Morning Routine

In the absolute silence of the early morning, Locke woke up. He rolled from his back to his side, then pressed his hands flat against the mattress. He pushed down and swung his legs out over the edge of the bed, where they soon found purchase on the ice cold floor, facing the bed.

The room was much the same as it always was: white as a snowstorm, and impeccably clean and orderly. His socks, underwear, belt, bracelet, earrings, and cufflinks were neatly placed in a pile on top of his ivory dresser, alongside a stack of clothing he had folded but not yet put away. The desk had been wiped clean of its usual assortment of books and papers, with only a simple lamp sitting on the surface. The only thing that broke through the drab monochromatic design was the oversized teddy bear sitting in one corner of the room. There hadn't really been any room in the closest for it, what with all the shoes, dress shirts, and suit separates Locke had in there. He'd had no choice but to leave out in the open, the beady black eyes staring vacantly at him. Even though he sometimes found it vaguely creepy, he couldn't help but smile as he passed it on his way to the bathroom to clean up.

Once there, he immediately stepped in the shower and twisted the water on. The color settings on the knob went from a dark purple to the color of the sky: not from hot to cold, but various degrees within the latter category. Of course, Locke let the water run as cold as it could without it freezing in the pipes, though he stayed out of range of the running water at first. He snapped open the cap of his body lotion, drizzled it onto his lime green loofah, and worked up a lather by squeezing and twisting it. It wasn't until after he had washed himself that he let the water touch him. It quickly froze upon contact with his skin, and he had to step back again to knock the soap and ice mixture off of his skin. After that, he reached for his bottle of shampoo, opened it, and poured a small amount onto his fingertips. Before it could freeze, he started to thread it through his ice-white hair, until it looked more like he was gelling his hair back than washing it. He stepped under the showerhead again, this time letting the cold water splash over his hair. Again, it froze almost immediately upon contact, as Locke knelt to finally shut the shower off. He flicked off the ice that had formed on his back, where the water had grazed him while he was crouched, before he leaned out of the tub and snared a cream colored towel from the rack. He rubbed at his hair vigorously, the friction melting the mix of ice and shampoo out of his hair and into the drain. When he was confident that all the shampoo was out, Locke finally stepped out of the tub, turned a knob on the sink faucet, and immediately stuck his head under that.

With his eyes on the mirror, deft fingers reached up to pull the flat, wet locks of hair into perfectly patterned spikes before they froze flat against his scalp. With a final pat to make sure they were in place, and a cheeky wink for the mirror, he left his bathroom and headed back for his bedroom. There was a brief blast of wind as he touched the pair of black socks and white boxers with pink and red hearts he had left out. With a nod and a satisfied smirk, he put them on. Once he had enchanted those articles of clothing, he clasped the silver I.D. bracelet around his right wrist, put each earrring in, and grabbed the black leather belt and snowflake cufflinks before heading to his closet.

It was probably the nicest room in his house, if it were considered a room. It was large enough that he could easily take several steps inward before reaching the back. On his left and right side were the clothing rods, just above eye level, laden down with empty wooden hangers and an impeccably organized array of dress shirts, trousers, suit jackets, mackintoshes, trench coats, and an umbrella. In front of him were an assortment of dress shoes in various designs and hues of black and brown, a few pairs of boots, and some running shoes. Perhaps more footwear than the average man needed, but he wasn't quite the average man, was he? Shelves balanced carefully over the rods carried the rest of his accessories: braces, belts, cufflinks, tie bars, ties, and gloves. He carefully removed both pieces of a charcoal suit from the closet and hung them on the doorknob, before grabbing a crisp white dress shirt to hang in front of the suit. He shut his eyes and waved his hands over each article of clothing, as cold gusts buffeted him and his wardrobe. Next, he went back into the closet and he stood on tippy-toes, pulling the box of ties halfway down and taking a navy one with a grid pattern out, then shoving it back up and doing the same with the box of gloves, selecting a pair of black ones with cashmere lining. On went the trousers first, then the dress shirt, neatly buttoned and tucked in on all sides and cuffed at the sleeves. Locke slipped the belt through the loops, then stood in front of the closet mirror and deftly tied his tie into a Windsor knot. After shrugging into his jacket, he padded back into the closet, picking a pair of shiny black lace-ups and removing the cedar shoe trees from them, before squeezing into them. As he exited, he paused once again in front of the mirror, turning and twisting so that he could see all sides of his body. ?Aces.? There was one last thing he had to do, and although he was feeling a little more tired than usual, he mustered up the energy to cast the same spell he had cast on the rest of his outfit on his gloves. With a deep breath, he tugged them on, wiggling his fingers in the air once he was done.

