The Artist has taken residence with two very nice persons who offered their house in exchange for some paintings and a body painting session. The Artist accepted, if only to practice body painting and not sleep under trees. But we all know what happens when the Artist paints people, don’t we? Oh, we all know what the Artist can do with her art. But what happens when the Artist tries something new, something she herself doesn’t quite understand?
Silverwatch
By Mr. Scade
“It tickles.” He giggled and, then, remembering something, he frowned. “What are you doing back there?” The man added, struggling not to move.
“If you move, I will bite you. Now, stay still.” The Artist said, holding a silver-stained brush with silver-stained fingers.
The brush kissed his back, and the Artist turned back to work. For being a recluse who barely left his house and who, it appeared, did nothing more than write articles, Green—the Artist had decided to call him something else, but decided on Green—had quite the muscle definition, she thought. Shame he hid it so well most of the time. But now it would be there for all to see. Oh, yes! The Artist bit her lip, containing an urge to dig her nails into his flesh.
“This blindfold itches, you know?” He snorted once more.
The Artist rolled her eyes, ignoring yet another complaint. The man complained a lot, but at least he followed instructions. She wetted her brush and continued applying the second layer of silver body paint. So far, the Artist regretted accepting the man’s offer for food and board in exchange for some paintings, and a full body paint job for him and his roommate. In other circumstances she would’ve said no and erased herself from his memory, but she had grown tired of sleeping under tress and on hard floors and that one time under a car. It was not the job that bothered her or the place itself, but the unnecessary complaining. The man didn’t even like his own complaining, and didn’t even come through with his own bitching. And yet he did. It was as if he did it as a reflex—where others would scratch at an itch, he would complain about it.
She wanted to cover his mouth with a gag.
She had liked the idea of painting somebody, to turn someone into a breathing canvas. It had been a while since she had done it and it felt good to move brush and paint over somebody’s flesh. But Green had complained so much. Complained to being nude, complained to the blindfold. He had even complained that her touches either aroused or tickled him. He was a drama queen.
“Not for long...” She whispered as she finished coating the whole of his back.
“What was that?” He turned his head around the tiniest bit. Straining muscles apparent under the coat of silver paint.
“Shush! Don’t move. I am not done yet.” The Artist poked him in the back of his head with the end of her brush. That quieted him down for a while.
With the layers of silver now perfectly applied, Green looked like an android out of a cheesy sci-fi movie. A hot android, the Artist thought. With his endomorph anatomy, and that flowing long hair, which she sadly had to cover with a silver swim cap, the man was good enough to eat. But she had to contain herself. It wouldn’t be good to abuse of her temporal landlord. Well, not when the paint was still wet. No need to ruin a perfectly wonderful piece of bodyart.
Blergh. I hate that word. She thought as she exchanged the silver brush for a pot of black paint with a tiny brush in it. She started drawing perfectly straight lines and perfectly round circumferences on his back, finishing a design that covered and warped around the rest of his body, enhancing muscular perfection and distracting from fatty areas.
Once she finished painting his back she turned the office chair he was patiently sitting on around. The Artist looked at his straight face, painted completely safe for his covered eyes.
“Remove the blindfold, but do not open your eyes, yet.” She whispered, warmly.
Green didn’t say a word and did as commanded. He had been dubious at the blindfold, but figured his eyes must be protected from the paint. He had to be protected, indeed, but not from the paint.
Just as his eyelids felt a rush of fresh air he felt the cold tip of a brush on his skin. He shied away, but the Artist’s steady hand on the back of his head kept him in place.
“Stop moving. I am just about done.” She said, running her tiny brush over his eyes, careful not to leave globs of paint or to let paint into his eyes.
With a quick move of her wrist she had painted the area around his eyes a deep black, which contrasted with the silver of the rest of his head. He looked alien.
