#my wardrobe is nearly all black white and then a dusty pink

[abigail]

Do you have a list of favorite colors? Just as many as you want to list. Hope you have a good day.

ooohhhh oh wow okay uhh honestly it would just be a list is different pinks if i’m honest 😭 and then like.. butter yellow, pastel blue, sage green, a rust/burnt orange, blood red, any shade of brown.. idk ! i mostly like muted tones and pastels .. expect with oranges/reds i like them darker or brighter depending lol anyway thank you ! i hope you have a good day too ♡

[nightingaelic]

I was reading your "Fallout 4 companions meet Arcade Gannon" reacts when I had an idea. FO4 companions reaction to visiting the Mojave Wasteland with the Sole Survivor.

"She was Boston, I was Vegas

She was Crêpes Suzette, I was pie

She was lectures, I was movies, but I loved her."

- Frank Sinatra, 1981, "I Loved Her"

Cait: "I've never been much of a gambler, but where there's gambling, there's usually a good time to be had."

While Cait finds the casinos of the Strip a little too ritzy for her liking, she rather enjoys the smaller, satellite venues: The Atomic Wrangler in Freeside, the Vikki and Vance casino in Primm, even the saloons in Goodsprings and the Mojave Outpost (the latter of which being where she foolishly engages in a drinking contest with Cass and happily gets her ass kicked). Her greatest enjoyment, however, comes upon discovery of the Thorn in Westside, with its arranged bouts between wasteland critters and the opportunity to go a round yourself if you're feeling lucky. Instead of the trapped horror she felt when the Combat Zone was taken over by raiders and she was forced to fight, Cait revels in the glory she reaps when choosing to face off against a fire gecko, a night stalker or a cazador with her trusty baseball bat. By the time the visit is over, she and Red Lucy have grown close, and the Thorn's mistress is going around openly calling Cait "my hunter."

Codsworth: "Ah, Las Vegas! Why, I can recall when you considered a quick getaway to this paradise just before young master Shaun's arrival. It appears we aren't too late, after all."

Codsworth is somewhat comforted by the lack of overt nuclear devastation in New Vegas, but that feeling wears off as soon as the first set of thugs in Freeside tries to corner him and the sole survivor and take their caps. Once the would-be muggers are laid out on the ground, Codsworth abandons his rose-colored glasses and puts his quippy, dismayed personality back on. Still, he loves the Strip, particularly the Ultra-Luxe with its refined guests, decor and hygienic practices, but he quickly sours on their hoity-toity attitudes. Instead, Codsworth turns to the presence of the NCR as a sign that civilization is creeping back into the wasteland. He's also tickled pink by the Kings and the Chairmen, but not the mobster-esque Omertas: They remind him too much of the pre-war mob activity in good old Boston.

Curie: "Excusez-moi, but what is that structure there? The tallest one, with the blinking lights."

Curie is thrilled to be out in the desert, observing the local populace and documenting their survival techniques, social structures and power struggles. She's fascinated with the area's history, and drags the sole survivor along to seek out the Mojave's most (in)famous individuals to record their stories for her research into post-war civilization. This lands her in quite a few questionable situations, but her general attitude of perseverance and wide-eyed wonder about the world open a lot of doors for her. She makes a lot of friends at the Old Mormon Fort among the Followers of the Apocalypse, though most of them assume her frustration about her own "biological reactions to extreme living conditions" is just her complaining about the heat like everyone else. Arcade's pretty sure she's a robot, though he's too polite to ask about it outright.

Danse: "We're close now, to the birthplace of the Brotherhood of Steel. This is an honor I never thought I'd experience."

Though it's boiling hot inside his power armor under the desert sun, Paladin Danse is overjoyed that he's accompanying the sole survivor on this journey into the cradle of the ideology that he's devoted to. He's heard about the Mojave from Brotherhood of Steel veterans, those who traveled with Elder Lyons when they initially came to the Capital Wasteland and those who accompanied Elder Maxson when he was just a Squire, and he keeps spouting off random trivia about the area. Any run-ins with disillusioned Scribe Veronica might leave him a bit put out, but it's overall a fun trip for him through a part of the continent that's a little less smashed to rubble than the rest of the world. He especially enjoys visiting the NCR and Brotherhood military outposts, if only to offer critiques and suggestions to any soldiers that give him the time of day.

