A/N: Holy SHIIIIIIIT! An update! Why the long-ass hiatus? Life. It does things to you, and not usually the way you planned it to be. So I had to attend to life first, stop pretending I was nerd, and become another drone of society. But, y'know, I much preferred my nerd life. Much like the life I breathe BACK into this fic! By golly, I will finish this! Your continued support, and seemingly endless patience, is very much loved.

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.

Paper Cuts

The lights whirred softly, their glow even softer inside the small living quarters where Guan'da sat atop his sleeping mattress, legs crossed as he attempted to both find reason to the female's odd mannerisms and make sense of what he currently held in his hands. The latter took preference. The painting – his painting – rested against the metallic edge of the mattress, the many papers and parchment pads he held were being flipped from one side to the other, then swiftly cast aside so he could look at the next paper and its contents. His breath was ragged, but not out of injury or fear. It was exaltation. He knew he would've been content with the return of his canvas. Having it would be enough. Instead he received an invaluable amount of treasures. Paper gold.

It was hers. Her work. Her primary drawings – similar to the sketches he practiced on the back of old leather sheets before attempting the trickier tattoo designs on flesh. They were messy and to the uncultured yautja eye would merely seem black – and blue and red – scribbles on a parchment, but he… Oh, he knew their true worth. A hundred and one thoughts each jockeyed for position on which he would focus on first. The parchments depicted the occasional study of an earth animal, even going so far as to have clipped a sort of snapshot of the real beast at the corner. He chirped contently, rocking back once as he compared the snapshot to the scribble. They were the same! The anatomy, the proportions – flawless! The color was missing, but it was a trivial detail that was discarded. They were the same. The human had been able to capture an image of a beast, but it on paper, and give it life of its own. She was truly female in that essence, he mused. How apt, she was able to give life on a dead parchment whereas he could only mimic the image of a dead beast on living flesh and still not come close to the sense of authenticity. His lower tusks came together, throat rumbling in an attempt to add voice to the creature; though wondered if a hoofed quadruped with udders would snarl.

He carefully discarded the parchment aside then tilted his head at the current scribble looking up at him. His brows furrowed at the center, yet lifted slightly at the ends.

She was looking at him.

It was her. The ooman female. The tormentor of these past days was staring at him through the paper. Her tresses seemed slightly longer, but it was her. He would recognize those beady eyes anywhere. The eyes. They were hers. Yes, he could recognize the shape – even remember the color. He could mentally add the color himself, a dark tree bark color with an undertone of dirty grass.

He flared his mandibles and snarled at her – at the paper – and half expected her to respond to the mockingly aggressive display.

A finger slid down her face, almost feeling the bumps and faint crevices of her plain features on the paper as if he were truly touching her person. His upper mandibles raised slightly in contentment. He could see her, sitting on the tall stool, hunched over the odd structure supporting the canvas with the delicate fingers wrapping over the stencil that added the color, the other hand holding a dirty rag or a flat bowl that contained more dyes. The memory came from the time he had caught her amending his work, but instead of rousing anger from him this time there was an undertone of fondness in the thought. He replaced the image with himself, hunched over the back of an elder male of higher rank, though they were both sitting cross legged on the floor atop of some padding, a tattooing stencil in one hand and a flask of black dye in the other. It was the same image.

And she was staring at him. He found fascination in the thought that she would have the bravado to illustrate herself. In his world, it was the one who commissioned the work that was praised for the beauty of it, not the artist who illustrated it. Much like the individual who made the shot was praised for the aim, not the gun. Artists were tools. A middle stepping stone from having bare skin to dyed one. Yet she clearly thought herself above so if her arrogance made her portray herself as unique. In a sense of condescension and superiority. It was a silent claim, and it said: "I did this because I can and I have the skill. Not you."

He looked over at where his painting rested, propped against the edge of the bed. There was no singular portrayal of any individual – especially not himself. He was the artist; it was the warriors in the painting that were the true icons.

And yet.

Who else could've done so if not himself? Could a warrior have held a tattooing stencil as secure as he? Could Elders, in all their infinite wisdom, have been able to tell apart a line from a form? His breath deepened. He knew where those thoughts were leading him. He had sipped from the cup of arrogance before – and the taste was sweet.

He looked forward, eyes darting to the left. Where there any Elders around? No. His mandibles quivered as his throat accommodated the words uttered.

"You are…" he started, then halted, bringing the pad closer to his chest as if it were a shield from an unknown ghost. "…You are imbeciles. Philosophies could not differentiate a sphere from a circle."

His entire body tensed momentarily, as if a hand would strike him from the heavens themselves for his cheeky claim. Yet no strike came. No ghost hand made itself known. The muscles relaxed, and so did his throat which uttered the next audacious claim.

"Warriors can hold a blade, but they drop the lightest of stencils – clumsy in their hands!"

He looked down at his own hands. The tips were permanently black due to the many dyes he had handled and had consequently spilled against his fingers. But none could hold the stencil as well as he. None as well as he. The hands closed into a fist, then opened. He reached over and swiftly grabbed the edges of his painting, lifting it above his head as mandibles flared.

"I did this!"

He repeated the claim when there was no retaliation.

"I did this! I painted as freely as any would! Because I can!"