Finally the Artist rose, stretching her arms and legs. She looked upon her work, feeling proud at how it turned out. Green looked as if from a futuristic setting, one where machines ruled. She had managed to paint live-like renditions of bolts and plates to add to the illusion. The black lines crisscrossing his body in odd patterns had been a curious suggestion from his, who wanted to have alien-looking symbols on his body. She had taken his idea and added touches of her own. She was excited just thinking what might happen when he finally looked over her work. It was a new experiment, and she never quite knew what to make of her novel work.
Anything could happen!
“Exciting.” She whispered and then, loudly, “Done!”
Green opened his eyes and started looking down at his body when the Artist yelled at him. “I did not say you could look at yourself!” She placed a hand under his chin and pulled him to look at her eyes. “You will go and see yourself in the mirror. Okay? I want you to look at everything, not just your legs.”
Green’s startled stare was indication enough of just how little he knew of the woman. He had no idea the quiet, nameless girl could be so intense. Without complaints he stood and obeyed. If she had taken three hours to finish painting him, then it must’ve been worth putting up with artist’s psychosis. And such work needed to be rightfully appreciated.
At that moment came a knock on the door. The Artist and Green turned to see a woman poke her head through the opening. She had a straight, almost manly face. Her short hair matched her brown eyes. “Are you two done? Because the ball is in about two hours and I am not painted yet.” She said, almost playfully.
The Artist found herself grinning. The girl, who she had baptized as Ochre, was simply so curious about her, and the tattoos she had, and what she could do that it almost made her feel bad for putting her in a Trance so many times. She was just so friendly! Hell, the girl, who usually dressed like a boy, was still under some of the Artist’s influence even then. To the trained eye, the dreamy way she looked at the Artist was indication enough.
“She just finished with me. I’ll go and look at the whole thing.” Green slipped out of the room through another door before Ochre could see him. He knew what the Artist would do to him if he allowed his friend to see him before the Artist allowed him to.
With a playful giggle Ochre walked in, pink dress fluttering around her body. The Artist concealed an evil-sounding chuckle. Oh, how fun it was to coerce the girl into the dress. And it had been even more joyful to make Green turn a blind eye to the whole affair.
“Undress, dear.” The Artist whispered as she prepared her tools.
Ochre obeyed without complaints.
Once the shuffling stopped and the Artist heard the hydraulic base of the office chair moan slightly she turned around. Her eyes fell upon Ochre’s freckled back and arms.
“So... silver too?” The Artist said, her hands pulling Ochre’s hair into a knot before the swimming cap swallowed her head.
Ochre nodded. “Silver and black, like we agreed on. But I want symbols like the Triforce and Kryptonian language.” Her hands moved swiftly, placing the blindfold upon her own eyes. It accentuated her grin.
The Artist rolled her eyes, but agreed. It wasn’t her custom to use somebody else’s ideas and desings in her own work, but early on she had learned that, sometimes, she couldn’t do anything but do what a client wanted. And those experiences had simply taught her how to truly perfect her mentor’s ways to hide her mark in plagiarism to make it look original.
The Artist took a deep breath, and Ochre mimicked her. “Have you been good?” The Artist’s breath kissed Ochre’s neck.
Ochre shuddered and stifled a moan. Being in the Artist’s very presence felt exhilarating and powerful. “Yes, Mistress.” She said with unfamiliar coyness.
“Oh, wonderful.” A silver brush touched Ochre’s skin, pulling a pleasant gasp out of the girl. “And do you remember what happens to good girls?” The brush started licking the girl’s skin, from side to side in wide arcs.
“Obedient girls are good, good girls obey. Good girl are rewarded, good girls are happy.” The grin on Ochre’s face was full of joy and desire.
The Artist said nothing afterward. She fell into a Trance of her own, applying one brush kiss after the other. Her hand moved in arcs, her arm moved in straight lines. With ease and skill the brush travelled over Ochre’s tanned skin, covering the many moles and blemishes with a thin line of silver.
With each new kiss of the brush the Artist saw the effects of her art on the girl. Every time the wet brush tip touched her skin, Ochre would go into the litany of obedience, finding noticeable arousal at every word she repeated.
