Paint and Patience
Another part of the tales of the Institute Green. This one following the Illustrator, Ms. Steam. .
A puff of smoke dissipated after swirling and distorting the stars it hovered in front of.
"Fear is strange. Was there any reason not to have it that you can be certain of?"
"For myself?"
"No, of course not." The pale man made a vague gesture into the building from their spot on the balcony. "Their fear."
He took another deep drag, awaiting her answer.
"All mortals have fear, Mr. Pale. The end always looms like the back cover."
He contemplated, letting his gaze take in the curvy and soft form of his coworker. She liked her candy striper outfit most of all and it let the inviting roundness of her form offer refuge in the form of a vast change in scenery from the black iron and gold speckled dark wood of their world.
"That's what I had figured too. But the fear is on all aspects. They love, there's fear; they succeed, there's fear; they give up...you get the idea."
Ms. Steam gave an amused hum before turning to him fully. "They are yellow. Maybe it's not the fear that gives you pause when dealing with them?"
Ms. Steam took the spent cigarette out of his hand and flicked it over the railing. He had a nasty habit of burning the filter when he was lost in thought. The smell was never pleasant.
Mr. Pale was slender and ordinary, his overall countenance being somewhat "beige", though his eyes held a sharp intelligence and his tongue a wicked wit.
Ms. Steam liked talking to the scrivener, he was always agitated over their charges and the conditions in which they were formed. The illustrator had an idea that it may be his only way to show his caring side for anything.
"I believe you're right," he finally said, "I am more enraged by those who live without that...I guess it would be more a concern for the welfare of others than fear…"
"Compassion?"
"Compassion! Yes, thank you. Those that lack compassion for others and make grand swathes of suffering. They hold my ire."
"Had one recently that's got you in this tizzy?"
"No. It'll be later this evening. I would feel bile rising in my throat if I had the capability. I taste the lies and excuses on my tongue and moving through my fingertips to take the last vestiges of their existence to print."
His voice grew ever darker, as he mimicked typing on his typewriter, his hands looking suddenly more large and sharp, his plain face gaining sharp edges and wider eyes, his teeth sharpening and slowly multiplying.
"Sickening, wretched filth!" He gurgled out.
Ms. Steam shrugged, unbothered. "We are only the record keepers. No need to grow attached."
He cleared his throat and fixed his appearance, brushing his blond hair back and suddenly looking more to his normal human-like form.
"We aren't machines, Ms. Steam. Every monster we document can feed our own monstrous nature, teach us our own excuses for screwing over other lives."
"What do you suppose we do for it then? Become judges for life forms that are under our care?"
"Teachers. I think the Evil need to be taught a lesson. We should make an example."
Ms. Steam waited for Mr. Pale to continue, but it was obvious from the way his eyes darted around in his head that the idea was still cooking.
She pat his head and made him look her in the eye.
"When you figure it out, set it up. I'm in thorough need of distraction. But for now, we must tend to our duties."
He gave a small nod and a tight lipped smile. It was no secret that he disliked his job, but he was the best at it.
She took her leave, walking in from the cold of outside to the warm hallway. Her shoes were almost silent upon the hard wood. The reflection of the candy striper outfit was blurred for a moment in the polished floor before it showed Ms. Steam in a plain, floral, flowy dress. She used the key around her neck to unlock her office door and step in.
The yellow glow of the human soul took a moment to take shape. Young and small.
"Sorry for being late," she smiled, "Are you ready for your portrait?"
The 'studio' was large. The ceiling was high and vaulted, the floor had many different colors and textures that one couldn't tell if it was made of dirt, marble, wood, or any of the other things floors are usually made of. There looked to be all sorts of settings along the long wall. Beaches to mansions, forests to kitchenettes, mountains to dumpsters.
The girl looked to be a little younger than a teenager. Short dark hair and brown eyes, sun-kissed skin and a strong jaw. She was in night clothes and looked overwhelmed, looking around from her seat on a fainting chair.
Ms. Steam went to her large desk and picked up some materials. She loaded a small tray with chalk pastels and paint.
"Take your time," she said to the girl, then paused giving her an understanding and patient look. "Tell me what you think is happening. This fear will go away soon, I promise."
"He killed Mom. I went to go hide my little sisters, but I guess he killed me too." She started to cry in earnest. "They're probably so scared. I don't know what to do! There's nothing I can do! I'm dead!"
She sobbed and screamed her dismay while Ms. Steam set up the easel near a beach setting.
"Angels are supposed to help the innocent!" The girl accused from her seat. She smacked her bare feet against the ground and stomped over to Ms. Steam. "You're supposed to protect us and God's supposed to deliver us from evil!"
