A/N: Thank you so much for your patience and support.

Disclaimer: All known characters belong to their respective owner(s); unknown characters belong to me. I am not making any profit from this project. Any questionable and potentially offensive statements are for plot and development purposes only and are not necessarily the thoughts of the author. This story is purely to entertain.

Note 1: This chapter contains sensitive content.

Chapter 5 – The Canvas Warrior

The door creaked open and Terry walked in, sighing at finally arriving at a place where she could talk to herself and not be looked at as if she needed to be pointed to the nearest mental institution. Except that by this time she didn't really feel like talking anymore, she had done much of that in the taxi. If only she could just have reached over and wiped that ugly smug off the driver's face with alcohol and a burning match... Damn immigrant. The only joy of the entire ride was that he couldn't do a damn thing about the fact that she was spewing more crap from her mouth than out her ass. That's right, she thought when she caught him looking at her through the rear-view mirror, just be a good driver and do your thing and leave me the fuck alone. The raw appeal that is to face down one of these people and think, "I'm better than this blue-collared piece of shit." And why not? She saw these people in the lowest and most degrading positions a modern society had to offer to them: trash collectors, janitors, fast-food restaurant employees... And when she was exposed to the same group of people for so long – immigrants, lower class citizens, different race, etc – that are commonly in a servitude position for her, handling burgers, selling umbrellas in the street, cleaning the public areas, how can one not think that they are incapable to aspire to anything else? That she was, indeed, superior to them? Use their bodies as you pedestal. She was aware of the hardships these people have gone through and were going to have in the future; of feeding their families, of sending their children to school, of trying to make a living. She had seen it too many times on the news. She had been spoon-fed the information by National Geographic and the New York Times. She watched it silently in movies and documentaries, been exposed to it while walking through the streets of downtown. Terry had gone to the same public school as the children of these people, practically given the same educational opportunities as them, and yet she had come all the way to the top of her dreams. A respected artist, working for publishing houses and movie studios alike, whose pockets would never empty, and friendlier than most.

Still...

Stupid backwater public worker.

Terry closed the door with lock and key – keeping the creepy-crawly monsters out – and walked over to the refrigerator for a beer, sighing as she did so. Well that had been the biggest waste of four hours and seventeen minutes in her life; though not a total loss, there was plenty of beer to last her a week and a half. Yet there was a slight pang of anger in knowing she could have been doing more important things, like cleaning some of the guest rooms from spider web invasions, or arranging her pastels in alphabetical order, or –

Shit.

Sketches. The rest of the concept team had already sent in their second version of the monster's head for review and editing. WannaBManga-Ka, Pencil-Pusher, Crayola – Sam Hume, George D. Tarrero, and Elena Vaughn, respectively – already had their work evaluated. Terry was the last one left, even asking for an extension on the deadline, which was grudgingly granted. That deadline was about to be due tonight. If by 12 tonight Theresa Rossner did not send in her sketches for revision, then the monsters they created would pale in comparison to what kind of hell the editors would unleash on her rear end. They'd rip a new one on her and another mark against her added to her inconsistency. Damn desk jockeys. She doubted the fan boys and fan girls would burn down their building if those brats didn't get news and image update downloaded at the exact time that the media claimed it was going to be available on the official web site, but hey, they who signs checks make the laws. Maybe asking for another extensi – Terry couldn't even finish that thought, it was so absurd. She grabbed her sketchbook from the table and started flipping pages back and forth, looking for something, anything, that was relatively new to send in. Sure, that was about as half-assed as one could be in this line of work, but if she could just make the suits believe she had actually been doing her job instead of fooling around in the seven dwarves' house like a beer-guzzling Snow White then she could get them off her back long enough to do some real work. Whatever that may be. Terry growled under her breath. How pathetic were these samples? Semi-human heads with crocodilian maws, shark/gorilla hybrids…the squid-head illustration? Time to lay off the nature documentary marathons.