The Artist worked to a constant droning litany of “Obedient girls are good, good girls obey. Good girls are rewarded, good girls are happy.” and felt content. Immersed. Lost in her own reverie.
Little more than an hour later, the Artist stood, washed her brushes, her hands and even her face. She looked down at her paint-stained shirt and shorts and decided to change.
She took a shower, burrowed her pet’s clothes, and prepared herself some grub.
When she walked into the room, Ochre was still sitting with her eyes closed and the litany on her lips. The room smelled of paint and arousal. A combination the Artist loved. She walked towards her work of art, inspecting the details with rested eyes. She noted some mistakes on the Kryptonian symbols over the girl’s right arm, but that was to be expected. The Artist didn’t like the symbols, and she had been somewhat strained from her last work. But overall she was satisfied.
“Good girls are obedient, good girls obey. Good girls are rewarded ,good girls are happy.” Ochre kept whispering to herself, her breathing coming in deep intakes.
The Artist smiled and said, “Done. You can wake now.”
Ochre opened her eyes, slowly, blinked a couple of times before she woke from her Trance. Immediately she turned to look down at her body but the Artist’s voice stooped her.
“Oh, none of that, pet. You will not see your body unless you are in front of a mirror, understand?”
“Yes.” Ochre coughed slightly, her throat raspy. She was somewhat confused at her sore throat.
With a flick of her wrist the Artist commanded the girl to stand. “Now, off you go. Take a look at my wonders.”
Ochre looked at the Artist with a stare short of devotion before slipping into the adjoining room. The Artist followed suit after ten seconds had passed.
The adjoining room was part storage place, part game room, and part guest’s room. It was the only place in the flat that had full-length mirrors, and where the Artist had been playing with Ochre for the last week.
She found Ochre and Green standing in front of the mirrors, poses stiff, eyes staring blankly forward. The two friends didn’t seem to notice each other’s nudeness, each other’s presence. They simply stood, motionless, breathing deeply.
The Artist stood there, afraid that any movement would break the scene. Whatever it was. She had never painted someone like these two had wanted—for a costume ball, they had said—and really had no idea how they would react to their own images. Or how anyone would react to the sight of her work.
“One unknown factor to help along my grand scheme.” The Artist whispered with a giggle.
Noticing the two persons didn’t react to her voice, the Artist cautiously walked towards them. She stood ahead, staring at their naked bodies. Their eyes were almost blank, and their poses were stiff. They were obviously in a Trance, but what kind?
The Artist inspected her work, trying to find a clue as to what they were experiencing. She must’ve hidden something in her brushstrokes, something that would be obvious to her if she looked closely, but nothing presented itself. Oh, I am good. She thought, realising she had no idea what she had done. And it was good!
Green’s cock was hard, standing at attention, as were Ochre’s nipples. The two were obviously in a threshold of arousal of a strange nature. Few times had she seen this when experimenting with new styles.
After ten minutes the Artist decided to try something. She removed the full-length mirror, turning it away and placing it against a wall. The two persons didn’t react.
The Artist frowned and dismissively asked, “What do you see?”
Ochre and Green breathed in deeply in unison. Their eyes focused on her in unison. Their lips moved in unison.
“We see purpose.” The two’s voices were low, unemotional, flat. They spoke without a speck of feeling. “We see obedience.”
The Artist raised an eyebrow. It wasn’t novel that people saw obedience in her work, but it was novel to see people react in such a... quiet, turned-off kind of way. These two looked almost lifeless.
The Artist was confused, and a bit frustrated.
“Okay... who do you obey?” She leaned against a wall, her eyes upon Green’s member. “And why?” She added.
The two took a deep breath, all of them motionless but their lips. “We obey the Controller-Programmer.” They spoke, their flat voices echoing each other. Then they paused, their eyes moving without looking. Just as the Artist thought they wouldn’t speak again they responded. “We are programmed slaves. We’re human machines. We’re obedient.”
