Chapter Two

A/N: So I'm planning on a complete re-installation of Windows on my computer, so updates will be few and very possibly very far between. Sorry about that. I know it's been like a month since I started this insane idea. My last attempt at this (which was undocumented) had about five kids before I just said "THAT'S IT, YOU KIDS ARE CRAZY." So I'm gonna get back to the currently childless Majorelle before I get too freaked about so... many... nooboos...


"I am not cut out for this constant painting. I can't do this," I mumble to myself, painting yet again. "Well, then start gardening. You are supposed to do that, too, y'know." I want to just rant about completing these pointless tasks, gardening for what? Food? I can buy this stuff. Painting, what's the purpose behind that? Being able to make beautiful portraits of my plants? 

But I agree. I slowly put the paintbrush back on my easel, my left hand rubbing my right wrist subconsciously, loosening the knots that had worked their way under my skin. My fingers run over the calluses I had acquired as I walked to the grocery store. "Get the apples. Ooh, and some tomatoes, those look good! And some lettuce, too. And grapes. Grapes'll be good." I scoff as my hands grab the produce the Voice commanded. "You want a good start on your garden, right?" 


I want to say no. I want to refuse this task, I want to return home. I want it over. So I say nothing, my lips clamping over themselves. My teeth bite the inside of my cheek. 


I walk home again, my eyes scanning over the sims strutting down the street, talking to friends and having not a care in the world. And I get to go back home to painting. Oh, the joy.

Painting.

And painting. 

And painting. 


Driving me up. The. Wall.


"Plant the groceries you bought. They're rotting in your pocket, and they need to have some sort of nutrients. At least when they're in the ground, you can remember to take care of them instead of painting." The Voice's constant wisdom interrupts my thoughts as the wrist curves to perfectly imitate the trees across the street onto my canvas. 


"Fine," I mutter, my mouth lengthening the 'f ' into a steady sound. My brush clatters onto the easel, and suddenly I find myself shoving my hands into some soil, pushing a whole tomato into the whole and covering it before standing and doing the whole thing over again. The produce is in the ground quickly, so I water them just as quick before getting back to painting. Gardening is too fast of a diversion to do any actual diverting. 


So a week or two passes, and my attempts at painting have given me around 200 simoleons, and my garden had grown exponentially, profiting around 100 of the currency the sims use. I'm around halfway through mastering both of my tasks, and my mood is lightening. The daily monotony is comforting, in a weird way. Wake up, breakfast, gardening, shower, painting, lunch, painting, dinner, painting, sleep. And then it all just repeats itself. In a way, I find solace in it. It continues, and the Voice leaves my mind for increasing amounts of time, as if it's beginning to trust me enough to be on my own. 


I find myself walking down to the store to chat with a stranger more often, to break the comfort of my house and find more interest in these simlings. I find myself integrating into their society. But still I flee into the comfort of my own house, the solace of the emptiness of its rooms and the only change being the colors on my canvas and the growth of my plants. And I think I like that.


A/N: So this was practically a filler chapter, just to get you filled in on Majorelle's daily struggles with being a part of simkind. Hope you enjoyed!

Chapter One: New Places

"Whe-Where am I?" I ask, ripping the sack off of my head. My black hair ruffles, tangles falling into my face. I receive no answer as I stand tentatively. I turn, staring in awe at a small white house. I don't know why, but a smile lights up my features.

House, sweet house.

A house next door has two people standing out front, though they aren't the kind of people I'm used to. These people are a pasty shade of tan, almost white. Their hair is red, completely unlike any creature I have seen before. I don't know what's happening.


Suddenly, a voice thunders down from the cloudy skies, but the two women don't seem to hear it. I begin to think it's all in my head. "Hello, Majorelle." I'm not sure if that's my name. I'm not sure who I am, where I am, or what language the Voice is speaking, because it's certainly not mine. "Majorelle?" The word is foreign on my tongue, foreign but familiar at the same time.


"Majorelle, it's a pretty name, isn't it? A shade of blue. Rather fitting. Almost the shade of your skin. I like it, how about you?" The Voice sounds cheerful, like it does this everyday. It probably does. "What language is this?" I find myself whispering. "Simlish. It's a strange language. Put together from a whole bunch of languages. Yours is not one of them, sadly."


I notice that I'm not wearing the same clothes as before, my legs are showing. "What is this?" I ask, picking at my skirt. The red fabric clings to the black and purple it covers. I find the purple the most pretty. "Oh, I put you in some clothes that are more fashionable in today's world. Less conspicuous." I push my bangs from my face, and my fingers brush the thin cloth sitting in my hair. "A bow? Really?"


I can tell that the Voice is shrugging... if a disembodied voice can shrug. "I thought it was cute. It looks  nice on you."


"So what, you're playing dress-up with me?"


"Oh, much more than that, silly! I have a task for you."


A woman jogs down the street, headphones over her ears. She hums an unknown tune, her ponytail swishing around behind her. She notices nothing strange about me, yet she is also a shade of tan and not the blue I'm used to. "What makes you think that I'll do your task? And why aren't people noticing me? They're all so different from me, yet they don't see anything weird."


"They're a stupid race. They've seen all sorts of people, they're also pretty accommodating. They don't really... care. I suppose it's for the best. Makes this easier."


"Why would I do your task? You didn't answer."


"You want to go back home, do you not? See your family, maybe?" I grumble a "Yes."