Terry stopped on a certain page, looking at the rather hunched, humanoid creature, claws, one of them holding a weapon, with a face containing two large tusks, like an elephant, protruding from the bottom of its jaw. This ugly bastard had been designed on a whim, most likely due to too much caffeine intake. It'll do. Terry ripped the page out, collecting the other sketches, and turned on the scanner next to the toaster, turning off any light that were currently on to avoid getting overheated circuits and be left in darkness again, as the scanner warmed up with an annoying high-pitched whine. Monsters, monsters, monsters…. The clock chimed a time seven hours before the deadline. It didn't matter. Anything could happen between the now and then; and she was rather enjoying the procrastinator's rush. Terry wasn't sure why she was smiling, sipping a beer, while at the same time imagining the angry suits threatening to withdraw her pay, but she decided to enjoy the feeling rather than question it. The scanner finished warming up and was ready to do what it did best. Terry placed the first sketch, making sure it was positioned parallel to the edge of the scanner, and pressed the Start button, still smiling. Monsters, monsters, monsters….

(-)

Guan-'da's old Leader and Teacher would have been proud at how well his former student, now Warrior, could maintain such a sense of calm during a situation that called for great danger. When others would have undoubtedly separated the ooman's head from its shoulder before the creature was even aware of the Hunter's presence, he let the ooman get comfortable in her own territory, her home turf, most likely to heighten the challenge. Brave, brave Guan-da! he could hear them say, 'We had thought of you as one comfortable in the Elder's Arts, but Hunting female oomans? We greatly underestimated your courage!...Or his stupidity. Foolish, foolish Guan-da! O'diipu'tse foolish! Allowing the ooman to become relaxed and at ease, it was at the height of carelessness for one such as he! O'diipu'tse! Other Hunters' stories told of how Warriors – greater than he'll ever be, they were sure to add – landed upon the pyode amedha home world only to end up at the mercy of their self-destruct devices, even become trophies for oomans, or the sights they seen and the situations they experienced had been so distressing that even though the Hunters returned with their life, they came empty-handed and dead on the inside. Guan-da had shut his ears at such nonsense. Though some rumors had been based on truths, they were plenty of other Hunters, Unblooded even, that had reached the fabled home world and returned relatively unscathed mentally and physically. Guan-da would have been the one to return alive and well with his first ooman skull, clean and ivory white, dangling proudly from his net sack. It was about time his wall contained such a trophy; the previous mating season had been a disaster, only gaining two females, while younger comrades had – to put it bluntly – ral'lof four or more. The time spent in beseeching the Elders to be given the proper permission to Hunt on the ooman home world. The energy spent, the blood spilled, the sweat lost Hunting dangerous prey to prove his worth in the eyes of his superiors. The Challenges he had to claim victory to be seen as controlled and balanced for such a tricky journey were both necessary and at the same time a joke. Those with greater instability had been allowed to go to the home world without so much as a display of trophies, their consent granted by the Elders due to their birth-rights, Clan-rights, and how much wealth they could provide in honor to the wise senior yautjas. Those ungrateful solucemals...

Guan-da would prove that blood-line and riches had little to do with success. He himself had originated from a humble background; though they were ship Leaders, High Priestesses, and Arbitrators' blood coursing through his veins, his matriarch d'adilatan, birth clan,was in the middle class at best. He could remember the spats with higher-ranking clans as his mother and sisters and grandmothers and aunts disputed against the other clan for watering holes or Hunting grounds. No matter how loud his mother and sisters and grandmothers and aunts roared, how much blood and limb was lost, how many victories they collected, they almost always were forced to submit to the superior clan. Only as an Ublooded student could he gain some sense of equality to the other young yautjas; and even then he was singled out when it was discovered that his medical record had been a forgery. Apparently young Ca'halzao Night-knife did not have as sharp a sight as the Leader had been lead to believe; some of the student's eye nervings were underdeveloped and could not function properly, effectively rendering him blind in darkness when his comrades could see well in such an environment. Ca'halzao nearly lost his life to this mistake. It would be a burden he will carry for the rest of his existence. Only his unique skill in design and the Arts had been able to save his worthless hide.