A frown. She leaned closer, her hand slowly as if to touch their faces. She stopped. The Artist perked, her arms slowly moving as if to touch them, then slowly dropping. Her eyes were wide, curious, and inquisitive. She bit her lip, stifling a moan as she realized what she had unwittingly done. “Robots! They’re robots.” She thought out loud, standing inches away from them.
“Affirmative.” The silver twins said.
The Artist took a deep breath and reeled back. Now that she looked at them, at the designs on their bodies, at her works of art she could see the messages. Hidden among her brushstrokes were the worlds only she knew how to thread. They were new worlds, knew landscapes, but the tell-tale sings of her hand were obvious. She may not know them, but she still knew how not to get lost in them.
Possibilities flashed before her eyes.
What would be the effect these two had on others? Would onlookers be similarly affected? Could the two be reprogrammed? And what was their programming to begin with?
New art. New style. Fresh and endless possibilities!
New.
New.
New!
Oh, the Artist was shaking with excitement. She needed to learn, needed to know how much these two knew, understood, could do. Suddenly her eyes flew wide. “Oh! Oh! Oh!” She started pacing up and down the room, her hands holding her face. “Oh, Powers! It... It could work!” She turned to the two robots, a wide grin upon her features.
These two, if her suspicions were right, could help her speed up her schemes. With these two her roaming could be cut short, and the seeds she had planted upon so many could bloom faster, with more of an impact. With these two her chances of reaching the Museum were amplified.
“Tell me of your programming.” She quickly. The Artist stared into Ochre’s eyes, and for a second felt guilty. There was nothing of the shy and energetic girl in those eyes.
The twin silver robots stood motionless for a second and then, suddenly, turned to face each other. Their hands rose in fluid, choreographed moves. They interlocked fingers and pulled each other closer. Green’s cock brushed against Ochre’s belly, but neither reacted.
“We are...” The two began but quickly felt silent. Their fingers tightened, their bodies stiffened.
The Artist leaned closer, excited, her heart beating fast. It could be... It had to be!
The two robots turned to stare at her. They opened their mouths in unison and spoke.
The Artist squealed in delight and almost blacked out.
She didn’t regret accepting their offer now.
The two robots walked in unison, synchronized like only two biological machines could. Their glistening bodies shone under artificial light and candlelight, and the stares of awed guests. They paid no mind to the questions, the touches, the bustling of amazement and disgust around them. Their programming was running, and they had to obey it.
Their creator watched them walk. They could feel her eyes on their bare backs, but could no more react to it than deviate from their orders.
They had to obey.
As they went up the stairs, walking into the hotel building, a grand group of costumed guests crowded around them. They knew that with so many stares on their shiny flesh few if any would notice their creator. That was an imperative in their programming. They felt happy, truly happy deep inside, to be able to complete any part of their programming.
They stood, motionless, thoughtless, in the center of the hotel lobby. They had seen, stored, but not acknowledged several tables full of fancy entrees, hors d’ouvres, platters of food which name they couldn’t pronounce, and booze. They saw but didn’t acknowledged the amazement, horror, interest and wonder of all the people around them.
They were just not programmed to.
“Damn, ‘Ish, you look fucking awesome!” A man dressed like a pirate walked over to the male robot.
The robot blinked, once. It seemed to remember things, information not relevant to its programming. The robots knew about a costume ball, an important event of some sort, but before it could remember any more their programming took hold and silenced that runtime.
“Thanks.” The male robot said, voice low, monotone.
The pirate man blinked, confusion plain on his face. The, suddenly, he smiled. “Oh, you’re roleplaying? Man, you do get committed. Well, I’ll let you be.” The man walked away.
More people grouped around them, staring into their bodies with unnatural rapture. The robots looked about, noticing several people joining them in a Trance, obeying the programming, letting it flow into them. The female robot shivered, her sex aching for attention. The male robot’s only reaction was to take a deep breath.
