CHAPTER 2 – Rough Sketches
Terri wasn't at all ready to sleep but somehow wished that she could close her eyes and only wake up in the morning where all will be clearer, both her mind and her sight. The odd little gift next to the now completed bird portrait made her wide-awake and wary. Where did it come from? It was definitely not her style, too messy and chaotic, she was a realist, abstract and modern art never appealed her and she wasn't exactly known to jump from style to style at the drop of dime; her current style of precise realism mixed with fantasy and science fiction themes was gaining the attention and money she had been dreaming of since she was as a child doodling stick men on the side of her notebook.
She gently ran the tip of her fingers across the canvas of the odd painting. The color was applied thickly but oddly precise. Again, the work of an expert in the arts. This method seemed similar to a colleague's of hers, he loved to apply thick globs of paint and smear them out on the canvas. The ones he didn't want he gave them to her as a present and she usually stored them in the attic of her studio where no one could see them; in a way she was ashamed to be associated with such a simplistic style. All of her friends knew she could be found here during the winter months so maybe he made a little trip to her cabin and, finding it empty, he just placed it here. That didn't explain how he got in or why he finished her other painting.
"Damn you Ash, I swear if you made him a copy of the spare key I gave you…"
The last thing she needed was people coming in and out of her cabin at their leisure; she was afraid others were going to use it as their personal getaway home when she wasn't around. She only gave the spare key to Ashley in case of an emergency or anything similar but if she was starting to hand copies of the key around then Terri might have to change the lock and key set.
Terri sighed and picked up the pillows again to the laundry room, throwing them on top of the counter where all the detergents and similar products were, then came back to the living room and placed a protective cloth on the bird painting. She looked at the other one. It was hideous in her eyes. There was a fresh set of paints she had yet to open, maybe she could try them out on this reject of a painting and see how they act. It was a near ritual for her to paint or draw before she went to sleep, this should calm her down enough for a good night's rest.
"It's not as if it's worth much anyways," she said to herself as she set down a few brushes and opened the first set of paints with a satisfying pop.
(-)
It was already late night and all Guan-da' could find were these odd looking quadruped herbivorous animals that had weird growths of bone coming out of their heads. They were not aggressive in the least and ran with great speed on their long scrawny legs so catching one on foot was hard enough but the thick foliage slowed him down even more. He only managed to bring down two of the larger ones with his spear. Males. It seems the ones with young did not have those bony growths and deemed them to be female so they were left alone to continue the populace.
With his provisions stocked safely in his ship, and already consumed a nice breast piece from one of them, Guan-da' immediately set off to the wooden structure where his illustration was safely hidden from ooman eyes. Even though the entire day of Hunting tired him out a bit his pace now grew considerably more lively, his excitement evident in the light clicking of his tusks under the mask and the low rumbling from deep in his throat. His thoughts turned to what he could create tonight, what other piece of innovative brilliance he could come up with. Ideas churned in his mind at the possibility with such speed that it bewildered him. This is why Hunters were forbidden to recreate in the arts, it was a distraction and nothing honorable could be gained by it but selfish satisfaction.
Guan-da' came within the area of where the house was. He stopped. There was something amiss. A slight disturbance he could not pinpoint but his senses indicated it was there. His steps grew more hesitant as he neared the wooden residence, careful with his breath and pace to make sure he was as stealthy as possible; he could just as easily cloak but the cover of darkness provided enough protection from the terrestrial creatures' eyes. His own eyes were considered to be inferior in comparison to his kind. Unlike the other Yautja, who donned the ability to see in a sort of infrared vision, Guan-da' could only see in color and what was presented to him; no infrared nor other type of specialized ability like his comrades. It was helpful when he created his designs but had no advantage in the Hunt so he was usually placed in the middle to last position where it was safer and a harder chance of scoring a good kill. It was a small miracle that he survived this long with such faulty sight.
The Hunter came within sight of the wooden house and growled at the sight. The lights within it were on and the bright illumination escaped through the dusty glass panels surrounding the upper and lower sections of the structure.
No doubt about it, there were oomans in there! Maybe it wasn't as abandoned as he previously believed...
C'jit! This would definitely make things harder for him and had half a mind to leave and return to his ship. He wasn't in the mood to Hunt oomans anymore now that his chance to paint had been shattered by the oomans' presence and –
Wait. His painting. It was in there! The oomans! What would they do with it? Destroy it? Or would they take it away? The thought of them even touching his work with their greasy hands made him growl in anger. If there were oomans in there he would have to avoid them, recuperate his painting, and take it back to his ship before they could retaliate. Then what? He couldn't take it back to the Mother Ship, the Elders wouldn't allow it and then chastise him for becoming distracted with such frivolous efforts.
That was not important right now. He just wanted his painting back; then he could worry about what to do with it once it was in his possession again.