"Deliver you where?" Ms. Steam turned to the girl, eyebrow slightly raised. She felt it wouldn't be the best option to tell the girl she wasn't an angel.
The girl's righteous fury was snuffed out by the calm of the question. She looked lost and on the verge of more tears.
"I-I don't know. If you're good, evil isn't supposed to happen to you." She sniffled, "And you're supposed to get rewarded for being good."
Ms. Steam sat on a stool to look the girl in the eye and wipe her tears with her skirt.
"I'm sorry, little one. The universe doesn't do good or evil. That's a human thing. Kind or cruel are choices people make."
Ms. Steam offered a hug to the child, who was falling apart again in tears. She accepted the hug, was wrapped in strong arms, and felt light as a cloud.
"The nightmare is over. I know it's scary to not know what comes next. But even your choices mattered so much at the end."
The girl was hiccupping through her sobs, clinging tightly to Ms. Steam. "They're so-s-so little and he's gonna hurt them!"
Ms. Steam rocked her lightly and pet her hair. "I know...what if I brought them here? Would you feel better knowing where they are? They would probably like to know where you are too."
Fear stabbed through the girl and she looked at Ms. Steam. "He killed them too?!"
"Long ago already. They're in my queue."
"What's going to happen?"
"I'm going to paint your picture of what you want to be remembered forever as. You're a good older sister. Brave, just, and with so much love in your heart that your last moments were thinking of nothing but protecting others. Rewards aren't in my job description, but I think that I could work one up for you."
"Holly!" Called two little voices from the fainting couch.
The girl turned and let go of Ms. Steam, running to the two blonde children running towards her in their pajamas.
"Katie! Kathy!" She called to the twins, hugging them tight to her and hurrying her face in their disheveled blonde curls. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!"
"Sorry for what?" asked Kathy.
"Why are you sad?" asked Katie.
Before Holly could answer, they both noticed the beach and dragged Holly towards it.
Holly noticed that they were all in their bathing suits, and the studio had faded away entirely-there was only the beach then. She saw Ms. Steam still standing there, starting to work on the canvas in front of her. She gave Holly a wink before going back to her work.
Holly looked at her sisters who were already splashing in the water and got to playing with them. They built sand castles and played in the water together. The sun didn't bother any of them much, and they felt full and content.
Ms. Steam stepped back from her work, looking at the picture of Holly pulling her sisters through the water as the little ones kicked up a spray behind them.
The twins looked caught in a moment of trust and fun as Holly tried to teach them to swim.
The studio had phased back to its normal state, the girls now residing as the artwork. Ms.Steam added a single small cloud in the distance as her signature and bowed low at the piece.
"Thank you for the opportunity," she said.
When she stood back up, the canvas had a frame of glittering gold. She took it and wrapped it in plain brown paper before placing it in an adjacent room for delivery.
Ms. Steam dealt more with children and those that didn't have a command over their language. She found that younger children were more accepting of their fates than older ones. Responsibility and shame hadn't really had a chance to stick in yet and make them second guess everything.
She went about putting away her supplies and let out a sigh. She placed the last brush behind her ear and exited her studio. So long as her things weren’t all in place, the next soul wouldn’t show up.
The door she approached was labeled “Mr. Slow: Security” on a gold plaque. She knocked and entered, finding the large form of her colleague sitting at his desk, shining his shoes. He looked up boredly, eyes crinkling at the side once he recognized his visitor.
“Ms. Steam. What an unexpected and fun surprise. What brings you to my office?” His voice was deep and had an edge of threat to it. Unfortunately for Mr. Slow, she had taken the centuries to become immune to his specific charm.
“Mischief brings me here, Bacchus. Do you intend on participating or trying to subdue?” She leaned on the doorway, pushing her hair behind an ear. “I do so hate to lose out on the fun because someone had to distract you.”
Mr. Slow sat up and put his hands on his desk. “So long as the mischief isn’t brought to these halls, there’s no reason for us to tussle. I do have a feeling that I will be having to teach Mr. Pale a lesson later today, but that won’t likely interfere.”
This was met with an amused hum. She covered her mouth to feign hiding a smile, “I am starting to think Bartleby likes your teaching method. You boys and your roughhousing.”
Mr. Slow went back to shining his shoes, “I’ve been informed, Ms. Steam. Go back to your room. The day isn’t out yet, no matter how many clients you put in a single frame. Only the frame counts.”
“Pushy,” she teased, straightening herself out. “I’ll see you at the diner afterwards, Mr. Slow.”
The door closed, leaving Mr. Slow alone. He leaned back in his chair and thought about the conversation he had overheard on the balcony during his rounds. Redirecting fear could be a fun way to spend an afternoon.