Deacon: "Sheesh, visiting the Mojave almost makes you wish for a nuclear winter, am I right?"

Deacon has been here before. Well, he doesn't actually say he's been here before, but he keeps dropping hints to the sole survivor that he's somehow on a return trip. He knows the legends of the Sierra Madre and the Blue Star treasures offhand, he has a whole conversation with the Securitrons guarding the Strip about what happened to Robert House, he even knows how to competently play Caravan. Every time the sole survivor asks him about how he knows so much, though, Deacon just grins and keeps chugging his Sunset Sarsaparilla. Obviously no one recognizes him by face, but he does have a setting-appropriate wardrobe along that includes NCR bandoleer armor, a coat-tailed tuxedo, top hat and White Glove Society mask, and a black leather jacket to go with his pompadour wig.

Dogmeat: [curiously sniffs everything]

Dogmeat can't figure out why this place is so dang dry, but he's on his best behavior for the sole survivor as they make their way over the dusty roads of the Mojave. He politely greets each other traveler on the roads, who keep asking his companion where they got "a non-cyber cyberdog." For the most part though, the trip is pretty in line with everywhere Dogmeat goes: Big rodents, big bugs, tired people and plenty of ruins to explore. Dogmeat's one outstanding adventure comes in the form of an attempted kidnapping by some of the Kings, who think their leader needs a new dog after Rex hit the road with some fool. The King doesn't take kindly to this, and graciously has the dog returned to his friend.

Hancock: "Oh, man, how does anyone live out here? I'm drying out, I feel like a radroach husk."

Hancock is having the time of his life in the Mojave, apart from constantly complaining about how he prefers the Commonwealth's weather. He's chummy with everyone, but especially with the ghouls he encounters. He buys Raul a bunch of drinks and asks him about his past, he suggests future career paths and hobbies for Calamity, and he is absolutely enchanted with Beatrix the dominatrix. He's also rowdy enough to attract the ire of nearly every casino in New Vegas: The White Glove Society seethes when the sole survivor points out that his Revolutionary War outfit technically meets the dress code, the Omertas howl when he starts encouraging the strippers and sex workers to band together and take over the casino, and the Vault 21 dwellers keep asking if he's liable to turn feral. The Chairmen, however, treat him as something of a novelty and gift him with a seersucker suit to go with his jaunty personality.

MacCready: "You know, I played cards with a guy from out here once. He tried to teach me a game called... what was it, Candyman? Kilogram?"

MacCready has the barest smattering of knowledge about the Mojave Wasteland, and he keeps injecting it into conversations no matter how inaccurate it is. He's fascinated with the sole survivor's recollections of what Vegas was like before the Great War, and his expectations are sky-high by the time they arrive on the city's outskirts. Those expectations are absolutely met once inside the Strip, even if the sole survivor's are let down. MacCready is just tickled by the existence of a city that is solely dedicated to parting you from your caps, and he settles into each new business for the express purpose of people-watching. He only tries gambling once, and immediately quits after he loses all of his pocket change.

Valentine: "Good old Las Vegas. Somehow, I'm not surprised it's still got a reputation as 'Sin City,' even this long after the bombs."

The Nick Valentine of old never visited Las Vegas, but he certainly knew about it well enough for the Nick Valentine of today to draw on those impressions. He's extra-wary about the city as a result, an attitude not helped by the many people staring at him because of his detective getup, jagged edges and golden eyes. Some people are polite enough to walk up and ask what he is: Others offer to buy him off the sole survivor directly, much to Nick's chagrin. When James Garret offers him a thousand caps for "one night of his services," Nick puts his foot down and starts glaring at everyone who so much as walks up to him and the sole survivor during their trip. The exceptions to this rule are Veronica, who is extremely polite and non-invasive with her questioning; Arcade, who is too polite to even mention Nick's synthetic state; and Raul, who finds the whole thing hilarious but admits that his ghoul status has landed him in some similar situations.

Piper: "I've heard plenty of stories about this place, and if even a quarter of them are true, I ought to get a good travel piece out of just about anyone we pass on the street."