The female robot noticed its mistress standing behind the group of people, alone and helping herself to the food. The female robot’s mistress stared at it straight in the eyes, and then nodded. The female robot turned to look at her counterpart and the two shared a nod.
In a flash expression returned to their faces. They smiled, they blinked—they looked. They were, so far as anyone was concerned normal. They greeted people, they felt the air on their naked skins, they shook hands and kissed cheeks. They seemed normal, they seemed human; but the robots knew what they were: robots. They were programmed by the art on their bodies, like many would soon be, and had but programmed imperative in their minds.
The Artist watched from afar, putting tiny dough baskets filled with something that tasted like egg yolk and hummus in her mouth. She chewed, delighting in the flavour. As she reached for another canapé the Artist nodded at Ochre—or the robot once called Ochre—and waited for the show to begin. The Artist wondered the effects of her new experiment. Would the two robots snap out of their programming once the body paint was removed, or was it a permanent change? Very few of the Artist’s games and pieces ever had permanent effects on people, but those were things the Artist knew about, understood. This... it could go a thousand different ways.
The crowd was big, consisting mostly of young people and some older women. They were fascinated; if it was because of her ork, or her painted host’s daring she couldn’t tell. She only knew that the pair of robots were helping her in their own way. How lucky of her for an experiment to turn out so well—it almost fitted with everything she had been doing. The Artist patted one of the pockets in her coat to make sure the paper was still there. She wouldn’t want to lose a reproduction of the designs on their skins, would she? With the way her mind worked, thinking up new ideas all the time, it was easy for one good idea to get buried.
The warm-lighted lobby suddenly shuddered in a collective sigh. And then a collective oh. And then a collective laugh. And then a collective clap. The Artist walked around the ring of people, taking a glass of what she hoped was not champagne from one table, before she slipped soundlessly amongst the enraptured people. She saw that those in the back were not falling thrall to the programming printed in her robots’ bodies, but that would change soon enough.
Her sometimes red, sometimes violet eyes fell upon a lady in a nice dress to the back, noticing how she was ignoring the commotion and noise in favour of admiring the ornamentation on one of the food tables. For a second the Artist felt jealous, angry that someone wouldn’t pay her art the attention due, but, as she sipped from the glass, tasted something foul, and abandoned it in somebody’s hand, the Artist realised that she really didn’t care if someone didn’t look at her work, or if everyone in the room got reprogrammed by her art. It was not about pulling as many people into her imaginary, sometimes-real fold of followers—she had skill enough to do that with her own hands—but rather let people feel her work. Inspire them.
By changing as many people’s worldviews as possible, would she be able to enter the fabled Museum. What lay within she only knew little about, but that speck of information was enough for her. She needed to find the Museum, and the only way was to fill the world with a collective sigh and inspiration only great art could. She sometimes hoped she was doing it right. So many months of work and expectation, and if she was doing it wrong...
She shook her head. There was no need for her to clog her mind with pointless fantasies of an unsure future. Instead, she turned her gaze to the two robots following a programming she had not meant to create, but now used for her own designs.
There was a fanfare in the hotel room, and then in the Artist’s thoughts. She took a deep breath, slowly coming out of her own daydreaming. The Artist frowned, noticing her creations were nowhere to be seen. The hotel room filled with music. People in costumes started dancing.
Dancing. The Artist usually enjoyed dancing. She watched the costumed people move in circles and semi-circles and shapes that could’ve been circles if you were drunk enough. The Artist lost track of time for a moment or two when all of a sudden the people stopped dancing. The music died down. The chewing stopped and even the wonderful smells coming from the food tables seemed to vanish.
The two robots walked to the middle of the improvised dance floor, right arm clasped around left arm. They stood, motionless, and then began to dance.
Then the god of chaos, in its Twelve-past-four and candy cane throne waved its hand and the hotel lobby exploded into a late 90s Internet meme.