Guan-da' closed the distance between himself and the house with his best stealth skills, zigzagging his direction to make sure nothing could trail him and that he alternated between up-wind and down-wind to confuse whatever opponents could be lurking in the shadows. Yet no opposition met him as he finally placed his back on the cool surface of the wooden structure. He neared to one of the closer windows and peered through it to see how many oomans could be lurking inside and hoped to catch a glimpse of his work to see if it was intact.
There only seemed to be one lone ooman through the obstructions of the furniture in his way and it was sitting on a stool of sorts, bending over to another one of those illustration structures, and doing soft arm movements with a long wooden object in its hand. Guan-da' cloaked, his form melding with the dark background behind him, then stood in front of the window to get a better view.
An angry gasp escaped his throat.
His painting! The ooman had the nerve to meddle with his creation! And with another set of dyes no less! It was ruining it! All the work he put into the illustration… Stop that! Not another stroke with those infernal paints!
His fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned white and he extended his wristblades with the tiniest flick of his hand. Guan-da' was going to use this ooman's blood to redo the areas where it was spoiled by its despicable act…
(-)
"Oh god, what kind of demented mind created this piece of crap?" muttered Terri as she added some red to the darker areas of the background to give them some sort of color to the otherwise bland setting. "I'm not sure even I can fix this one. It's beyond hope… That's it, screw this shit. I'm done, no more messing with it, I can't fix it; it's just as hideous as before."
Since the painting was given to her and she worked at least a good hour on it she claimed it as hers by signing her name on the lower right hand corner of the canvas.
Theresa Rossner
She let out a tired sigh and glanced at her watch. It was 1:07 am, way past her bedtime. Terri became restless in this middle ground of awake and tire. She dug her face in her hands and let out a loud, tired moan then shook her head violently. Her body was screaming at her to go to sleep but her mind was wide-awake and eager to do something. She needed pretty badly to talk to somebody but it was past midnight, too late, probably, to even call Ash.
She kicked off hers shoes and began to undress for the night ("Shut up brain…"). There was a two-piece wool night outfit she could wear and a thick blanket to use with the sofa though she would probably have to smack most of the dust off the sofa first before laying on it. She wondered why didn't she just cover it with a sheet before she left then answered her own question with a: because then she wouldn't enough cloth to cover her paintings.
Her sweatshirt was the first article of clothing to come off and placed it on the armrest of the sofa followed by her pants, her second shirt, and bra. The socks she would keep on in this chilly night or else she would lose all feelings on her toes in the morning.
With a flick of what she called "The Master Switch", which turned off all the lights in the entire house simultaneously, she allowed the sofa's beckoning to guide her to its soft cushions of rest.
There was quite some time of tossing and turning on the sofa, trying desperately to find a comfortable position in the oddly shaped piece of furniture so she could just go to sleep and not think about anything for what she hoped would be at least five hours. Finally, when she though she would stay the entire night awake, sleep crept up on her and allowed her to rest for the night. She could sleep in all she wanted tomorrow then find a place to trash that horrible excuse of a painting, heck even sleep all fucking day if she wanted to…
(-)
Wait, what is it doing? Guan-da' observed with slight curiosity as the ooman marked his work with her symbol then to his utmost horror began to undress. He made disgusted sounds under his mask. The oomans were repulsive to look at, with their oddly pale and bland faces alone, but one without its garments was downright sickening!
Then the ooman turned around with only its lower undergarment on and Guan-da' had to look away in disgust and slight embarrassment. It was not considered decent to look at any naked civilized creature, especially a nude ooman, no matter if they flaunted their revolting bodies so unreservedly.
His eyes inadvertently glanced at the ooman then quickly darted away again.
It was definitely female. The pair of milk glands in her bare chest undoubtedly confirmed it.
Wait…Since when did it became a she? That would mean he was acknowledging the creature as civilized and therefore deserving of a gender term. On top of that, being female, he wasn't allowed to kill her. He retracted his knives.
Damn.
Guan-da' waited until the ooman's breathing became deep and constant meaning she was asleep and therefore a lesser chance that she would hear him as he meddled with the lock and entered the house once again.
The door creaked a bit as it opened and he entered the threshold with the utmost silence, careful not to place his massive weight on the weaker wooden tiles that he knew created a loud squeaking sound, and made his way toward the sleeping ooman. His great height towered over the tiny creature before him. If only she could somehow understand how pauking lucky she was, of how close she was to show her intestines the ends of his blades…
He was slightly surprised at how small female oomans truly were. Male oomans were already considered small prey compared to male Yautja but the females were even smaller; a female Yautja could easily dwarf a female ooman, the ooman probably wouldn't even reach below their females' breasts. It was an odd pattern, one that many animals in this planet followed; the females smaller than the males. The concept made little sense. If it were the females' job to rear and protect their young what good would be if they were so small? He wondered how oomans ever became the top species of their planet.