Guan-da shook his head at the unrequested memory. He would prove to them that he was a worthy Hunter, even with his faults. He would bring an ooman skull on his own. No one to collaborate with. No one to aid him should he need it. But he was not brainless, this was a Hunt of great danger so great precautions had to be taken. He would land in an area safely away from the dangerous city areas, the hot spots of ooman activity, and take down the first worthy opponent, return with the trophy, gain the respect of his comrades he so rightfully deserved, and conquer the many females he had missed the previous mating seasons...plus more. The others had pointed to military areas strategically located outside large ooman settlements that had stories with delicious results. Not only were these oomans also trained to kill – a tempting bargain for any Hunter – but their natural xenophobia, and this particular breed's discipline, made sure that no panic aroused from the rest of the population, making the task a relatively easy come-and-go run with minimal outside interference. Instead, Guan-da had allowed himself to become distracted with the Arts. Allowed himself to be lured by the female into a void of paranoia. And he was supposed to kill such a creature? Comrades only returned with the males' skulls! And yet...Supposed he did return with a female ooman skull. No other Hunter he knew had one on their wall. How many male skulls equaled one female skull? Guan-da could double, even triple, the amount of females a breeding season; maybe be given his own Leadership! His own students, donning his own mark... Oh, the many suns that had been spent on designing his own Blooding mark just in case this opportunity ever arose! And here came that opportunity! There were three designs he was rather fond of and the thought of finally choosing one made him both proud and nervous. He liked the second one, with the e'muh star design much like his own, but the third was easier on the wrist...

Stop.

This was not the time and definitely not the place to be lost in such thoughts. His original task to regain his painting was jeopardized, and worse, he was in danger because of it. There was a dangerous female in the lower are of the premises and he was in the upper area of the same location. He had to leave. Guan-da scanned the room he was in, her sleeping chamber. There were no exits beyond the door and the window. The window was too small for him to squeeze through without creating a clamor and the door would eventually lead downstairs where the female was located. If he dashed out quickly enough she might not get a chance to catch him, but she would be alerted of his presence, therefore making future attempts for the retrieval of his painting nearly impossible. His thoughts were disrupted when he heard a loud, fast-paced creaking of wood racing up the stairs. Something got stuck in his insides, like a stone knotted in his intestines, as he automatically moved to a semi-crouched, fighting stance. Though he appeared fierce and ready for battle, his tough form contradicted with the back of his quivering knees threatening to give up from under him.

The shadow appeared first, followed by its master.

It was her.

Guan-da raised his arm high, forcing back the urge to let out his great ednarg war cry to catch her by surprise, ready to rip the ooman in two with his bare claw before she got the chance to notice he had been there the entire time. That ugly, pale face will soon be stripped from the creature's skull because he was Guan-da, Night-knife, not only an indulger in the Elders' Arts, but a skilled Warrior, a Hunter, and –

Where are you going?

The female had dashed into the room, not a hint of panic or fear in her face, merely excited and confused, her head swiveling back and forth as if she were looking for something. She had grabbed a nearly cylindrical object, long and metallic, and from it sprayed an odd-scented mist into the air. Some type of vapor-like incense or something similar, he thought. Then she suddenly got on her knees, dug her hand under the bed, and retreated two painting structures, both of them completed, filled with the attractive colors, and left one on the bed while taking the other back downstairs. She had completely ignored him the entire time as if he were not even present. Guan-da looked down at himself feeling rather confused and a bit offended...then growled. And why the pauk wouldn't she had seen him? He was still cloaked! The cloaking mechanism had been activated as a safety precaution before he entered the ooman's premises and had been left activated the entire time. At first he felt anger at his negligence – mistakes like these could get him killed – then relieved. And what if the female had seen him and were forced to engage? Would he have been able to survive her might, much less gain the victory? Guan-da raised to the ceiling-obscured sky, breathing a sigh of relief while thanking whatever deity had made him forget to deactivate his cloak. He made a mental note to claim a kill in the merciful deity's honor.

Guan-da allowed himself a few spare moments to relax. He was alive for now, and that was all that truly mattered at the moment. The sun will rise for him again.

How odd, a curios scent of synthesized woodland was coming in through the filters of his mask…

(-)

Where was it?

Terry flipped up the protective cloth under the canvas. That wasn't it. She flipped another cloth only to be greeted by disappointment again. It had to be around here, she told herself, she had seen it around here. It was that hideous surrealist, semi-abstract painting with the prancing warriors and their spears and shit. Great, now that she wanted it, it was nowhere to be found. How many times had this same situation happened? Like clockwork. There had to be a science behind it or something...