Piper's on a mission to track down the history of New Vegas, which, like Curie, sends her on a path toward its biggest political figures. Aside from them, she's particularly interested in the services of the Mojave, like the Gun Runners, the Crimson Caravan Company, and especially the Mojave Express. Piper gets along swell with just about everyone, and she basks in the widespread acceptance that she lacks back home due to her chosen profession. She desperately tries to get Johnson Nash to ship a case of Sunset Sarsaparilla cross-continent for her, but he gently turns her down and tells her that the only courier he knows crazy enough to undertake a trip to the Commonwealth is too busy nowadays.

Preston: "They're not too friendly to outsiders here, or so I'm told, but there are always good folks to be found if you know where to look."

Preston, true to form, offers help to every little settlement he and the sole survivor come through on their journey, which delays their path to Vegas quite a bit. He makes a beeline for the Old Mormon Fort as soon as he hears the Followers of the Apocalypse have a base there, though, and spends most of his visit picking the brain of its leaders about the best ways to aid those in need in the wasteland. He and Arcade get into some spirited debates about the pros and cons of having a civil service force focused on military matters versus civilian matters, and the Minutemen leader leaves the Mojave with a lot of new ideas to carry home to the Commonwealth.

Strong: "Strong not looking for 'good time,' puny human. Strong looking for thing that make super mutants stronger."

Strong hates New Vegas, but that's nothing unexpected. The sole survivor tries to limit their time in the city and take him around the desert to locales where super mutants are more likely to be found, which brings them to Jacobstown. Surprise surprise, Strong hates Jacobstown - at first. Little by little, through talking with Lily, the other nightkin, and Marcus, Strong starts to realize that the super mutants of the town are doing exactly what he values and sharing their resources among each other for the good of the community, just minus the usual violence associated with super mutants. He struggles with this alternative way of life for a bit, but eventually comes to accept that to be a super mutant, you don't have to constantly attack those around you to show off your strength.

X6-88: "Be careful. The Institute's records about this area indicate high levels of theft, murder, and unsavory characters. It would be best to keep our guard up."

Like Nick, X6-88 greets everyone in the Mojave with open suspicion, and can hardly be convinced to leave the sole survivor's side for their entire journey. His dedication to this task leads those around him to joke about him being "a human Securitron," which the sole survivor finds amusing: X6-88 does not. Still, the ability to hire and maintain a professional-looking bodyguard while visiting New Vegas doesn't go unnoticed, and most people assume that means the sole survivor has a lot of money to spend or be separated from by force. Criminals are more likely to be ruthless, hell-bent on stealing the loads of caps the sole survivor surely has tucked away. Business owners, on the other hand, are more polite to the pair on their travels, giving them better service and goods that ingratiate X6-88 a bit more to the common people aboveground.

BONUS!

Ada: "Jackson brought us out here once, when Zoe decided she wanted to try acquiring a Securitron. The leader of the Strip turned us down."

While Deacon is playing coy about his experience in the Mojave, Ada is completely open about hers. She hasn't been to the Strip, the dam, or any of the Mojave's "fun" destinations, but she remembers the Crimson Caravan Company headquarters, the 188 trading post, and many of the small towns along the way. Her fondest memories are of scavenging around the ruins of the REPCONN test site, the Aerotech Office Park and HELIOS One. She also recalls that her caravan friends came to visit primarily to find a Securitron to take apart and repurpose, but won't say exactly what happened when they tried to do so, other than warn the sole survivor "not to invite the wrath of the House."

Gage: "Now this is a town that knows how to run a successful racket. We need to find out who's in charge, see if they can give us some tips."

Porter Gage walks right up the steps of the Lucky 38 as soon as he finds out that someone inside is running the Strip, and demands that the Securitrons let him in to "talk to the boss." The robots aren't impressed, of course, and toss him out straightaway. Gage, not one to be discouraged easily, tries to find information among the nearby raider gangs instead: Fiends, Vipers, Jackals or Great Khans, he's not too picky. The current state of the raiders in the Mojave quickly informs him that they're failing one by one against the power of New Vegas, and he renews his efforts to find the recipient of the endless streams of caps. Thwarted at every turn, he and the sole survivor retire to Gomorrah, where they bemoan their bad luck while the courier sits a few seats down from them, listening in and smirking.

Longfellow: "Just point me to the nearest saloon. If I can't cool down, I'll try to forget I'm hot."

