The Question: To Be or Not to Be

!disclaimer: I, the author, am not an expert or see myself as such on perceptual/sensory phenomena; if I make any misconceptions please comment to let me know!

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To be or not to be, that is the question: a line in Hamlet's solioquy, of the meaning that human life is miserable, and how death would be preferable if not for 'the fearful uncertainly of what comes after [...]'

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Zhao Renjun was an idol.

His debut was a month away, after being put on the survival show "Heart of an Idol" and ranking second, just finishing promotions after the survival show's finishing.

Renjun had been given the name, 'Prince,' after people had discovered that he had been a painting prodigy when young, as the netizens marveled in his prince-like visuals and versatility. However, what he was most known for were his astounding vocals amongst the seven members of 'CROWN,' the group that had formed after "Heart of an Idol."

However, he was now at a standstill.

Xu Mingye, the group's leader, lead vocalist, and main dancer, looked over at Renjun's panting form. They had just finished practicing a hard choreography for their upcoming single, 'KING,' and, needless to say, it wasn't a good day for Renjun.

He kept tripping over his feet, especially during the elbow move in the chorus.

The rest of the group members frowned.

"What's wrong?" Mingye, the ever-charismatic flower boy, questioned.

His voice was a lightish blue.

Being a 'flower boy' was a term popular in the Asian pop industry, and had recently become a trend. Some of the group members didn't like Mingye because he acted as if he were the leader while looking 'feminine', and was the group's most popular member, but Zhao Renjun didn't mind. As long as Mingye didn't interfere in his affairs, it was alright with him.

"It's just not my day today." Renjun shrugged. His blunt, cold demeanor had warded off most of the groupmates, although they had to pretend to get along in front of the cameras. "Sorry. I'll do better next time."

Li Feng, always the aggressor, scowled. As the main rapper and lead dancer, his volatile personality added to his 'bad boy' image. "Don't get all stuck-up because the fans like you, Zhao Renjun."

A reddish green.

"I apologized." Renjun blinked. "I don't think I sounded arrogant, but if I did, then should I apologize again?"

"You-"

The rest of the members were used to observing Li Feng's insults against Renjun's stoic, yet provocative responses, so none of them stepped in except Xu Mingye, who defused the situation.

"We're all a bit tired today, aren't we?" the leader said, smiling as always. "Shouldn't we call it a day? Right, manager?"

CROWN's manager, after watching the escalating tension, nodded. "I agree." Purple.

The group returned to their dorms. CROWN was LILA Entertainment's biggest boy group at the moment, and since LILA was one of the biggest entertainment agencies around, it was spacious. It was around eleven when the dance practice ended, and, as everyone was tired to the bone, no one picked any fights and Renjun was left alone.

After updating his Weibo with a couple of selfies, and going to the bathroom, Renjun took the rare break time he had between promotions to finally start painting.

Or rather, staring at the blank canvas that had been empty for the past month.

Zhao Renjun, before he had entered the music industry, had been a painting prodigy: the artist, Jun.

But he had encountered a block.

'Strange.'

Since he was young, Renjun had been invested in the arts. Painting, singing, dancing, had all come naturally to him. Prodigies like him were both envied and loved. An abnormal talent for instruments, with an abnormal condition.. Piano? Violin? Flute? Guitar? He could play all four. Maybe it had been his parents' harsh urgings, and forced lessons, but music slowly became second nature. In the whistling of the wind, the rain, even in footsteps, Renjun saw flashes of colors.

He blamed the music, on most days.

To the cameras, he had smiled when asked about his childhood.

"When I was young, I loved music," he had said to the reporter, as if reminiscing about the past, "it follows me to this day."

It was true. But the love faded away into complicated feelings - sometimes annoyance, hate, acceptance. Why? Because he was forced to do it; but the feelings alternated on days. He accepted it, most of the time.

On that interview day, a few netizens had noticed the tiny trace of resentment in his voice.

[Doesn't Renjun sound a bit resentful at the last sentence? Or is it just me?]

[Yeah, he sounds a bit off...does he not like to sing?]