Terri wanted to take a digital picture of the rogue painting and send it to her co-workers and bosses in the publishing house and studio. Maybe they would have some clue as to whom this hideous thing belonged to. And when she found out the name of this artist she would hunt him or her down and punch a hole through the canvas with their head! The nerve they had in thinking she would accept this piece of shit, or even that it belonged with the rest of her work. Of course, if she were to actually punch a hole through the canvas with their head she would more likely than not be arrested with some jail time. Oh wouldn't the press just love that? "Homicidal Artist Attacks Kindred Soul!" "Battle of the Brushes!" Vulture-like bastards… So no, she wouldn't succumb to her more primal instincts and graciously return the painting to its rightful owner, making a fuss over the obvious talent that went into creating such a piece, and both parties will leave with a smile on their face and return to their beds like nothing happened –

Suddenly, Terri's head jerked up. Bed. The bedroom! Now she remembered; Terri had left that painting, along with some other smaller works, under her bed while she was dusting the house to protect them because there wasn't enough protective cloth to cover them all. With a speed more befitting to the cartoon road-runner of lost childhoods Terri raced up the stairs, creating enough noise to wake up the dead, before bursting into her room, nearly frantic, but mostly overjoyed at remembering. In fact, so overjoyed that she almost didn't notice the odd stench of road-kill bathed in vegetable oil that originated from the farther corner of her bedroom. There would be a day in the calendar marked with a memo to clean this room soon, but for now she counterbalanced it by dousing the place with a generous amount of air freshener, pine scented. There was no need to think twice; the paintings were under the bed just where she left them. Terri reached down and got the first two canvas edges that managed to fall into her grasp and unceremoniously pulled them out. The first one was one of hers; a practice portrait of some exec's wife, but the second one, the second one was what she was looking for. The prancing warriors painting. Finally! With the odd painting safely tucked under Terri's arm, she raced downstairs, feeling like a conquering soldier. She was Theresa Rossner: Artist Extraordinaire, Finder of Lost Paintings, and Crazy Hermit Bitch!

It was a short victory. No one Terri had contacted knew the hand that created the painting. Her fellow co-workers coughed up a few names, but they were pretty sure these were not the artists she was looking for, but she could try them if she wanted to. Terri looked over the list of names scribbled on a nearby piece of scrap paper. Bunch of people she knew in the industry by name and work, not personally. Boy, that would have been an interesting conversation: "Hello? Yes, this is Theresa Rossner calling from the Sartre Mountains. I don't know you, but I know your work, and you don't know me, but you know my work. Yes, that's right, Sartre Mountains. No, not from Fort Bridgeman; I'm not military. Anyways, I have with me a painting that may be yours by the careless way paint was applied, almost as if the brush was having a seizure, and depicts a bunch of warrior-like subjects dancing around with spears as if they were on crack. Does it sound familiar? What medication? Well, I was just wondering and – What? …Your mom!"

Yep, that sounded like her. Even the "You mom!" bit was something that would have come out of her mouth. Damn, she'd be nicer if other people weren't such dicks. At least up here she could avoid the worst of the talentless human specimens that cooed over her works like sea gulls over a dump site. As if she had time to play hostess to a pack of drooling morons who couldn't even hold a pencil correctly. Where was Ashley? She needed someone to point at said morons with when they passed by them as they sat at the café, sipping on drinks she could barely pronounce, whispering into each other's ears about the poor females that wasted their time birthing brats that would never appreciate a mother's sacrifice when they could just dump the kid in a daycare or have their tubes tied – whichever they could afford – and actually work on building a fucking career instead of being a house wife and caretaker. That's what immigrants were for anyways. Don't have time to do your files and watch the brat at the same time? Hire a Venezuelan maid; dime a dozen. Ashley wanted to marry, but not have kids. Good for her. It was good to have friends that were established enough to understand that having a kid is the reverse of personal and economic growth. One didn't need to look far. Just look at the women in business suits that talked in that incoherent babble to their children as if they had recently suffered a stroke. How could anyone expect them to give their absolute best and focus on their jobs when they had to downscale to the mentality of a two year old? And all that hard-earned money? Gone. Spent on things that a child clearly could live without; no wonder these kids grew up to be self-centered materialists. Nope, not the life for Terri. In fact, she made damn sure no unexpected "surprise" was going to put an ugly hiatus in her career; her tubes had been cut since she was 24.