Longfellow parks himself at the nearest watering hole and does his best to avoid the scorching Mojave heat. The Maine-born grandpa is pretty miserable during the daytime hours unless he's sitting in front of a fan with a cold beer, swapping stories about Far Harbor critters with the bar regulars. At night he's a bit more open to adventuring with the sole survivor, when the desert cools down and he can see the sights by moonlight. Although he's not a fan of the hustle and bustle of the Strip, most of the large casinos there have air conditioning thanks to the Lucky 38, so he claims a table in the back and glares at anyone who disturbs him and his drink. He gets along with most of the New Vegas crowd though, if they agree to pick up the tab.

Maxson: "We came this way, when the Elders sent me to the East Coast. I wonder if the chapter here is still persevering."

Elder Maxson is surprisingly reluctant to visit the two things that the sole survivor would've thought he'd be interested to see in the Mojave: The Strip, or the Hidden Valley bunker. If pressed, he'll admit that he's not the type to cut loose and gamble, drink or participate in general debauchery as a result of his upbringing and position of authority, but neither is he keen to drop in on the dying Western chapters of his order and become stifled by protocol and ass-kissing. He prefers to wander the desert itself, seeking solitude among the cacti and under the stars. Given the chance, he'd probably nip off to Quarry Junction and anonymously solve the NCR's deathclaw problem, if it hasn't already been taken care of. He refuses to wear his uniform for the entire trip.

Desdemona: "The Mojave probably wouldn't know what to make of our mission, which is how you know it's a good place to hide. I wonder if any of our rescued synths made it out this far."

This is by far the most relaxed the sole survivor has ever seen Desdemona, and why wouldn't it be? She's so far removed from her usual sphere that she drops her usual, tight-knit demeanor and embraces loosening up. She's still not talking openly about the Railroad's operations, but she is more likely to answer questions both personal and professional. Like Deacon, she knows a bit about the Mojave, but not so much that she can blend in completely. Instead, she embraces being a tourist and does all the usual things that go with it: Visiting the Strip, the Sunset Sarsaparilla headquarters, the Thorn, and especially Hoover Dam. When she's looking out over Lake Mead, with the sun getting caught in her hair as it sets on her left, she almost looks happy.

[menswearmusings]

Learning to Use Color and Contrast

If you’re just starting out trying to dress in tailored clothes, you’ve probably read or been told to buy light gray trousers as the first pair that you buy. They’re the most versatile, pairing well with nearly every jacket you are likely to buy. It’s good advice, and to explain why, it’s helpful to understand two aspects of color theory: the color wheel, and its related concept of the HSB or HSV color space.

Most are familiar with the color wheel, which Sir Isaac Newton rendered in the 17th century. It maps three primary colors onto a circle, with secondary and tertiary colors, or often the complete color spectrum, completing the circle (most have seen this in grade school; sometimes it’s red, green and blue; other times it’s red, green and yellow; there are reasons for that, but I don’t need to get into that here). The HSV and HSB (hue, saturation, and value or brightness) color spaces were invented in the 20th century to depict how the human eye perceives color in an intuitive way. These take the color wheel, and add a third dimension for brightness (that is, how bright or dark the color is), creating a cylinder. So around the top of the cylinder, each hue increases in saturation from the inside out, and the brightness decreases as you move from the top to the bottom of the cylinder until it becomes black. Thus a color is described by its hue, saturation and brightness. 

By HSV_color_solid_cylinder.png: SharkDderivative work: SharkD  Talk – HSV_color_solid_cylinder.png, CC BY-SA 3.0

At the basic grade school level, you can understand the concepts of complementary, triadic, tetradic, and analogous color combinations using just the basic color wheel. That in itself is valuable for understanding why tan chinos look good with a blue blazer (blue and yellow are complementary). But adding saturation and brightness to your understanding explains it even more: a blue blazer is usually a saturated blue but with a low brightness value, and tan chinos are usually less saturated and have a high brightness value; so not only is the color combination visually pleasing by being complementary, there is contrast as defined by the other two aspects of the HSB color model.