His attention turned to his painting. It was right where he left it, only that it was angled differently where the ooman was working on it. As quickly and as silently as he could he made his way towards his work and switched his vision mode to one that allowed seeing in the dark. It was not enough to see clearly, his work looked like blurry patterns in this special vision, but he could make out some configurations from it.
The dyes the ooman used were on a small stand next to the painting. A strong smell came from them. They were different than the ones he used, totally ruined the continuity. Keeping his eyes on the paints he shot his arm at the ooman's direction, furiously extending his wristblades again with a low growl. Oh Paya help him if only that pauker wasn't female…
No matter. He could fix it. Not much damage done to it, the ooman only applied a few coats of different colors. She didn't disturb the main subjects, just the background. That though relieved him a bit, his painting could be saved, but damned the ooman to hell and back for her intrusion.
Guan-da' carefully pried open one of the bottles. Its lid popped loudly. He held his breath, head turning in the direction of the ooman and muscles tensed, praying that the sound didn't wake her. To his relief she only shifted lightly under the blanket and then remained still.
The Hunter let out a breath of relief. He wasn't sure what he would have done if she had seen him; the Code protected her but he also couldn't allow her to warn other oomans. Could he kill her and then claim self-defense? Who else was there to be witness?
Fingers with paint once again, the most exhilarating feeling in the world for him, Guan-da' set out to correct the setback. The fresh paint was still moist to the touch so he had to be careful not to disturb it or it could smear to other areas then truly ruin the entire painting. The ooman had applied color to parts that were never meant to have color. She had a sense of realism – he gave her that much credit – but was mindless when it came to symbolism. Then again, how could he blame her for failing to understand the significance of his representation?
He could only hope that the dark colors were correctly applied to the areas they were meant to be, then added the final touch. With a long nail dipped in black he covered up the ooman's personal marking. It was never hers to begin with and had no right to claim so with her mark.
This small glimpse into the Yautja's culture belonged as much to him as the trophies that hung on his wall. It was his and only his…
(-)
"Okay, what the fuck…?"
Terri had woken up that morning with a terrible backache (never again sleep in that position on a sofa) and was preparing a cup of coffee to warm her system further; it had been one heck of a chill that night. Some loud bang woke her up in the middle of the night; she figured it was a hunter still out for game or the branch that gave under a raccoon's weight. She had managed to go back to sleep again but in the morning her hair was messy and appeared more like road kill than anything else. When she got in a few sips of the hot liquid she returned to the sofa but as she entered the living room once again her eyes fell on the odd painting she was working on last night only to find that it had returned to its original design.
It was as if she had never touched it but Terri clearly remembered bended over that hideous thing, trying to fix. There were still traces of red paint on her hands where the ends of her paintbrushes smeared.
Yet here it was, mocking her with its hideous patterns, looking fresh from the easel like she didn't even spent the last hour of the night working on it.
She wasn't sure how long she stared at it, her mind reeling from the "Twilight Zone" experience, trying to figure out just what could have happened in one night. Upon closer inspection she noticed that even her signature was gone. Her fingers touched the rough canvas. The paint was dry as was expected from letting it sit out all night. Nothing unusual there. Then why did her paint disappear?
Picking up one of her paints she opened the lid and inspected it. Normal acrylics. She set the paint down and looked at the painting again. No acrylics there.
"Huh…" Could it be that her colleague used a special set of dyes that made all other types of pigment evaporate? She had heard of those kinds before; hell to find them and very expensive though, but if he wanted them he sure could have gotten them…
Terri smirked at the challenge and from one of her bags she took out a set of oil pastels. If the special paint could evaporate acrylics then there was no freaking way it could make pastels disappear, it wasn't even water based.
The pasty colored chalks became messy and soft in her warm hands but it did more damage to the odd painting. She applied the same colors as before, where the red tint should have been she added a streak of red pastel; same with the areas of dark blue and orange, where the original color used to be she used its pastel equivalent.
The last stroke with green was greatly exaggerated. She gave a swift flick of her arm with a satisfied chuckle.
"Ha! See if you can take that off bitch. Thought you could outsmart me?"
She drummed her two fingers on the middle of the canvas, creating a little tune, then twirled in victory, striking a triumphant pose, before putting away her pastels in a corner of a nearby dusty shelf.
In the lower bathroom, the one without a shower but with beautiful blue tiles, Terri washed off the messy paste from her hands. Pastels had never been one of her favorite mediums, too messy – unlike some candies it actually melted in your hand, not in your mouth (though why anyone would want to stick pastel in their mouth was beyond her). When Terri was one with the towel only traces of the colorful pastes remained in her hands. She threw the towel to wash.