He was running late, so rather than sit at the dining room table and eat a more leisurely breakfast, he hurried back down the hallway, stopping in the living room long enough to grab and shoulder his messenger bag. As he headed for the front door, he snagged an apple, then a banana, from the bowl of fruit sitting on the counter dividing the kitchen from the foyer. He unzipped one of the compartments on the side of his bag and stowed the apple inside, then threw open the door to his apartment. Banana in hand, he held up his arms to the empty hallway, greeting the newly dawning day.

Step Into My Office

?You wanted to see me, sir?? Locke opened the door to Gerard's office a quarter of the way, enough so that he could stick his head in and see his boss. Gerard was sitting in a ergonomic black leather office chair, behind a curved desk made out of walnut and polished until Locke could nearly see himself reflected in the wood. There wasn't much else in the office besides that desk. Some gunmetal gray filing cabinets that sat behind the desk and chair, a book shelf on the left that held a few coffee table books with other designer's portfolios (as well as back issues of RhyDin Wear Daily and various other newspapers and magazines), and a pair of chairs in front of the desk comprised the remainder of the room's furniture. On the back wall was a window, though it seemed to function more as a way to get sunlight into the room than as a view on anything exciting. The alleyway below, and the side of the building directly across from Highlife Haberdashery, were all that could be seen. The desk itself was neat and mostly empty, aside from the technology Gerard found necessary to run his business (some sort of computer whose design was unfamiliar to Locke, a telephone, a callbox next to the phone through which his secretary screened his calls, and a lamp).

?Have a seat, Locke.? Gerard stood and gestured toward one of the chairs, waiting until Locke was seated until he did the same, folding his hands at his desk. Locke let his hands rest on his legs, trying to reign in the nervousness he felt. Gerard never asks me into his office. What did I louse up this time? ?Do you know why I called you in here today??

?No? Sir?? Locke added on, awkwardly. Gerard smiled and unfolded his hands, letting them rest palm first on the desk. Locke took a moment to study the man's face, for some sort of clue as to why he'd been called it, but Gerard radiated calm, class, and an even temper that was slightly unnerving to the ice elf.

?Relax. We are here to talk about your stint on the sales floor. How have you been doing up front??

?I have been faring well. Some ups and downs, to be sure, but I can pull my own weight with your other sales people. Why do you ask??

Locke's question prompted one by Gerard. ?Do you remember why I said I sent you up front??

?So that I could learn what the customers want from us. So that I could see what would be in style next season.? Locke couldn't help but let some bitterness seep into his tone.

?Why do you think I sent you up there?? Gerard steepled his fingers together, as his shrewd hazel eyes scrutinized his intern.

?Honestly, sir? I think you sent me up front as punishment, for lousing up my portion of the show for Fashion Week.? Locke was almost wild-eyed as he met Gerard's gaze. Gerard matched him for intensity though, irises sharpening on Locke's until finally, the ice elf blinked and glanced down to his hands. His fingers were digging into the arms of the chair.

?Hardly, Locke. The critics can bleat all they want about what is fashionable and what is not, but the most important thing is whether or not you did your best, and whether or not you were true to your vision. I have seen what you have worn. I have seen what you have suggested others wear, when you are on the sales floor. You have a good eye for color, a good eye for fit, and a good eye for what is best for each customer. I think you have real potential to not just succeed at design, but revolutionize the field. If...if you are brave enough to follow your eye.? He leaned across the desk slightly. ?Your last collection was not brave enough. Will your next one be??

?Yes,? Locke answered immediately, with a strong nod of his head. ?Yes, sir, it will be. Thank you for believing in me.?

Gerard chuckled dryly, sitting back and straight in his chair. ?If I did not believe in you Locke, I would not have agreed to have you be my intern. Is that understood?? Locke nodded his head, a little slower. ?Good. I have one more issue to discuss.? At that, Gerard stood up and went over to his book case, pulling down one of the back issues of the GangSTAR and tossing it in front of Locke. Surprised eyes bounced up to look at Gerard.

?Sir??

?You are familiar with this, correct??

Locke still looked puzzled, as he stared at the picture of the pink-haired Marc Franco emblazoned on the cover. ?Of course I am. I've been in it a few times. I read it rather religiously. Why? I assure you, I have been on my best behavior?

This prompted a small chortle from Locke's mentor. ?I am aware of that, Locke. I have a proposition to make. It is quite simple, really. You wear and talk up our clothing in the GangSTAR whenever you go to the Red Dragon Inn, I pay you something extra on the side, every time we get mentioned. How does that sound?? Gerard let a small smile cross his face.

?No.? Locke shook his head so violently, it seemed his earrings would fly off of his head. ?No bloody way. Thanks but no thanks. That is to say, if there is business that absolutely has to be done that brings me there, I will go, but I am certainly not going to take time out of my non-work schedule to dress up and gallivant around the Red Dragon Inn. Even if I do like the clothes we make. Savvy??