Now we can understand why those light gray trousers are so versatile and useful for guys just starting out to build a classic tailored-centric wardrobe. Gray has no color value or saturation; it is literally only a brightness value somewhere between white and black. So the only characteristic you have to think about is contrast between light and dark. There’s a good chance most jackets you start out buying in the beginning will be darker in brightness value. Thus, it removes a whole layer of decision making about whether your jacket works with your trousers (not to mention not having to worry about whether there are any clashes in the pattern—another dimension I won’t get into in this post).

Henrik Hjerl showing how using contrast between shades of gray in their brightness value keeps things from looking muddy or mismatched.

Darker grays are a little less versatile than lighter, because if your trousers are of a similar brightness value to your jacket, it can look muddy. Or worse, if your jacket is a shade of gray that’s very close but it’s clearly a different fabric, it can look like you accidentally mismatched your suit jacket and trousers. Still, grays in the various shades you can buy are some of the safest bases for a good outfit.

A gray jacket in a mid-brightness value, paired with dark charcoal trousers. It’s a lower contrast look that works well.

Same jacket, worn with light gray trousers, creating contrast, is a safer and easier choice.

Growing beyond gray

Eventually you’ll probably start to grow tired of only wearing gray trousers. When you’re ready to do so, using the HSB color model as a paradigm to assess colors is helpful. To be sure, learning and intuiting what hues work together is the toughest to master. So to start off, I’d suggest experimenting more with the tried-and-true color combos of the classic menswear world, while mixing it up with the saturation levels and brightness values. Examples of those would be navy with tan, brown with light blue, maroon with hunter green, olive with maroons or navy. An example from my wardrobe would be how I wear my gun club jacket. While being made of like 8 different colors of yarn, it resolves to a sort of dusty tan in a mid to light brightness value; I combine it with a darker and more saturated olive pair of five pocket pants to great effect.

Learning to see undertones

As you try more combinations, you will notice that there are underlying hues in the colors of your clothes. For instance, my winter-weight navy blazer isn’t what you would normally picture when thinking of a true dark navy; it’s not only slightly lighter, but it’s got a definite turquoise undertone. Which is beautiful and amazing, but it means the jacket looks bad when worn with trousers with clashing undertones (it doesn’t look good with olive, for instance). Darker shades can be more forgiving than lighter shades, as the hues don’t jump out at the eye as much because the fabric is literally reflecting less light.

The greenish undertone of this blazer clashes with the more magenta undertone of the navy polo.

Noticing and understanding these undertones is the key to mastering all three facets of the HSB color model. It’s how you can create a low-contrast look that makers like Stoffa make seem so easy (particularly in those lighter shades). They make beautiful outfits using clothes in sandy tans combined with dusty pinks and browns, creating a visually relaxing palette that looks like it came right out of a vintage painting of a desert landscape. But the risk is high—brown will sometimes have a distinctly orange undertone that you won’t notice until it’s next to a tan with a distinctly pink undertone, and they look awful next to each other. Some people have a trained eye, and can easily identify the undertones and instinctually know what will pair well. For the rest of us, trial and error, as well as carefully studying the color combos that look so good, can help sharpen our own innate sense of color.

Derek Guy at Put This One recently wrote about color undertones, giving some very practical advice and lots of great photo examples here.

The tan suede of this Stoffa jacket has a distinct orange undertone that pairs well with the dusty orange polo shirt. On its own, it might be difficult to see that undertone in the suede, but putting it next to the polo instantly makes it recognizable. A green polo would look horrendous.

The gray suede of this Stoffa field jacket has a distinct blue undertone that works well with the faded cyan shirt.

Read more at Menswear Musings

[tae-kemyhand]

Tony. (SF9 - Rowoon)

The incident of Eva Martin and Tony, the cat.

Summary: In which the mysterious garden cat is more than just that.

Characters: Rowoon of SF9 as Tony & Eva Martin (OC)

Word count: roughly 1700

Warnings: none.

Genre: comedy, romance

There is a cat who often intrudes into my garden. Nightly black with endearing white socks and striking blue eyes. He enjoys lounging on the steady branches of my apple tree, his long body resting on the rough brown bark and his legs hanging in mid-air. We do not interact. I merely observe him as he swats away at the flies and butterflies who dare to disturb his slumber. On hot summer evenings, I leave out some spring water and his crystal eyes, although expressionless most of the time, showing slight gratitude as he sips out of the white plastic bowl. I do not know the name of this cat, but I have decided to name him Tony, after a childhood pet. He is not my cat, and I am not his owner. He bears no collar and no home address. He is merely a regular visitor who often intrudes into my garden.

