What The Hell, Universe!?

Chapter 8: Special Delivery!

She was bathed in sunlight, standing before an easel, intent in her strokes upon the canvas.

Her hair was pulled up in a messy bun, tendrils escaping down her neck. A bit of paint smudged along her cheek. She wore a man's white dress shirt fashioned as a smock, the shirt tails tied at her waist. Old cut off shorts completed the outfit.

Clarke took in the room. It was a wide open studio area with plenty of natural light making its way inside, brightening a room already exploding with color and art in various styles and mediums. There were tables loaded with bottles of paint and a variety of brush sizes. Closer to one of the large windows, he noticed a table filled with potted plants of the brightest flowers and even a couple potted bushes of berries.

After the day she had, he wasn't surprised her dreams had taken her to this quiet peaceful place.

Deciding not to interrupt, he wandered around to glimpse the different works showcased. Landscapes, portraits, cityscapes, a simple bowl of fruit, a full moon peeking through a forest top—if these existed outside of her mind, she was truly gifted.

"What do you think?" she asked, glancing at him around the easel.

"Superior to my own," he complimented, pausing to take in a simple portrait of a young man. 

The long hair and face were done in shades of orange with blue used to draw out the eyes. If he had to guess, he was looking at a younger, more unkempt version of her father. He was drawn to it because he could tell it wasn't made in a traditional sense. "What did you use here?"

"Marigold and blueberries," she nodded toward the table he noticed earlier. "You paint?" She resumed her work, concentrating once again.

"When needed," he said, wondering to the table in question. "Keeping track of events in history, none that are remembered...a family history of sorts." 

He lost the complete history when he escaped from Triad with Landon through the tunnels, leaving the pages behind. He actually mourned its loss since he had originally created it as a way to show some kind of proof that he existed. His life's story and origin. He should probably recreate it.

He saw a well used mortar and pestle. "What binder do you use?"

"Usually sap, then emulsify with water," she said, stopping to look at him in surprise. "You've made your own paint before."

He shrugged. It wasn't really a big deal, though it was strange that a girl born in this century would bother learning how. "Had to if I wanted to use it."

"My father had to make his own paint as a child," she explained with a fond smile. "I use it when I'm feeling nostalgic."

He nodded. Of course, he thought. Her father was never far from her mind, especially in her dreams.

"How old are you then," she asked, "that you had to make your own paint too?"

"I'm just a kid, remember?" he smiled softly. 

He never knew how to answer that question. 

When building a cover, he tried to start out as close to twenty as he dared so he could keep it as long as possible before moving on in case people realized he wasn't aging. And since he was created, not born and grown, he really had no idea what age he was supposed to be. 

"How old are you?"

"Eighteen. But, seriously, how old are you?" she asked again with a prodding smile.

"Better off asking how long I've been around," he said.

"Isn't that the same thing?" she smiled. "When's your birthday?"