This City in Limbo

Late winter air still hung around the downtown area, the wind too lazy to send it rushing through the city. As with everything else, the weather reflected the world's – or at least this corner of the world's – decision to remain still, to cease to move, to roll over and refuse to budge despite any signs of urgency. And after all, it seemed almost natural; this town faced subzero temperatures this season, and it was almost a necessity to bundle up, sleep later than normal, and revel in the bliss of trying to find warmth.

It was almost therapeutic.

But regardless of the town's desires, certain people still had to zip around, creating a bustle reminiscent of blood sloshing through veins and arteries, sending life to the corners of a beast deep in slumber.

One of these vessels thrived off that.

Snow crunched beneath the young man's boots as he strode confidently through pavement glazed with ice and snow, breath fogging with everyone third step as he made his way through the nearly empty sidewalks towards the hardly used warehouse. If this had been any other day, he could have easily zipped there in half the time it takes to walk, but he preferred not to rely too heavily on his hybrid bicycle. After all, today was Friday – perfect, euphoric, empty-scheduled Friday – and he liked to take this time to see the world in a more relaxed, even pace.

The familiar Shi-Nee Toothpaste logo, currently neglected enough to read as "SiN Oops", now came into focus at this early hour of the morning. Lie Ren, the only current occupant, user, and unofficial owner of the long-since-foreclosed establishment, chuckled for the umpteenth time at the slightly religious joke spelt out by the only letters not broken, hanging by a thread, or faded as to match the charcoal grey of the building's exterior. Stepping quickly up the stairs, boots tapping quickly as he danced his way over worn-down ice and rubble, Ren nodded a curt greeting to the weather worn statue of Blanc Schnee, the man who ran this place's mother company years back; apparently, military weapons and prescription drugs sold better that mint-flavored dentistry gel, and the Shi-Nee division was closed down, meaning the warehouse was now free to crumble away on its own accord.

Not if Ren could help it, however. He had needed a place outside his crowded apartment to work on his projects, house supplies and materials, and get away from lifelong friend and across the hall neighbor, Nora Valkyrie. While he thought the girl was amazing and one of the few friends he still kept in contact with over the years, the quiet artist did need a place to himself to unwind, think clearly, and – more importantly – get his work done. That honor would normally go to his apartment, but Nora was a notoriously loud neighbor, and skilled enough at lock picking to surprise Ren by plopping unexpectedly on his barstool, happy smile and warm eyes practically begging for one of his renowned meals.

Ren drifted from his thoughts of his hyperactive friend and occasional collaborator onto the next task, fumbling through his set of keys for the one to the door. Being nearly 2am, that involved holding certain keys up to the light provided by an overhead street lamp at the block's edge, feeling for his color coded key covers, and general meticulous searching that finally ended after a good minute. Jamming the key in the lock and shoving after a good turn, the door swung open just enough for the lean boy to get inside before the cold pre-morning air got in after him. One great thing about this place was the insulation was at such a high quality that even without generators or electrical heating, which had long since been shut down by the city, the warehouse was almost always at a comfortable temperature

Sighing contentedly, Ren reached over and flipped the panel on the wall. Industrial lights flared overhead, causing the boy to squint his eyes before they adjusted to the harsh glare. Bathed in yellow light, stretching on for a good several yards, was Ren's studio.

Shrugging off his warm wool bridge coat and hanging it on a makeshift coatrack, Ren strode in comfortably, stretching his arms and scanning his retreat from the outside world. It wasn't the neatest place half the time, but he put up with that in favor of the relaxing atmosphere it gave off. He made his way towards the racks of art supplies, scanning his eyes across the many sets of paint, brushes, pencils, canvas, and paper. Opposite the more traditional mediums, Ren's abnormally violet eyes wandered over sheets of metal, odds and ends, blocks of wood in varying sizes, and countless other materials he used for any sculpture he felt like making. He had managed to grab two of the industrial racks before the garbage men took them all away; it had done wonders for his need to properly organize his tools.

He passed by, deciding to walk around a bit more before properly starting anything. A bit further in, towards the back end, his studio housed a lot of works he had made but hadn't gotten around to selling. While commissions hardly came in and many of his pieces didn't make it out of any art galleries, Ren wasn't discouraged; he always managed to get by, and if anything he was a bit fond of his pieces. Slowly drifting between stands holding paintings or sculptures towering next to him, Ren took in what his limited free time had allowed him to create. A painting he had done of the sun dipping into the ocean; a melted glass piece, eerie in its faded green glory, resembling waves crashing in on itself; a cubist interpretation of a vase of lilacs done in ink; and so on.