"Eva, thank you for lunch! See you at the office tomorrow." The echoing voice of my co-worker bounced off the walls of my empty cottage, a house which belonged to my grandparents and had been passed down to their only grandchild. It was resident of a pleasant little village located outside of the hustle and bustle of the capital but close enough to a train station that it was easy to get to work. It had two, good-sized rooms and a traditional, white tiled bathroom with a bathtub and shower. The centre of this old house, however, was the adjoined kitchen and living room whose floors were covered by large, square terracotta tiles and off-white walls, furnished with two, two-seater sofas and a mahogany coffee table all over a thick, cream woollen rug. The garden at the back of the rustic country kitchen wasn't extravagant, probably about forty square meters and accommodated a century-old apple tree that had been planted when my great-grandfather had been born. Red rose bushes grew by the western fence and dusty pink peonies at the eastern. A small patio stretched from one end to the other, and lush green grass covered the rest.

I, as the only resident of the little cottage, was entrusted with the duty of taking care of grandma's precious flowers for she- may she rest in peace- was no longer able to and my mother who lived five hours north was in no position to, either. It was a somewhat relaxing task that was taken up at the end of a long week of filing and stamping paperwork, and after tending to the buds that came at the beginning of spring, a cup of warm peppermint tea was to be had from the sprouts that grew in the herb patch. Tony would often perch on the roof of the navy and scarlet cat house I had bought impulsively while browsing the aisles of Lidl. He sat as if it were his throne and the garden was his kingdom, and I, who found his regality quite amusing, was a mere servant who cleaned his lavish palace. That was a quality I particularly admired about this mysterious cat. His manner of being still and watching life go about its business and small events unravel was a virtue that I -from what I had lived and experienced in my 27 years of life- could never conquer.

It is as I was trimming the stray and dry branches of my darling apple tree that I heard a sharp cry resounding from the rose bushes and a quick black flash dart toward the foot of my ladder. As I climbed down the worn wooden pegs, Tony cowered at the foot of the tree hissing quietly and recoiling as my hands stretched to him. His front right leg was elevated, and spots of blood stained his white sock- he had gotten a thorn stuck in his paw. I stepped back inside the house rummaging through the kitchen draws to find the first aid kit that always disappeared when I most needed it. The poor cat was still unable to move when I returned. He allowed himself to be gently picked up and placed on my lap as I sterilised the wound and prepared the tweezers to take out a rather thick thorn that had embedded itself in between the pads of his toes.

"Okay, here we go." I stroked his head lightly and held onto his paw. When the tweezers touched the thorn, there was no reaction. When it was pulled out, however, the free mitt that rested on my arm sunk its claws deep into my skin, and I jumped in pain, throwing Tony against the thick, solid trunk of the tree and with a sickening thud he flopped to the ground, as still as a mouse.

"Oh, Tony! Did I kill him? Why isn't he moving?" I clutched at the wound on my arm and watched quietly, anticipating at least the twitch of an ear to confirm that I had not murdered the only welcome visitor to my garden.

Some things in life take a turn for the unexpected, and it was on that day that I began to doubt everything I thought to be true. Right before my eyes, the glossy black fur that covered Tony's slim body became shorter and shorter by the second and his body became bigger and bigger. That which lied in front of me at that time was the naked body of a man I did not recognise; jet-black hair fell over a face with gentle features whose skin was nearly as pale as snow. And as the incomprehensible shock of this moment sunk into my mind, I became dizzy and nauseous, vision losing clarity as I fell to the grass in a faint.

▪ ▪ ▪

Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

The incessant ticking of the alarm clock reverberated through my bedroom as I came to my senses. It appeared to be early evening: the shadows of the setting sun and the occasional car headlights dancing and mingling on the off-white walls through the cracks of the blinds that had been nearly closed. I was still dressed in my gardening attire, but my shoes had been carelessly left outside in the dim corridor, and the doors of my wardrobe were wide open with a few t-shirts hanging from the drawers. Someone had gone rummaging in my clothes. The house was as silent as usual and peering in each room proved that there was nobody here other than myself.