[Above netizens: he is a genius. Why would he not love what he does for a living? You're reading too much into it.]

[Yeah, I agree, he sounds fine lol…]

Renjun had never cared about what the netizens said. He cared about his fans, at least most of them.

'Synesthesia...?'

That was what it was called. It hadn't been revealed to the netizens, but his parents had gone crazy over it. When they had discovered he heard sounds as colors, and had been diagnosed with chromesthesia, the first urge they had wasn't to talk about it. They pushed him more into music, to perhaps surround himself with it so that one day, maybe he would hear a sound and it wouldn't be followed by a color.

He didn't hate them. The colors, he meant.

He didn't wish them gone the same way his parents did.

Painting.

'The colors.'

He played music while he was painting. Colors always came to him easily. He never had a particular subject in mind, but his abstract paintings had always sold to the highest bidder as Jun, the anonymous synesthete.

There was novelty in the rare.

But Zhao Renjun had hit a wall. He had an undeniable wall. Forcing himself to paint would be a waste of art supplies, but he attempted to anyway.

Opening his phone, he pushed earbuds into his ears as a recording of a piano recital played.

His own recording. When he hit blocks, he only listened to his own music.

'The colors are clearer that way.'

But this block was longer than the others. The blocks were blocks. This was a wall.

Perhaps he had built it himself.

The piano music flowed in his ears.

Absolute pitch. If that didn't make Renjun more of a freak, he didn't know what did.

A classic. Moonlight Sonata, Third Movement.

He had finished the First and Second before the show, and both of the pieces had been auctioned, but the trilogy had been supposed to be finished a month ago. He delicately squeezed the paints onto the palette, his movements experienced as he dipped his paintbrush into the pre-prepared water.

The brush met the paint, and he could see the colors.

The music in his eardrums sped faster. The piano notes came in a barrage, and so did the colors. The Third Movement was hard to pinpoint. A flash of an intense red-navy. Renjun moved the brush across the canvas, speeding in arcs and color. Spirals, and splotches along with the chords. The first time he was playing it, he was hit with a wave of vivid color. This time it was expected, and his paintbrush followed his senses. He could feel the notes beneath his fingertips while he held the brush.

Anxiety. Anger. Perhaps even fear?

Getting closer to the ends were hints of blue.

'Melancholy…?'

Renjun dipped his brush into a deep purplish navy, marring the cluster of already formed shapes, adding orbs and brushstrokes.

The piano piece finished, and Renjun looked at the painting he had just created.

Derision could be seen in his eyes, as he quietly cleaned up the palette, his footsteps crinkling as he stepped on the paint-speckled newspaper on the floor. After wiping the brushes and putting them in their proper places, Renjun faced the canvas.

It could sell for quite around a million yuan, but yet he sat on the bed, staring at the canvas with disdain.

'Trash.'

Forcing himself to paint, was as good as making him create trash.

Zhao Renjun blinked at the trash he had just created, before collapsing on the bed and entering sleep.

When you hit a wall, everything you could do was trash. Even if it was a wall you built yourself.

Renjun expected to have a nightmare, maybe a vivid one from one of his favorite webnovels, chased by grotesque monsters. But in his dreams - or was it reality? - he was met with a robotic voice, and two, game-like options.

{Would you like to escape?}

[Yes] [No]

This scenario was oddly familiar, as if he had read it somewhere.

The wall? Reality? This dream?

The voice...didn't invoke color.

Perhaps mesmerized by this fact, Renjun raised his finger forward and pressed the option on the left.

{[Player Zhao Renjun] has chosen option [Yes]}

{[Player Zhao Renjun] is given gift 'Creation'}

{Finding Host Body…}

{Preparing Soul Transfer}

Zhao Renjun was hit with a barrage of notifications, all of which seemed even more familiar, like sentences he had read before just in different words.

'Where have I heard this…?'

{Safe Travels, [Player Zhao Renjun]}

{Good luck, Creator}

'Huh?'

The darkness enveloped him once more, and he woke up.

In a body that wasn't his.

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