After a few moments, Ren found himself at the place where everything came into action: the workroom. An easel, a welding station, and a drafting desk stood juxtaposed to each other, with matching chairs on wheels. Just being here set the boy's mind whirling with artistic juice; his hands itched to do something, needed to let something come out and bring life into this empty building. Pulling up a chair, Ren sat down at one of the tables, tapping a pencil he had left there a few days ago.

Nothing. Nothing was coming to him. It didn't feel right to Ren, something needed to come out but how it would come to fruition was beyond him. The table wasn't doing it, the easel wasn't doing it, none of his tools were doing it…

Finally, his eyes alighted on another corner of the room – one he often resorted to in order to refresh his thoughts or tap out miscellaneous ideas, or mostly just to have fun. Perfect, he mused to himself, a smile starting to spread on his face.

Ren had been pushed to take lessons as kid and, thanks to the drive of his parents, was proficient in a variety of musical instruments. As such, he often kept a few in his studio, as some thoughts that he originally thought might come out visual translated better as chords and lyrics. Stepping onto the large square of carpeting he kept his varying instruments on, Ren made his way past the Casio keyboard, ukulele, drum machine, and a battered six-string before alighting on his personal favorite – a large, black bass guitar, with a soft green border and an extra pickup.

Feeling the comfortable weight of the bass's strap on his shoulders, he plucked a few notes; the rich pulses reverberated through the warehouse. He had gone through the trouble of soundproofing this place the year he found it, so he needn't worry about waking anyone in the area.

Striding to the amp and adjusting a setting or two, Ren took a sharp breath, laced with excitement and sleep-deprived ecstasy. Glancing only halfheartedly glancing at the music stand containing sheet music to Muse's "Hysteria", the oriental boy warmed up his fingers with the fast paced prog-rock masterpiece, nodding his head to the tune. Life, stress, and his insomnia washed away, and he existed only with the bass-line thrumming in his chest and pulsing off the floor.

The words came next, rolling off his tongue as his vastly ranged voice clicked into falsetto mode. Verse to chorus and back again, he let words tumble out as they mixed with note, tone, and emotion into a brewing storm of passion, held back only by his reserved nature.

"'cause I want it now,
I want it now.
Give me your heart and your soul
And I'm not breaking down,
I'm breaking out
Last chance to lose control!"

And with that, he launched into the bridge, fingers flying across frets, up and down the neck his hand moved, before changing direction completely and hoisting up the guitar, already plugged in a tuned to a T. Picking up where the bass left off, the low rapid-fire beats shifted into shrill, energized notes that blazed under the thinner strings. This was the solo that took him longer to learn, longer to perfect; the whirling music overpowered everything else in the warehouse.

Before he knew it, it was done; the song was over, the guitar lying dormant under his tingling fingertips (years of practice made for pain-tolerant callouses), and no more words were resting on the tip of his tongue. He was panting, the exertion getting to him at last. Collapsing on the battered couch at the edge of the rug, Ren rested his head back on the cushions, taking deep breaths.

But he was smiling. He was happy, he was energized, and before he went back to that apartment to get his tight 12 hours, he was going to get back out there and do something. Ren leapt up from his seat, battered guitar forgotten for the moment as he instead grabbed for brush and watercolors, a new form of expression finally ready to come to life.

As it has always been seen in the world, we are not alone in our pursuits. The city was large, and one oriental boy was not, and could not, be the only soul stirring at such an early hour.

He was one among many. Movers, dockers, parents of young children – even without these factors, the equation contained many surprising subjects who moved about and lived their life, started their day or ended the previous one at this dark and empty silence of night. Faded orange streetlights lurked just out of the darkness, interrupted only occasionally by shadows flirting about, entering and exiting with a few quick steps.

And yet of all the other souls still awake, it would seem odd that two of these sleepless souls would hold some connection.

While one thrived and swelled in joy of faded light and peaceful solitude, the other was one in a sea of chaos and bright, piercing light. A happy dark versus an agitated bright, a veteran to less opposite a castoff of prosperity. Yin to Yang, so to speak.

The airport, located just near the downtown area, was crowded even in this ungodly hour. The empty florescent lights and monotone announcements of rescheduled flights and closed gateways and lost possessions not worth the trek mumbled over the clacking of footsteps on linoleum and the sea of voices. Anyone and everyone, from all lengths of the world, dashed to and fro, running or walking, hurrying or lollygagging from floor to floor. Heavy coats and heavier luggage milled about, a fast-paced circulatory process compared to the rest of the city's sleep, like blood flow in a paralyzed limb.

One cog in this machine would have none of it.

