Traaaaacking! Can't wait for more! 
This looks intriguing. I can't wait to read more!
Thank you!
Bookmarked! I can't wait to see all the unconventionally beautiful Sims to come!
I hope I satisfy in that regard.
Chapter 3: TBK
Well, there’s another thing I know. An hour before she stood in front of her new lot and took a look around, Annette Waverly stood in front of a mirror instead, at a train station, and she snapped a photo of herself. And she took the train from God-knows-where into the swamps. While it isn’t the first 23 years of her life, it is context, I guess.
She spent all night sitting upright in a train, with a smelly dog curled up on her lap and the both of them sleeping soundly to the rumble of the train’s engine. Her ticket was affixed to the top of her seat, with a hole punched at “TBK” and another at “One Way.” Annette and the dog had permanence in mind, and TBK marked on the map. Yes, beyond the "Welcome to Twinbrook" and "Warning: Contamination Ahead" signs lay a permanent home for them. No one warned them about what lay ahead.
They arrived at their new property by 8AM, with Annette running at twice her usual energy-levels. Caffeine-addled, she was ready to start life anew from whatever the old life was. In spite of the crushing poverty, she had high spirits, clean clothes, and her hair still tied back into a neat ponytail.
“Look, Sagebear, it’s been a long trip, but we gotta go hunting.” She leaned down towards the hound, a beautiful Catahoula Leopard Dog who ran off the same adrenaline rush when the hunt was mentioned. “And I don’t care what they trained you to do. We’re looking for a sculptor.” When Sagebear cocked her head with a curious look on her face instead of running in the direction of a sculptor, Annette needed a new plan. She called a taxi and began to make history.
It's funny what one man can do. In fact, I attribute most of my existence to this man she sought after. I could even seal the bad blood away in a bottle for a minute to thank Annette for finding him. From his spot high in my family tree to that surname that I chose to hide under for most of my books (besides this one), there is so much I wish I could thank this humble sculptor for.
“Are you familiar with Harwood Clay?” she asked the cab driver, once she boarded.
“That’s a weird question.”
“I don’t need your judgment, but I need to meet him.”
The driver drove Annette to the other side of town, past the center and all of its willow trees. All she knew was his name and that he was still alive (unless the taxi took a turn towards the cemetery) and a gifted sculptor. The rest of his story, such as his age, marital status, wealth, looks, race, criminal background, personality, tastes, profession? They were as unknown to Annette as much as her backstory is still unknown to me.
However, worrying about such things is something I do. Annette spent the entire ride twiddling her thumbs and giving Sagebear a belly rub, until the taxi screeched to a halt at the end of a little island on Twinbrook’s expansive lake. Seven modest houses dotted the street and looked over the water, all with white siding and pale wooden decks.
“It’s the one on the end,” the driver said, “Also, 6.50.”
Annette shoved a pile of cash and change into the driver’s hand and ran up Harwood’s driveway, looking inside a large window and at the sculpting station inside. The taxi driver did his job. As it turned out, Harwood himself was outside at the same time, but for the newspaper that was thrown on his deck earlier that morning, and not so much for the young woman with pale blue skin.
“Hey you! Forget about the newspaper and give me handshake!” Annette yelled, with the intention of saving her schmoozing and scraps of politeness for when she needed it.
As odd as Annette was, with her pointed ears and a smile full of fangs, he shrugged it off and extended his hand to Annette. As for her, she shrugged off his old age and drab appearance with the same quickness. “Well, hello," he said, in a rough, aged baritone. "Do you want some coffee?” he asked.
“I’d rather look inside that art studio of yours, you know, to see where all those works of genius are born,” she said with a wink. Annette stepped to the side to open the sliding door into the studio. A thin veneer of white clay dust settled on the pale wooden floors, from a recent project of his. She had a whole minute to process the extent of Harwood’s talent, as he came through the door slowly, hunched over with a shuffling gait. “It puts a smile on my face to see a young lady like you so interested in the arts,” he said.
“I don’t care for it.”
He sternly furrowed his brow, ready to throw Annette and her unappreciative, uncultured rear out the door. But then, a text message distracted him.
“Yes! I do love being reminded about Election Day,” Harwood exclaimed, with his awaited text just being an automatic reminder.
“Lonely, huh?” Annette asked.