Costume people—at least those staring at the two robots—suddenly stood rigid, motionless, staring blankly ahead. The Artist leaned closer, curious and wary. Who knows what could happen?
Chaos appeared.
People kissed each other. Ladies kissing ladies. Gentlemen kissing gentlemen. And what lay in between kissing the platters of food. Some people started to remove their outfits, and dance, frolic, play or fuck in their birthday suits. Those distracted by their sudden change in behaviour soon turned around to the ruckus the two robots were causing, and soon feel into a madness of their own.
The robots grabbed people by the shirt/collar/blouse/sleeve and pulled their head close enough to their chests that, perhaps, in the right light, they could’ve seen molecules. Then they dropped them to the floor. Their arms broke their fall, and immediately they were crouching on the floor masturbating wildly. Although one or two were just drawing circles with their fingertips.
The Artist looked at a group that had been pretty much unaffected by everything suddenly start rearranging the delicious, yet confusing dishes in odd, almost Eldritch patterns.
Hours passed and the hotel room became much more chaotic, with its own system of order. New onlookers would go mad for an hour and then settle in a role, like cogs in a machine. Some would masturbate in a corner, others would place the food and canapés and entrees in interesting patterns around the first group’s bodily fluids, some would just kiss, and there were those who seemed to be re-enacting a BDSM styled version of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.
No one noticed the Artist but that man.
He approached, silently, and placed a hand on her shoulder. It was a simple, innocent gesture, almost familiar.
The Artist turned around, startled, surprised, angry at herself for not realising someone had been close by. Then she felt him. He looked ominous and normal at the same time. Black coat, black trousers, black shoes, black eyes and eyebrows and hair. He had a black top hat and black spectacles. When he opened his mouth the Artist thought his tongue and teeth would be black.
“You have been up to quite the misdeeds and intruige and schemes, miss.” His voice was deep, and then high and then deep again.
The Artist frowned, staring at Black.
Black gave her a lopsided smile, and turned his straight nose towards the ongoing actions in the dance floor. “This, dear, will not be easy to keep under wraps, you know? No one might’ve seen you, but people will talk, people will know and,” Black raised a black-gloved finger and pointed towards a camera that had been staring at the Artist as if a teenager peeking through a neighbour’s bathroom window. “You’ve been caught on tape.”
The Artist’s eyes widened. Panic gripped her throat like the assassin she pictured Black to be. But then she calmed down. She wrapped her arms around her chest, pondering if she could use her tattoos on this man. “Easy. Find the recordings room. Erase everything. Walk away. I know how to do it.”
Black licked his lips and, momentarily, the Artist saw a black glow cover his lips and then fade back to a natural red. “Oh, yes—machines and digits and whatnot. One lives so long, acquires so many skills, that one forgets that others with similar lives could gain a completely different set of skills.” The man took a deep breath and remained silent for a moment, drinking the chaos before him.
The Artist studied him, drank in his monochromatic colour, drank in his features, his voice, his very presence. She felt a sense of familiarity, a memory tickling at the very bottom of the pit that was forgotten thoughts. But she couldn’t place the man. He was familiar, yet an utter stranger. His colours didn’t say much, and no information could be derived from how he carried himself. But he knew her.
For the first time in many, many years the Artist was at a disadvantage.
“Still,” Black spoke, his deep-high voice breaking her reverie. “People will remember, and people will talk. And people that talk will remember something was amiss. And then investigations, and questions, and research and... And eventually people will find you, Artist.” He turned to look at her. “You have been keeping it chaotic enough, true. Few would tie this,” He swept his long right arm to encompass the whole of the hotel lobby. “with the rest of your adventures. But some would. And that is dangerous.”
The Artist’s sometimes yellow and sometimes black eyes stared at his spectacles. She saw no emotion, no lie. No truth. Nothing. Black was an enigma. But she felt, strangely, that she could trust him. Whoever he was. And he was making sense, which made the Artist somewhat cross.
