Caught in Rain

II.

Miracle of miracles, one of my Card's settings has been unstuck. After trying them all for the upteenth time the one married to the Range's structural palettes finally executes when I press it on my interface, the first time in weeks. I choose a dark, gray steel that is almost black for the buildings, and put a bluish purple filter over everything. The color is a little much, I might have to change it before long or else it'll make me sick. But for now I intend to enjoy it while I can, before it breaks again, although I'm running the risk of being stuck with this gaudy filter over everything until it decides to work again.

Claymoor Plaza is going to be mostly empty today. It's one of the few pay-to-enter Plazas. Entrance is free on the weekends, so few people come during the weekdays. But I prefer the peace and quiet, and it's not that expensive. And I don't have anything else to do anyway; Nana has all the rain she needs for a while and then some. Might as well spend some of my pocket money.

Also unlike most of the other Plazas, Claymoor isn't an outdoor space, but a huge tower, a square spiral climbing the sky for twenty-five stories, a landmark that stands out from the other skyscrapers in the Joy Range because of its imposing design. Huge bay windows look down over the city, separated by spacious balconies. Every part of its architecture is quadrilateral. Rectangular spires placed at intervals add variance to the tower's girth, and the design of the steel panels that run up and down its sides entail an intricate geometry. Outdoor corridors are carved into its side, providing a nice place to take in the view (or the parts that aren't blocked by other buildings.) With the palettes I have running it looks like the headquarters of an important and shady corporation, a menacing obelisk that blocks most of the sun, when the sun is out.

Inside, however, it's a number of open rooms, courts, and themed areas, free spaces for anyone to use. The Claymoor building was in fact originally designed as a new branch office for the Municipality, but halfway through construction they found it would make more financial sense to sell the property and building foundation as it was and build on cheaper land. Open space for the public has become trendy in recent years, as seen by the crowded Plazas every day. The Claymoor is also something of a mall, but the stores are tucked away in corners, and many aren't even listed in the directories. It's mostly used as a place to be, where you can pass time without judgment or personal burden. Something that sounds good to me this afternoon.

When I get inside I start to wander. The lower floors have the most people on them; I walk up the first few stories, then take an elevator straight to the 25th floor. Unfortunately there are people there too, crowded around tables playing card games, probably attracted by the novelty of being at the very top of the tower. I take the elevator again, this time down to the 23rd floor. I walk out into a gray hallway with plush-carpeted floors, and am greeted by a cool, lovely silence. The walls on one side are taken up entirely by enormous windows, out of which I can see the pouring rain, which from here looks like a ghostly effect on a display monitor.

This place has the feel of a temple, serene and brimming with something forceful and unseen. I pad the halls, gazing in wonder at the gleaming walls, the spotless windows. I am walking along the floor's perimeter. Ahead of me is a sharp corner where the hallway branches off into the center of the building. I take the turn, plunging deeper into the interior, and I'm met with the sight of a lobby more beautiful than most rooms I've ever seen.

I've never been to this floor of the Claymoor building, never discussed with anyone else much about what lies in these upper stories. Seeing this room, I can't believe no one's ever mentioned it to me. I can't believe there aren't more people here, kids running through this enormous room, their screaming laughter echoing off the cavernous ceiling, business magnates and retirees and women out with their whole friend groups relaxing on the the scores of couches and chairs, all inviting and soft-looking and designed in all shapes and sizes, teenagers huddled and kissing behind the beautiful ferns grown to Mesozoic proportions, artists leaning their chins on their fists as they follow the slow undulations of the rotating sculptures of steel and wood, all of these people relaxed and somewhat stunned by the power of this unearthly paradise. The chairs and ferns and sculptures and the high, high ceiling are all here, but they are alone and untouched, looking abandoned by the lack of humanity there to enjoy their splendor. I feel as if I have wandered into a dense but brightly lit forest, acutely aware of how alone I am, but sensing a thin presence all around me, wary animals watching me from hiding spots in the canopy. Each of my steps echo loudly. Some of the art installations twirl in silence, but their movement also menaces, seems to close in on me without actually getting any closer. I would not feel this unwelcome if there were other people here, to normalize my being here. Instead I feel like I've intruded on something I'm unworthy of, and yet I could never turn away, because how often do you get lucky enough to wander into a dreamworld such as this.