Chapter 3: Captured

Approaching the back door to the expensive, recently constructed arts center, Rin was greeted by a few dancers she knew. They hurried past her, mumbling incoherent greetings, stressed over the impending rehearsal and practice. "Good luck," she cried to them. "Thanks, Rin. We'll be needing it," the girls cried.

A woman came up, but this woman Rin knew. The woman was around seven to eight years older than Rin, sporting conserved and layered clothes. As always, the woman's long black hair was pulled back in a neat ponytail. She wore black leggings under a tight green skirt lined with magenta, a light pink long coat adorned with magenta patterns, a magenta long-sleeved mid drift over a sleeveless black shirt, and brown open-toed heeled sandals. A red belt tied around her waist with long loose ends fluttering at her side. A little white cat with three tails, actually a demon, sat itself on the woman's shoulder, yawning as the woman stopped once spotting Rin.

"Hey Rin," she greeted.

"Hello Sango," Rin answered, "Do you have practice today?"

"Ah, no," Sango shook her head, "I have classes."

Catching the difference from Sango's usual term, Rin commented carefully, "What happened? I thought you only had one class."

"I did, but the other instructor got himself kicked in the ass," Sango laughed, "He's hit the sack with a nasty flu."

Rin paused, remembering that the instructor didn't have anyone. "Who's taking care of him then?"

With an exasperated sigh, Sango replied, "Kagome."

Rin almost burst out laughing, but she managed to hold it in. "Are they going to get together," she asked, "Kouga's been after Kagome for a while."

Sango shook her head. "Kouga isn't serious and he isn't Kagome's type."

Rin nodded. As she was about to turn, she caught sight of a young man heading their way. He was around six years older than her and dressed in shorts, a shirt, and sneakers. There were only two colors on him, white and dark blue. Like Sango, he also tied back his hair, but it wasn't nearly as long. In the crook of one arm, he was holding a black purse. On his calves and wrists, he had some bandages for reasons Rin didn't know. As he approached them, he said, "Sister, here's your purse. Hi Rin."

"Hello Kohaku," she replied, "Will you be helping your sister today?"

"Yes."

Without another word, the three walked in together.

Rin parted from the two at the elevator. Sango and Kohaku were going to take the stairs to the second floor, whereas Rin didn't feel like going up flights of stairs to reach the fourth floor.

The building had five floors in total. It was a strangely shaped building, in which the architecture was an arrangement of shapes, not conforming to any particular shape as a way to accommodate all features of the building's interior. The first floor was mainly for display, accommodating a personal shop, a performance hall, galleries, and conference rooms. Towards the back was an area for eating and entry to the adjoining restaurant, meeting the staff of the building such as artists and performers, and then it leads into the staff lounge. On the second floor were classrooms and supply closets. Then the third floor was more storage, the demonstration halls, some classrooms and conference rooms.

As for the fourth and fifth floor, it was all studios meant for personal use by performers, artists, and writers. For convenience, there were even locker rooms at the end of every hall with showers and beds, allowing staff to stay for days without having to go home; they could go out and simply take up one of the beds, use the showers in the morning, and get fresh clothes from the sets they can keep in the lockers. Of course, they had to pay a monthly fee, but it much less than if they stayed in apartments. Then for studios, performers usually shared a compartment with up to six or eight at a time. Artists were only allowed up to three persons in a maximum of three compartment studios. Writers often had four persons in a compartment, rarely allowed two compartments. Those who had multiple talents were more likely to be assigned with others of their most preferred talent or could possess their own studio, rarely allowed more than one compartment, unless given certain circumstances.

Rin fell under those given circumstances and had a three compartment studio, all for her personal and private use. An artist, a writer, a performer, and nothing preferred over the rest. When Rin's mother appealed for entry as a staff member, the director and coordinators were exceedingly hesitant to even give her a chance. However, by her mother's request, Rin created a sculpture, a painting, wrote a story, wrote and sang a song for the three. Within a few days, Rin had her own studio, three compartments, a three year contract, and unlimited access to the supply closets. They gave her keys to the closets like they did for the other staff members, the key to her studio, a locker, and an ID card. After a while, they even had to give her keys to the building so that she could go in and out whenever she desired, anytime of the day. Most of Rin's inspiration came during the evening and in the middle of the night. If she had to wait until the next morning, there'd be nothing to remain. She had to start work immediately on the inspiration or else, it would be another piece gone to waste...

The moment Rin was in her studio, she scurried to a closet and dragged out a slab of fresh clay.

Laying out her tools for later, she started her work immediately. As her hands grabbed, pulled, and shaped the clay, his image was burned into her mind. Like the possessed, she couldn't stop moving, following the stranger whose image devoured her mind, giving life to what had been forgotten and what had remained in slumber, waiting, patiently holding his silence in her memory. Now she could hear him. He had his voice and he was telling her to call him, bring him to life. No longer keep him a hidden piece of diamond and gold among her treasures. Let him rock the earth. Let him crush the flames of hell. Let him stun the heavens.

She saw the muscles seen after white Armani was pulled away, the long locks of silver hair that flitted like strands chipped away from the moon, the chiseled lines of his features, and most of all, the molting gold irises set in a face of stone. Hours passed, but she didn't see them go by. She made out his head and the gentle fall of his long moon-like hair, formed the outline of the sheets that fell from his bare figure, molded the tone of his firm muscles and abs. With impenetrable concentration, she imagined the very contours of his body, the constriction of his muscles in his tense and noble posture. Even from the depths of her memory, she gave him weakness, his vulnerability when injured, but just as she had discovered, he retained his pride and his willingness to fight. No matter how he suffered a dislocated arm, cuts through his abdomen and a large rift through his left arm, he remained strong and defiant.

Carefully, she caressed and crafted the tense hand with claws held before his face. The moon flashed in her mind, waters of the ocean shifted and she slid to the base, adding and taking, sculpting the crashing of waves and waters that rose to wrap around him as his sheet had failed to have done.

He became defiant, but there was no expression upon his face.

She backed away, looking at how she had formed his clawed hand before his face. Then in her mind flashed an expression on his face she'd never seen before, one she'd never imagine for him to have. It was sadness, a bitter despair that cursed and broke him down. From the depths of his heat and his soul, in a heart that hid itself in the confines of chains and memories, she captured the sadness that wasn't quite sadness, the hatred that wasn't quite hatred. Suppression, depression, hatred and rage, even loneliness and the strange calm that manifested in the empty, repressed state, she curved his jaw, the tight line of his lips, an expression of stone that didn't match the striking intensity she carved out, his eyes appearing with the flurry of emotions and intensity she saw.

He couldn't escape anymore.

She had captured him, captured the heart and the cage and the pictures flitting inside, and brought it out for all to see. With her heart, she had taken his, snatching it in a grip so loose he could slip away, yet so strong he became a part of her being, a part of her existence. No matter if the sculpture was her only medium, she had him. She had him.