?I understand, Locke. Even so, I am going to keep the offer on the table. Think about it for a while, and if you change your mind, let me know. You're free to go now.?

?Thank you, but I sincerely doubt I will.? Locke stood up, pivoted on his heel, and headed for the door, opening and shutting it smoothly behind him as he exited the office.

The Long Distance Runner

The first time Locke had gone running for exercise and not for his life, he only made it a mile before his body quite firmly insisted that he stop. In all the years of fleeing city guards, better armed gang members, and angry marks and shopkeepers in Dockside and WestEnd, Locke had gotten by on his natural physical ability as an elf and sheer adrenaline. On that first formal run, though, right after the new year during his second semester at university, he forgot to pace himself. It wasn't very long before his body made him pay for it. The lactic acid burned in his legs nearly as badly as the desperate gasps for air his overworked lungs sucked in, and nausea burned in the pit of his stomach, threatening to erupt into full-fledged vomiting. It was an easy lesson to learn; after that, he paced himself better, and slowly and steadily upped the mileage on his runs.

Running was part of a New Year's resolution that actually stuck, the end result of a first semester spent overindulging in ice cream, salads topped with plenty of chicken and ranch dressing, and more soda pop and beer than he would care to admit to drinking, had anyone bothered to ask. It was a coping mechanism, to deal with the surprising fact that he actually kind of, sort of, well...missed his family after going away to school. He had put on the classic Freshmen 15 during his first few months at New North Umberland, but once he took note of the pudge starting to form on his belly, he took quick, decisive action. He disciplined his eating habits, switching to salads with less meats and creamy dressings and more veggies, as well as cutting back on ice cream and alcohol and cutting soda entirely from his diet. Once he had learned how to run properly, he had integrated that into his plan, and found that by the end of the spring, he was back to his fighting trim.

From there, running stuck with him, in a way that was always somewhat surprising to him. It was one of the first consistent things in a life that had been filled with inconsistencies and sudden changes. Sure, his dedication had waxed and waned with the other events of his life, but the candle had not been snuffed entirely, and in recent months, with a steady job and additional training for the duels, that flame was practically a roaring fire.

So when Locke arrived home after work and found that there was no one answering the comm at his family's apartment, he didn't stew in his bedroom over it, or work himself into a needless rage at the duels, or drink himself into a stupor. No, he slipped out of his suit and tie and shirt and belt and cufflinks and bracelet and earrings and dress shoes, and slipped into a pair of black sweats, long-sleeved shirt, and a balaclava that covered all but his face. He laced up a pair of running shoes to the perfect tightness, slipped a house key beside the ball of his ankle, and began to stretch his muscles. Once he was suitably warmed up, and after he had left his apartment and locked up, he jogged down the three flights of steps to the lobby, past the giant tree in the center, through the grassland and dirt, and out the front door. Only when he was outside did he finally pick up the pace.

Where he ran wasn't terribly important to him. Some days he stayed in New Haven, running in loops through the neighborhood, up and down Benson Boulevard past the lingering remnants of the rich, famous, and powerful in their power suits and dresses. Others, he ran through Dragon's Gate, past the Red Dragon Inn to the Marketplace plaza, where the masses of RhyDin shopped, lived, loved, and died. Each path was inspiring in its own way, and he cycled between the two depending on his mood and how much time he had. Today, though, Locke was feeling a bit more ambitious. He was going to run all the way to the southern city gate in the Old Temple district. And maybe farther, if he was feeling up to it.

It was near the bridge between Dragon's Gate and Old Temple that Locke felt himself hit the zone, where the act of running became as natural as breathing, where every footstep barely registered. Depending on his mood, it resulted in one of two things happening. The zone either honed his thoughts into razor sharp focus, eliminating the distractions that crept into his usual thought process so he could focus on the heart of the matter, or it made his mind a blank, banishing dark and troubling thoughts when they haunted him too much. Today, when he hit the zone, he had tried to sharpen his attention on the issue of his family. What should he say to them, when he called them again? What should he talk about, what tone of voice should he use? Should he speak to his mother and brother in Elvish, or in Common, so his step-father could understand the conversation if he happened to be listening? He soon found the thoughts floating and drifting away, out of his head, into the aether. The silence of his mind brought a broad smile to his face, once he realized what was happening, and he went with it. He found an extra gear at that moment and kicked into it as he began to cross the bridge, feet flying across the cobblestones in perfect stride.

