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In the city that sleeps a fog rolls in thick and purple without any of the stagnant car exhaust that will choke the air come morning. No, this is the scent of lilacs and copper. Floral and metal that covers the stink of skyscrapers and clings to their edges as dust.

Weather forecasters on the TV say that it will reach the 14th floor tonight; All shops and homes below the fog line are urged to close their doors immediately and sleep as soon as possible.

Things flash by down on the streets, leaving hollows where they once were, tunnels that the fog seeps back into slowly. A wound closing.

While most people either move upward or ease themselves into dreams, others pick themselves off of concrete, take elevators down, slip on gas masks and tighten knuckles around nailed baseball bats. Those things down there, moving through the mist, are dangerous. Claws and talons worth hundreds, thousands per pound. The City pays for those things.

The elevator door dings, high tops clap along sidewalks and bounce off mailboxes, swords and knives and crossbows are drawn and readied.

Everyone in the city is dreaming. The only ones awake are nightmares of technicolor blood money. Someone save those poor kids. The city sure as hell won't. Not while it's sleeping.