The words were simple, but held a powerful meaning to him. He had allowed to grow prideful, to claim ownership over his skill as his own doing and not just due to divine intervention. It wasn't just luck, or that the deities had bestowed him a gift. He could create his marks because he knew how. It was a good feeling. A slightly dirty feeling of arrogance blended with the delicious sensation of achievement. He curled the painting to his chest with as much tenderness a female would to a pup. The painting was his. He created it. Just as the ooman female had created her own marks on the parchments and cloths. They were creators. And in that thought he found sympathy – and a slightly odd sense of companionship.

(-)

The blanket made mound shifted slightly, a soft, muffled moan gurgling from within. With a wide upwards swoop of her arms Terry removed the thick blanket off her person, the same hand coming up to rub her slightly swollen eyes and thudding head. She groaned and sat up, cupping her chin and rubbing her jaw as she offered a blank stare forward but at nothing in particular, eyelids blinking lazily. So she had overdrunk her limit – lightweight as she is – and had woken up on the floor. At least if the time frame that she didn't remember never came back she could feel comforted in the thought she knew where she had been the entire time; in the cabin. Alone. Just the way she liked it.

She rose on uneasy legs, as wobbly's as a newborn calf's, but managed to shake her equilibrium back to its senses and made her way to the kitchen to prepare coffee – and by looking out the window she could start with lunch if she felt like it. The small machine was already whirring to life, dripping its brown nectar in a steady droplet stream into a plastic mug. Terry frowned when she saw her sketches and materials scattered on the floor as it would mean she had been rather careless in her drunken stupor and would have to pick it up.

The silence was quite literally shattered when the phone rang. She grimaced, hissing softly at the irritating screech of the phone as she brought a hand to her ear and the other whipped forward to pick it up and answer.

"What…!" she hissed, her mood soured by the annoyance.

The voice on the other end of the line sounded just as displeased. "Whoa. Good day to you too." Ashley seemed to have taken offense to Terry's sharp greeting.

Terry groaned, leaning forward against the counter to rest an elbow on its edge, the hand holding her cheek, and the head it belonged to, up. "Augh… Sorry, sorry. Just, that… Slept in. Whatever. What do you want?"

"Hmph. Look, I sent you some correspondence. Remember that you wanted those new Ricardo Calzado books for your reference library? They should've arrived at your P.O. box today."

Terry nodded, but eventually figured the other woman would need vocal acknowledgement. "Right, right. Thanks. I'll, eh… I'll go pick 'em up later. Taxi should take about forty minutes to get here if I call the service now."

"You know if you walked there it'll take you an hour and a half or so to get to the town and save you the money. The exercise will do you good and whatnot."

"And risk the chance of running into hikers? Those friendly "admire the forest in its fall glory with me" kind of individuals? They're gonna be crawling all over the place soon. No. No, I want the damn taxi. More direct. Point A to point B and back to point A. No need for socialization in between."

She could hear Ashley offer a blend of a sigh and a chuckle. "Suit yourself, Terrs. I just did my job, as any good friend and assistant would do."

"Mhm. That you did. Anything else…?"

"One thing. You're expected back by next month for the convention in Los Angeles. Your hotel and booth have been reserved."

"Good thing I have a whole month to worry about it. Good day, Ashley."

"Right. Good day."

And Terry hung up.

She breathed a long, drawn-out sigh as she ran her fingers through her hair, gripping the back of her neck and massaging the stiff muscles there. Right, she had a life back in the city. The world had not forgotten about her! Convention, convention, interview, workshop and studio, and then another convention before the movie's release. Her end of the work was completed for now. She had sent the sketches. Hollywood will have to eat it, digest it, and toss the steaming pile back at her with all the revisions and edits they would want to see before the final approval. Eyes wandered to the messy papers on the floor, as well as to a few pencils. Sketches. Drawing. She felt like drawing – if only for a bit, for herself. She couldn't even remember the last time she did that.

The coffee machine dinged the end of its cycle and Terry picked up the mug, offering a soft sip to its contents. She turned around, leaning against the counter as she stared lazily out the window where fall was already making its fast approach. It was about as appealing to draw as a bowl of fruit. And she didn't want to draw a bowl of fruit. Thoughts and ideas raced, examined and discarded in her mind with less than a second spent on each of them. One idea passed and went, and she had liked it. She retrieved it and held it still in her thought. It was the ugliest thing that had been recently spawned in her head. So it was perfect. That ugly bestial creature from her dream. Dreams were a great source of inspiration but they didn't last long in the pocket of memory unless it was recorded, be it with words or lines. The latter was her preference.

Setting the mug on the counter she walked over to the thickest pile of papers on the floor and picked a few papers up, as well as a couple of pencils now that she had her spine in a painful position so early in the afternoon, and returned to the counter as she brought a stool closer and sat on it. With the occasional sip to her mug her hand otherwise kept scribbling on the paper, the other hand supporting her head and occasional gripping the edge of the parchment so that it didn't move when she had to erase. The image in her mind flickered, already beginning to seep away into disregard. It kept changing, molding into different shapes that were similar but not the same. As if keeping in one's mind the image of an animal; a dog, but that dog shifting and blending into different breeds of dogs. It was still a dog, but it didn't look like the dog you first had in mind.

The pencil was set down, and she picked up the paper to admire… a very similar illustration to what she had sent yesterday. Yet this was the first time she could truly see what she had sent. It wasn't anything to be disappointed over, that was for certain. It was bestial, ugly, and still humanoid enough to have a man in a plastic costume play the part for the closed shots in the film. The one detail she didn't like were the eyes. They looked too human. Too obvious there was a man in a costume. Monsters like this one had nothing human about them. Possessed no better sense and no soul.

Monsters had no souls.