After a quick lunch fix of a bagel and a beer it was time to unpack. Terri hated unpacking. All the work she put into packing, reversed.
The first few boxes were easy; most of them contained art materials that could be unceremoniously dumped behind the sofa until later. All different types of paints and colorants were neatly placed on the many rows of empty shelves next to the countless books that were her small reference library. They were there collecting dust and age in case she needed a specific picture that the Internet could not provide fast enough or was hard to find; but many of them were scrapbooks of photographs she took herself when she saw something interesting or could be used for an upcoming painting. An artist was both organized and extremely chaotic at the same time; their mess was in order to their eyes, they knew where every pencil, every paper was with uncanny certainty. They were a breed apart; able to see opportunities when others wouldn't give a second glance. They were neutral, not wanting to take sides, just sit back and capture what is happening.
Yet the only thing Terri wanted to capture right now was not an idea but one of her expensive colored pencils that went AWOL under the sofa.
Off came the cloths covering the other paintings, a light layer of silver dust blanketing the air and glistening brightly wherever a ray of sun hit it, revealing past illustrations of portraits and unfinished dreams, of dark creatures and monsters to religious icons – both real and imaginary – and landscape scenes. Many of them no longer held interest. She would either have to dispose of about half of them, cover them with yeso and paint over it, or finish them and add a price tag.
The second floor only had three rooms: two bedrooms with a twin size bed in each – the room to the left being Terri's "master bedroom" – and a bathroom complete with a shower but had a dull gray tone that she never really was fond of; maybe she'd bite the bullet and recolor the bathroom this time. Her bed was immediately prepared with a fresh set of sheets that she brought in from her studio home. They were really old and depicted some odd patterns that seemed Native American but were obviously not, but they were her favorite ones to use in the cabin. It seemed like they belonged in that type of environment. She chuckled happily at the thought that tonight she would be able to sleep on her bed and not on that rackety sofa.
It was already late evening when the final box was stored and all of her materials and equipment was put away.
Terri let her tired body fall to the sofa and let out an anguished sigh. She hated – absolutely loathed – unpacking. It was nothing but wasted time yet she just shoved that thought out of her mind and stubbornly completed the detested chore in that one day. As far as dinner went she just nibbled a few things here and there as she restocked the tiny refrigerator.
Reaching over the side of the sofa she picked up her laptop on her crossed legs as she set her soda on a small counter adjacent to make sure none of the liquid would spill on the portable computer. It was done loading that large file the publishing house sent her about the next assignments for the convention. Bunch of reference pictures and details on specific designs and whatnot. Apparently the publishers had signed up with a film studio to make a science-fiction movie and were in need of a perfect monster. If it was successful then they would turn it into a book series. All credit, and money, to her of course; there was going to be a few other artists involved with this project and she had to check in with them every few days to share and discuss ideas but her work was going to be the main attraction. The Alpha Artist, as they so aptly termed her. Nice numbers too. Nothing below five figures; just the way she liked it.
She brought the soda to her smiling lips.
"It's good to be in high demand…"
(-)
May Cetanu bring upon this despicable creature a punishment worse than a hundred dishonorable deaths!
Guan-da' could have stabbed himself with his wrist-knives for his incompetence the night before. While he was putting away the odd paints where he originally found them so the ooman wouldn't notice the disturbance in the morning – except for the missing painting – his bulky armor accidentally slammed into one of the wooden shelves with such force that it was a wonder the shelf itself didn't shatter. The ooman moaned and stirred. He held his breath, muscles tense. There was no way she couldn't have heard that gunshot of a sound! Quick, think of something! Kill her? His wristblades extended. No, the Code. Wristblades retreated. She tented the blanket over her head, muttering something. She is waking up! Kill her now! The Code! Gah! Where's the quickest escape route? His dreadlocks fanned out, smacking into each other, as his head quickly rotated left and right frantically searching for an exit. The window? Too small. The door! Yes! Freedom!
He had panicked and quickly retreated to his ship as fast as his legs could carry him only to find out he came back empty-handed. In the alarm he had forgotten to take the one thing he returned for, he had forgotten to take back his painting. It was still back with the ooman. Guan-da' wanted desperately to go back but feared that that he ooman female might be as aggressive as his females despite their smaller size and by then be wide awake with a weapon…
Now here he was, night once more – with the ooman conveniently retreated into an upper chamber with a closed door completely separating him from her, absolutely safe that he would hear her and escape long before she would ever find out of his presence –and his work had been meddled with again! The insult that silent retaliation created was enough to make the Hunter fume in anger. She obviously lacked the intelligence to comprehend superior talent when she continued to shamelessly alter his creation with such recklessness. Once he could forgive out of the ooman's ignorance but twice he saw as an outright challenge to his authority.
And Guan-da' was not the kind to turn down a challenge.
The ooman wanted to play? Fine. Let the games begin.