“Why are you here?” The Artist dared to ask. She wanted to know more about him but... it didn’t feel right just now. Not yet.
Black’s eyebrows raised and his expression was almost cartoonish. His mouth twisted into an O as he remembered something previously forgotten. His left hand dug into his suit, and a cream, stained envelope came out. “This arrived at my home some time ago and since then I have been trying to track you down. As much chaos as you bring about yourself,” He twisted his head dismissively at the sound of pleasure in the background. “you’re incredibly difficult to find, Miss Artist. I both envy and congratulate you on your skill.”
With a flourish of hands he handed her the envelope. She could see it had seen better days, and that it had probably been carried around for a very long time.
“The Postman gave this to me, saying he gave up on trying to find you. And, dear, if the Postman cannot find you then I have no idea what kind of demon you blew to get such a blessing!” His voice turned from deep to high, almost amused. The man seemed to be laughing, in his own quiet way.
The Artist stared at the envelope and pocketed it in her overcoat. Her fingers brushed the buttons of her coat and, in a moment of pure instinct, the Artist flashed the black man.
A black hand reached for her overcoat and gently, almost father-like, pulled it over her tattooed body. The man smiled at her shaking his head. “You wouldn’t want to do that, miss.”
A billion thoughts, a billion worries, a billion incognitos hammered against the bunker of her thoughts. They were so many that the Artist had to ignore them altogether.
The Artist didn’t argue.
A naked woman crawled up to the Artist’s feet and started kissing and licking her naked toes. The Artist thought about pushing her away, but didn’t know how she would react. She left her do what she was doing.
The two strangers stood, her head reaching up to his shoulder, staring the ongoings. Black gasped slightly, looking down at a man who seemed to be interested in what lay inside his trousers. The Black man didn’t seem to mind the Tranced man reaching inside his zipper.
The silence between the two strangers prolonged for a while until the black man said: “Aren’t you going to open that letter?”
The Artist shook her head. “It waited such a long time to find me. I think it can wait until I get the right chance.”
Black only nodded.
The naked lady suddenly stopped worshipping the Artists legs, stood, and walked away. The man did likewise, joining in the crowd around her robots. Black composed himself without a word.
“It is not my business lady, nor would I dare meddle. But heed some advice from someone who has been in your position: I ignore what your aim is, miss,” He turned his face at her, staring through his completely black spectacles. “but you cannot let the world see too much of you.”
The Artist frowned. “I haven’t let-”
Black raised a gloved hand. “Please, let me conclude, then you can speak.” He ignored the Artist’s sour look. “The Postman didn’t find you because, as the rest of us, you’re near impossible to track down. But I was. I had been following your for a long time, through many places and some realms, and it was until recently that I found a songline to follow. Meaning that you’re leaving tracks, leaving a breadcrumb path someone might be able to find. You have to be careful, miss Artist. If one is uncovered, the others might soon follow.”
The Artist stared at him again, with her inquisitive eyes. She drank his colours once more, trying, desperately, to place him in her memory. She just couldn’t.
“We cannot afford more... indiscretions, sort of speak. With Arathmica’s recent folly,” He stopped to lick his lips and to see the Artist’s eyes go wide in recognition. “And with other such past incidents, things are not as stable as they used to be.” He paused, placing a caring hand on her shoulder. He leaned closer, whispering in her ear: “The Powers That Be are stirring, miss. Just take that in mind.”
Black straightened, inclined his head and top hat, and briskly walked out of the hotel lobby before the Artist could find her words again.
She watched him go from her vision and her memory until she was left pondering the names she heard. Arathmica. The Postman. The fucking Powers That Be.
The Artist turned a bewildered eye towards her recent creations. She noticed that everyone in the hotel room was now in a massive Trance. They had been affected by her art. They were sighing and changing thanks to her.
The Artist walked out of the hotel room, out of the town, and didn’t stop walking for three days.
All the while she thought, pondered about what she heard, and why she couldn’t remember how she got that information.