Security Blanket

The rest of the day passed quickly and uneventfully, as Locke went through the daily household chores and rituals that would carry him to bed time. After a simple but hearty meal comprised of slices of cold cut turkey, tomato, and lettuce on a baguette ? along with an apple and a salad made of spinach, romaine, cherry tomatoes and cro?tons ? he began cleaning in earnest. First, the dishes he'd eaten dinner off of were scrubbed clean, with a powerful detergent that eliminated the need for him to use hot water, but required he don forearm-long yellow latex gloves to protect his skin. Once the dishes were clean and dry, he put them away in his cupboard, then sprayed down the counter-top he'd made his sandwich and salad on with another cleaner and wiped it clean. With the kitchen now thoroughly cleaned, Locke moved on to his next task: the bathroom.

Before he ventured into the bathroom, he changed outfits yet again, this time into another pair of sweat pants that were slightly roomier than his running and dueling pairs and an old hooded sweatshirt with his university's name and logo emblazoned on the chest, royal blue on heather grey. It was as unfashionable as he'd ever get, but he didn't dare do his cleaning in his finest attire, lest the chemicals he used bleach or stain a valued dress shirt or pair of pants. With a black plastic cleaning caddy full of spray bottles, sponges, and a large paper towel roll in tow, Locke went to work. He started by spraying down the sink with one of his cleaners, rubbing it clean with a sponge, and then drying it with a paper towel. He sprayed a mirror and window cleaner on his medicine cabinet mirror, then wiped it dry with another paper towel. Next was the toilet. He angled another bottle and squeezed a solid blue liquid around the length of the bowl, watching as it dripped down from the horizontal line he'd squirted into a sheet of blue that covered most of the interior. The bristly brush he used to clean the toilet was removed from its own caddy beside the commode, and more scrubbing commenced, on the bowl, the rim, and the seat. He flushed, returning the water to its normal clear hue, then dried the seat and rim with a paper towel. The bathtub was the last and largest task left at hand. He began by sprinkling scouring powder into the tub, wetting a sponge with water from the spigot, and then scrubbing furiously at every inch of the interior. As soon as he was satisfied with the cleanliness, he leaned out of the bathtub and turned on the shower, rinsing any remaining particles of powder down the drain. Once that was done, he stepped back into the tub with a bottle of all-purpose cleaner and started to spray down the tiles lining the interior of his shower space, before he got back to work with the sponge on the scraps of mildew attempting to gain a foothold in his shower. When he was finally satisfied with the job he had done, he had managed to work up his second sweat of the day.

It was no surprise, then, that he decided to turn in early for the night, after briefly flipping through the newspapers and magazines he hadn't finished reading earlier in the day. All the lights in the apartment were shut off, leaving Locke in a darkness that was close to total, save for slivers of moonlight cutting through the blinds. It didn't really bother the ice elf to be in the dark, since his eyes quickly adjusted to the lack of light, faintly glowing in the dimness. No, it was the utter lack of sound that suddenly hit him like a blow to the gut, right as he was removing his cleaning clothes to go to sleep. It was enough to stop him dead in his tracks momentarily, sweatpants around his knees. It's lonely. I'm lonely. But there was little he could do to assuage that feeling at the moment. It wasn't the kind of loneliness that could be solved by him wearing a suit and heading to the Red Dragon Inn and reveling in the company of other drinkers, carousers, acquaintances, and (if he was lucky) friends. Nor could it be driven away by putting on his workout clothes again and spending a few rounds in the Outback or Arena engaging in sweaty, physical combatant with his fellow duelists. No, the need ran deeper than those connections, and only one person could fill that hole.

?Katarina.? He half-consciously whispered the name to the ceiling, lying on his back on a mattress devoid of blankets, sheets, or a bedspread, just a pair of pillows for him to rest his head on. He rolled onto his side, to look at the empty space beside him that had become all too familiar a companion over the years. She couldn't sleep here, not with the temperature in the bedroom well below freezing. He briefly considered getting out of bed, writing her a note, calling her on the comm, even getting dressed again and heading to where she might be, but he dismissed those options as swiftly as he summoned them. A note would take too long to reach her, and was there any guarantee it would only be seen by her eyes, or that it would even get to her? He didn't know if she was home, or at the theater, or out at the Jazz Club or any number of places she might have chosen to spend her time after practice and performances. It was useless; he would have to wait until tomorrow to see her, speak with her, touch her as best he could through the gloves that simultaneously kept them safe and separated.

Locke sat up in bed, eyes panning across the room before finally settling on the gigantic teddy bear sitting in the corner. It brought a faint smile to his lips, and then, inspiration struck. He sprung out of bed and padded barefoot to the corner of the room where the stuffed animal was sitting, and picked it up. He deposited it on the other side of the bed, before sliding over to the side he normally slept on. He threw an arm around the fuzzy creature, just below the bear's own arms, then rested his head against its side. Soon, Locke slipped into slumber, sleeping and smiling like a little child.