in her eyes was a cold, solemn gaze. It appeared the night was full of ghosts from Catherine’s past. The old woman’s eyes pierced through her, as if watching two souls at odds.

“It has been quite some time, dear. I trust you are still in good health?”