Terri traced her fingers over the canvas, allowing the thick bumps and bulges of the paint to stimulate her fingertips. It felt rather good, like caressing a bumpy sea stone, uneven, but smooth. The paints were vibrant and seemed to make the little warriors spring to life and dance right in front of her eyes. Abstract art had that effect; when done correctly, that is. She could almost hear drums and chants in the back of her mind, but such primal music seemed almost out of place when depicted against these swaying brushstrokes. Terri's face formed a small scowl. Speaking of children…

"A six year old could have done better."

The clock chimed midnight. Terri giggled childishly, placing down what had to be the fourth beer tonight on the kitchen table where she sat. No angry suits for her, she'd turn in her work for evaluation a good few hours ago. Disappointment can be a good thing, when it didn't involve one's self. Yeah, disappoint yourself, you bastards… Terri picked up the can again, shook it to hear the wet splish splash of whatever liquid was left inside, and took another gulp. She really ought to stop drinking so much for no apparent reason. Maybe next Thursday, if she remembered. Granted, a beer with friends over a football game or at Charlie's made the alcohol taste better tenfold, but hey, she was in a cabin in the middle of a lot of trees and a lot of beer that she brought over, and…you know, she couldn't just waste it. This had a point, she knew it had a point, but if it made sense or was even relevant wasn't important right now, not that she remembered.

"What are you looking at?" She asked with slurred words.

The odd painting did not respond.

Terri nodded. "That's what I thought."

That horrible painting had been staring at her since she sat down, and it was only on the third beer when the warriors started to dance. Yeah, dancing. With music and everything. That same stupid melody with the drums and the chanting had been echoing in the back of her mind and it got louder and louder and louder with each empty can until she could practically believe someone was blasting the fucking music through the fucking windows. They danced. Dancing, dancing, dancing… And not just in her mind; they were freaking moving across the canvas. They swirled and spun, throwing those toothpick-sized spears into the air of red and green and blue, mixing the colors and turning them into purples and oranges, and the diminutive warriors caught them before they hit the wooden floor of the canvas. It was…entertaining. A fucked up liver did interesting things to the mind, and hell, she'd seen worse. Need she remind herself of the Don Quixote incident? Heh, at least she could remember that drunken stupor of pretending to be the fabled wandering knight; in fact, it had been her inspiration for her "Celtic Wires" piece which depicted a sort of cybernetic medieval soldier. The rights for the character had been bought and it was now a continuing novel by the same name. Some sort of science-fiction piece of shit… Teenagers were the main fan base. How come adults rarely got into the beauty of realistic fantasy? It's not as if it was so far-fetched that it was downright implausible; rocket scientists with some sort of writing skill were being hired to come up with novels to explain how a human could stay alive 50 years in cryogenic sleep, or a ship the size of Manhattan could move through Einstein space. They had the explanations right there and still they wouldn't eat the shit.

The little colorful warriors gave no comforting explanation; they just danced as if they too were drunk. One tiny warrior broke away from the group, still dancing like an idiot and chanting in a nearly contradicting deep voice, and danced its way out of the canvas border. It danced in mid air, spear high above its head, looking at Terri, then it began to dance its way into the darkened living room.

Terri's brow raised as much as her intoxicated face muscles would allow her to.

"Where are you going?" There was a slight undertone of anger in her voice. She didn't give permission for the tiny bastard to leave! Get back in your canvas where you belong!

Terri followed the floating imp into the living room, and stumbled over the coffee table in doing so. Her mind screamed that she was falling, but the message was drowned by the sounds of the drums and chants. She held her hands out to steady herself, all in a matter of a measure of time that couldn't even be seconds, and crashed against something hard. Her body did a very good impression of a bouncy ball ricocheting against a brick wall, and she fell on her rear end with a loud gasp escaping her mouth, then she roared. Except, she didn't roar, but she heard a roaring sound nonetheless so it had to be hers; there was no one else in the entire cabin except herself and the canvas warrior in front of her.

The canvas warrior.