Standing at the center of an escalator making it's descent, the girl stared in muted awe at the enormous room around her. She had been in airports before, more often than not actually, but never alone, and never at this late into the night (or this early in the morning; she had lost track after the second time change). It was unnerving, standing there without a familiar face to help her through this unfamiliar city. She exhaled softly, adjusting the straps of her purse and tightening the hold on her pristine suitcase, dusting the golden "Louis TaVon" logo out of habit. She felt vulnerable all by herself, and in such a well-brushed coat and sundress too; still, she carried herself with poise, as it was driven into her since she was little.

Finally stepping off the moving stairs, she walked over to the baggage claim, waiting on her final piece of baggage to roll down. She was willing to have her good suitcase full of clothes be banged around in the overhead compartment, but had specifically needed this to be kept in cargo with special packaging.

An abrupt jangle from her left coat pocket – "Beethoven's 5th", almost ruined for her by the ringtone's tinny sound – pulled her out of her waiting, and, relieved at the caller ID, slid her finger across the screen before answering the call.

"Yes, Mother."

"Oh, thank God you made it there safely, how were the flights? I know it's late there, did you sleep alright?"

"I would have slept fine, if not for the cramped conditions and overall dreadful noises some people are capable of making – and at that hour of night, Mother. You'd think they'd learn to get their sleep like any sane person."

"I'm sorry honey, but this was part of your Father's idea, he wanted you to experience –"

"Can we not talk about him?"

The voice on the other end sighed, almost expecting this reaction. "I know, I know he's a sensitive subject at the moment; just… please stay positive about this, please? This may not be ideal for you, but everything is going to go great, you'll see."

"Humph."

"Oh, sweetie."

"I should probably go, I see her coming down the baggage claim. And I need to head to the flat to sleep, I feel the jetlag now." And with that, she hung up her cell.

It wasn't a complete lie; she DID see the sleek black case poking up from the slick metal conveyer belt. And she did want to go home and sleep, but as with all other flights, she didn't feel jet lag as severely as others. She merely didn't want to talk to her mother, and she had more important things to worry about.

A breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding in was released as the familiar black case rolled into view, and the girl grabbed it by the handle. She gave a curt smile to the Stradivarius, having practiced on the beautiful violin for years. Her mood darkened as she remembered the practice schedule her father had outlined for her and tucked into her purse; finding the crisp paper as she paid for her "dinner" had almost ruined the mood, and she hastily shoved it in her pocket.

Of course I'll practice, he doesn't have to shove it down my throat every chance he gets.

One thing was for certain, the walk to the outside of the airport was certainly more cumbersome with her bulky suitcase, heavy purse, and now the violin case to contend with. She wished Wells had accompanied her to help with the load, but Daddy had, as usual, banned any help and encouraged his daughter to "strike it on her own". So much for supportive parenting, the girl thought bitterly to herself as she walked through the sliding doors.

She hadn't anticipated the cold, and drew in her breath sharply as the icy needles of wind stabbed at her exposed legs. Damn sundress, she sneered to herself, drawing the coat around her tighter. I bet the cabs won't have heating either. Still complaining to herself, the ill-prepared lady stalked over to the sidewalks edge, waving a hand to hopefully draw a cab over. With the amount of people swarming the airport's curbside, any quick departure seemed unlikely. Come on, you stupid yellow cars…

Finally, one rolled up next to her, window rolling down. Weiss leaned in, meeting eyes with a grizzled man in a beat up bomber jacket and beret. "Hello, yes? I need a ride to Ellis and Heath Lofts? It's on the corner of –"

"I been there, hop in," The man had casually put out his cigar, waved a finger to motion for her to hop in.

"Actually, sir, could you please open the back? I need to put my suitcase back there for the ride over. It's rather large, you see."

"The hatch's busted, you're gonna need to keep your stuff in the seat with you."

Groaning not for the last time, the girl pulled open the door, scooting in and preparing for more cramped conditions.

Finally, the cab pulled up to the towering apartment building, which looked much nicer on the website. Paying her fair and passive aggressively staring at the stronger cabbie as she struggled with her luggage (he remained oblivious to her stares, instead counting the freshly minted bills before pulling away). She eventually checked in, found the elevator, and found herself outside her new home the fifth floor. Using her recently acquired key and fumbling to get her caravan of possessions inside. At least Daddy was willing to hire a mover to get everything else here before me, she compromised to herself, taking in the stacks of cardboard boxes that crowded her living room.

Setting her bags down and propping her Stradivarius case against the corner wall, the girl walked slowly to her new bedroom, empty if not for the queen bed the previous owner had been so willing to leave behind. She stretched her aching joints, taking in the white walls interrupted only by a wooded closet door and the desk she had had delivered alongside her other belongings. She eased herself down onto the mattress, sitting poised at the edge.

After an exhausted sigh, Weiss Schnee let the pent up tears spill down her cheeks, sobs wracking her thin frame well into the night.