"Now, go in the house. You'll have everything you'll need to survive here. You'll also have an easel. I chose you because of your artistic potential. Also, because your people have a strange way with earthling plants. Master painting and gardening and I'll get back to you about getting back home."


"Alright, I guess. And if I get hungry? I'm not sure if I can... consume simlish food."


"Vegetables and fruits you can eat. You cannot, however, eat any meat. It will compromise your health."


I'm not sure what to say. The Voice has given me a home, a name, a life. I'm not sure I want any of it. My eyes scan my new home. The quaint white walls. The table and easel I could see from the windows.

Oh wait, this is my house.

"This house seemed suited for you. One bedroom, one bath. Your address is 1810 Ednamary Way. Enjoy. The key is in your pocket. You also have 27 simoleons. It was all I could rustle up, sorry. Just tell me when you complete my tasks. I'll be watching." The presence of the Voice disappears.


I decide it would be better than nothing, living here. I'd have someone watching over me, at least. Maybe nothing terrible would happen here and I could go back home. As hard as it was, I try to remain optimistic about my situation.

I guess I'll make the best of it...

I quickly begin painting as I enter the door, finding the familiar supplies where I expect them to be. I take my brush in one hand and the palette in the other and begin my craft.

And suddenly I feel at home.

As I am almost half-way through my first painting, the doorbell rings. I quickly put my brush down and open the door, finding three of the "sims" that the Voice had told me about. The eldest, a woman in her sixties, is called Esme Curley. I can tell that this woman would be a close friend in the future. Her husband, Tate, is... less friendly. And then Vallari Chandra pushes past me and begins playing her guitar.

So many people, I'm not sure I'm ready for this.

For a few hours, the Curleys and I talk to one another. At seven, they say they have to leave, and I assume it's because they're tired already. I wave them off, completing absolutely nothing by talking to them for four hours, and finish my painting. The Voice suddenly gets rid of the artwork, and I see 30 simoleons sitting where the painting was. I quickly put the money in my pocket, taking my brush in my hand and starting once more.

All alone at last...

 Suddenly I feel a pang of hunger in my stomach. I carefully place the brush on the easel and turn to the fridge. I carefully open the door, finding it to be full of simlish vegetables and fruits. A small recipe book, (if you could call it that), containing five or six recipes sits open on the counter, it's pages opened to "Mac & Cheese." What mac is and why we're adding cheese to it is beyond me, but I grab the ingredients (there were pictures, thank goodness), and combine them in the way the book says.

Let's hope this is right...

My first exploits in earthling cooking seems to be a success! It's not bad, actually, it's pretty good! A small yawn escapes my lips as I finish the last bites, so I climb the stairs to retire. I quickly change into my pajamas (with another yet another bow in my hair) and pull myself into bed, sandwiching my body between the mattress and the blanket. I close my eyes and begin to dream of home, hoping maybe this was all just a dream, just a bad dream...

Just a bad dream... Of fish.

...But the next morning I awake in my bed, the black fabric still tying my hair into place.

As you can tell, I'm not pleased with that.

 I descend down the staircase, getting ready for another day at home. I begin wondering about my gardening requirement, but then think of my easel, the only thing reminding me of home.

Down the stairs once more...

  I immerse myself in my work once again, my mind drifting from my drawings every once in a while. I try to remain focused on my duty of returning home, the only thing I'm really striving for.

Maybe I'll make it back by next week. Maybe.

Prologue

"Hey, where are you taking me?!" The words dashed from her lips, her native tongue echoing off the walls. The combination of sounds and clicks of her tongue danced across her ears, and the burlap sack covering them. Her eyes were shut, the sack clawing at her eyelids.


She found herself walking forward, through no will of her own. Her hands clasped each other behind her back, holding themselves in place. She couldn't fight her own body. Her mouth closed itself, not budging to let her speak again. She wasn't in control of herself. She picked up to a jog, dashing down the dark streets of her home. She thought she would never see it again. She thought right.


After several hours of running, her body aching from the physical strain she had never before put on herself, she stopped. Her body sat in the dirt, hands wandering up to her face. She pulled the bag off of her head, the uncomfortable fabric no longer scratching her flesh. Her lips opened, and she was able to speak once more. "Where am I?" She whispered to herself.


"You are nowhere. You are everywhere." Words blasted down from the heavens, unknown in origin. "Less cryptic, please?" She asked. "I cannot simplify that any further."


"Okay, where am I going?"


A mumble came from the darkened sky, a sound she had never heard before. "Roughly translated, Appaloosa Fields. This language does not have the word I require to tell you where you are going."


"Where's that?"


"Earth." She had never heard of anything with that name, but she knew it must be somewhere. Unless the Voice was planning to kill her. She hoped not. "Where's that?" She tried again.


The Voice sighed. Lightning flashed in the distance. "About seventy-three light-years from here."


"We're going into space?" She gulped. She knew there were planets out there, both like and unlike her home. Maybe this one would be like the planet she was born on. "Indigenous beings: The Sim race. Their world is very similar to yours. There is one major difference."


"And that is?"


"These people are very different than you. Very different. I'll let you find out how. Just... put that sack back on."


"No!" She screeched, appalled. "Why are you bringing me somewhere else? Why me? Why not my sister, or my brother-in-law, or that girl down the street that I hate? Why does anyone have to go at all?"


"I guess I'll have to force you then." Her hands began acting of their own will again, and nothing she could do would stop it. The sack was forcefully pulled over her head, her eyes shrouded in darkness once more.