A soft chirping sound was heard, like a frightened bird. Terry cocked her head to the side, squinting her eyes. She didn't remember the spear-wielding imp to be this big. It was supposed to be a little representation of an ancient warrior, and though it smelled as if were centuries since it had a decent bath, it was anything but little now. It towered over her, with wide shoulders and a deep, barrel-like chest, and stunk as if it had rolled on animal dung recently. Terri got on her feet. The warrior took a step back, chirping. She stared at the canvas subject for a few hesitant moments and was the first to break the silence with a, "God, you're fucking ugly."

She pointed at it. "You are fucking ugly…" she repeated with more of a sigh. The canvas warrior-now-turned-giant looked left and right with its arms raised in alarm, black strands of something thick on its head fanning out with each turn, smacking into each other and like wet slabs of meat beating a cat…Ok, maybe not exactly like mentioned visual, but it was pretty damn close. Damn it, how did it get so big? She liked it when it was tiny; at least it didn't smell as bad. Terri raised both her hands to her face, pressing in her eyes with her fingers. God, she needed a beer…or maybe she had too many beers… There was something even she couldn't deny though, and that she doubted that was a face even its mother could love. There were some sort of finger-like limbs coming out of the side of its mouth, two on top and two on the bottom, parting the lips apart, revealing a mouth that a soldier on drugs would probably like to stick his dick into if he didn't mind the sharp teeth scraping his balls, but hey, maybe he likes that sort of thing. Sharp intakes of breath were coming in and out of this odd pussy-mouth. Hell, she'd be tired too if she just danced her way into reality. There were no eyes, only whitish orbs with an odd color for an iris sunken in a pair of black eye sockets. The top of its head was shaven clean, only a glisten from the kitchen light gave hint that it was dry like a rhinoceros' skin, but at the same time wet. Bony protrusions extended from its brow to surround the skull in an odd crown, but this was no king, in fact, it shouldn't even be here.

"You!" Terri said, pointing a threatening finger at it. The warrior gave a small yelp, lowering its head, as its mouth/finger protrusions came together at the center of the mouth. "Get back in your canvas, now!"

The last thing she needed were tiny warriors turning into giants and running about in her house. Their crazy dancing would knock down everything and then she would be the one that would end up picking everything up by herself. She hoped this warrior did not start dancing all of a sudden. The warrior made a soft chirping sound, but otherwise made no other movement.

Terri scowled, then her threat turned into a whine. "C'mon, I said back in the freakin' painting with you with the rest of the little dancing people. C'mon! Please?"

Wait… A better idea had come to mind. What a perfect opportunity. Terri raced into the kitchen, grabbed the odd painting, and came back into the living room where she found the canvas warrior kneeling behind the sofa. When it heard her approaching it raised to its full height again, growling softly. Before her beer-induced fantasy could react, Terri shoved the painting into its chest with random loose pieces of paper and a sketchbook to go with the artwork. If she couldn't get rid of the painting, then it could get rid of the painting for her!

"Here! Just take the freakin' thing!" She shoved at the warrior, pushing him towards the front door. It reluctantly moved its feet towards the directions she wanted it to go, but still held back like a stubborn burro. God this bastard must weigh a ton! Not that she was surprised, with all that paint that was applied to the canvas it must easily weigh, well, a lot. "It's not mine, it's not Elena's, it's not anybody's! You danced out of the painting so now it's yours! Ha! Take that in your pipe and smoke it, you colorful chanting bastard!"

Terri raced in front of the warrior and unlocked the door after fighting against the locks to open them, cursing to the high heavens in the process. The door swung open, a breath of cold autumn air sweeping into the warm interior. Placing her hands once again on the warrior's back, Terri pushed the oversized dancing midget out of her house and closed the door behind it with a loud slam that made her wince in pain. That had not been a good idea. Damn wind currents. Terri made her way towards the sofa, feeling rather satisfied with herself and at the same time terribly sleepy, and let her body fall onto its cushiony embrace face first, the sound of her overworked liver trying to purge her body from four servings of beer lulling her to sleep.

Ha, ha…I won, were her last thoughts for the night.

(-)

Guan-da', standing in front of the female's dwelling, stared at the painting in his grasp. His painting in his grasp. He should be joyous, but there was something terribly, terribly wrong about the actual obtainment of said item.

Euq a odasa?

What the hell had just happened?