“Perhaps, but it’s nice being alone on the lake. Gives me time to think, but I really like visitors.”
“Sorry about the whole quip about not liking art. I mean, I like it, but I’m not talented…”
“...But you, you have to be one of the best!” Her eyes widened with admiration. “Did I butter you up enough? I’m only here for a commission.”
“Well then,” Harwood said with a chuckle, “do you pay well?”
“Uh, it’s room and board, plus access to my entire life’s savings. Look, I think I might have to explain this one.” Blood rushed to Annette’s cheeks, but she kept her feet planted on the ground and began her story.
Oh no, Harwood did not learn about the mysterious-yet-true background of Annette Waverly that day, or ever. The story she had was one she readily admitted to being a lie told on the spot when she retold the story to me. However, something had to come out of her mouth.
According to Annette, she sold her soul to the Grim Reaper in return for wealth, and ended up losing her money, possessions, and profession. The Reaper held it all for ransom unless she completed a weird mission of his. It involved her living forever, and Harwood sculpting her to prove that she actually aged over time until he died of whatever natural causes took him.
As for Harwood, he was all ears, even through every bit of skepticism within him, and through growing curiosity too.
“It’s an odd story, Annette,” he said, “But I don’t think I can say no to living on an empty lawn. It’s as environmentally-friendly as it gets.”
“So you’re in?”
“I’m in.”
“I knew you’d jump right in, old man,” she said while drawing him in for a bear hug, “Everything you need should be on the lawn.”
“I knew you’d jump right in, old man,” she said while drawing him in for a bear hug, “Everything you need should be on the lawn.”
She saved her intentions to build a proper house for later, once Harwood tired of sculpting in the sticky summer heat and napping to the buzz of cicadas. However, it had to be for later. Harwood’s small lake house didn’t sell immediately, and it stood stagnant for a long time afterwards. Between the rest of his savings and his old guitar, the two still qualified for living in poverty. But it is not to say that Annette lacked a resource.
“Hunting begins now,” she told Sagebear, “Find me some tiberium!" The hound ran and ran, all the way to the back of city hall. She sprinted back with a large hunk of iron ore clenched between her teeth. The drool alone would make that rust overnight.
“It’s a learning process,” Annette sighed, “Time for round two?” Annette ended up throwing her collection of cheap ores in the dumpster behind the grocery store. She also bought some apples for later, because a young woman on an mission and a tireless sculptor needed something for later.
With her roommate hopefully carving into his first block of ice, Annette had the night to herself. She had lofty plans too, but she sighed when she missed the Bistro’s last cooking class of the night by five minutes. So much for those lofty plans. Her tummy growled slightly, but Annette was entirely incapable of microwaving hot dogs, let alone cooking substantially. Let alone cooking for a living.
Fate worked as darkness started to fall over Twinbrook, because Annette found herself chatting with an employed cook in the back of the grocery store. She introduced herself as Gala Ball.
“Hey, I can try putting in a good word for you at the diner,” Gala said, “Maybe come by tomorrow morning?”
Annette nodded and left with the possibility of a job, and a notice that there was a new dance club on the edge of town, in case she wanted cheap bar food and pulsating electronic music to end the night.
Seemed like a plan.
Before exhaustion sent her home, Annette downed a strong party drink and embarrassed herself in front of the few club-hoppers that night. She dirtied up the counter with her muddy sandals as well. But as a four-on-the-floor beat drove Annette’s dance moves, was Harwood still sculpting? Taking a nap? Tapping into their pooled savings for a midnight snack at the diner?
Alas, poor Harwood.
Word Count for this chapter:
1,577Word Count so far:
4,439Revised on 1-31-2015. In spite of it still going under the knife, this was always one of my favorite chapters.
I live near a train station and I know for a fact that their bathrooms aren't nearly as nice-looking as CAS, but I needed an excuse for Annette's CAS-shot.
Annette's traits are Brave, Ambitious, Inappropriate, Schmoozer, and Kleptomaniac. I never really used the last one. She has a thing for Cobbler, R&B, and Spice Brown. For the sake of completeness, Harwood's traits are Savvy Sculptor, Artistic, Eco-Friendly, Perceptive, and Charismatic.
As for Sagebear, she really was an attempt to make a Catahoula Leopard Dog. I don't know how well I did, but I thought she was a lovely hound either way.