"Ah, the garden!" Slipping on a pair of shoes, I opened the French doors that led to the back. Under the apple tree sat a slouching figure, soft breathing accompanied by the hidden crickets. I cautiously approached the sleeping form and crouched before him. It was the man I had seen after Tony was thrown against the tree, dressed in my clothes. Although I was slightly disturbed that this person was still on my property, I took the time to examine his face.

"Stop staring." a low voice purred, and I fell back on my bottom in surprise. Long lashes fluttered open and blue eyes peered at me hidden under the black strands of hair that rested on his forehead.

"Tony?" the stranger chuckled and waved his hand before me, a cut 2 centimeters long in between his thumb and index finger.

"Got a plaster?" I sat in disbelief, was I going crazy? There's no way Tony, the cat, somehow turned into a human. It's just impossible, this is like a dream- that's it!

"This is just a dream!" A short laugh erupted from my throat. The idea of this situation being real was too ridiculous. Cats don't turn into huma- "Ouch!" I drew my leg back as the stranger pinched my exposed ankle.

He sighed, an amused expression playing on his face, "You sure are stupid." Standing, he dusted his palms and walked past me. He took the first aid kit and picked up its contents which had been strewn on the grass from my sudden jump earlier and strolled into the house.

"Hey!" My shock had come to an end as soon as he stepped into my home. "Stop right there!" The man ignored my protests and proceeded to open the tap in the kitchen to wash his wound. "What do you think you're doing?"

He did not spare me a glance as he turned and tore away a paper towel to dry his hand, "What does it look like I'm doing?" He took some gauze from the kit and wrapped it around his hand once, then twice.

"It looks like you're trespassing on private property." I huffed. But then he turned to focus his piercing gaze on me. I shuddered involuntarily when the corner of his lips twitched into a devious smirk. He took two long steps in my direction, back hitting the counter behind me.

"I trespass all the time. You've never complained before." My nervous stare darted around his face until it fell on his brilliant, deep blue eyes. I could recognise them anywhere. His eyes flickered to a look of mischief, and a sudden revelation dawned on me. He's right; he does trespass all the time. Because he's Tony.

"You- how- what?" My baffled expression must've been hilarious because his chest vibrated in a chuckle as he took a step back. The creature I had thought of as a cat was standing before me on two legs, with two arms and two hands. A human face and a low, melodious laugh escaped his pink lips. It was then that I realised how young he looked, couldn't possibly be a day over 25, and yet there was a type of maturity to the way he stood. This being, whatever he was, was twisting my mind like a maze.

"You're not the brightest, are you?" His statement caught me by surprise, a boyish grin provoking me to retaliate. He slid his hands into the pockets of my joggers and turned on his heels toward the front door, leaving me stunned by the kitchen counter.

"Wait!" I shook myself out of the trance. My reaction wasn't fast enough, and by the time I reached the porch, the door was wide open, the fresh spring breeze invading the corridor. My eyes searched the driveway for that strange figure, but there was no Tony in sight. And as I woke up the next morning, all of the evidence of his mysterious appearance was gone, and I was left thinking that I had dreamt the entire ordeal.

[texting-an-alien]

The Welders: Chapter One

Chapter One: Boys are Sensitive Too

A/N: I’ve wanted to share this for a while, I’ve been working on it for ages. I hope you enjoy. I was actually really encouraged to post this and start writing more after @the-solar-surfer_surfer drew the main character and my OC, so thank you! FEEDBACK IS ENCOURAGED

It was musty.

Most attics typically were but this one definitely won the “#1 musty, dusty, gross, hack your lungs out from coughing because you can’t breath without dirt going down your throat” award. Unfortunately, it was for a school extra-credit assignment in a class I had been failing since third grade.

I was pretty sure I had found 3 spiders, 20 dead flies, one old moth bit wedding dress, and a mouse trap that explained the current stench in the cramped room. But of course there was no box of photos. The supposed photos were of my long dead family members for my doomed assignment in history.

“Get to know your family, Amy." Mr. Gilbert said.

“You’ll learn so much," he said.

The only thing I was learning was that grandmothers don’t always keep tidy houses. Sure the downstairs had floral wallpaper and embroidered pillows with inspirational quotes, but it was like all the dust had hibernated from downstairs to the attic… which didn’t help my allergies.

1 hour and a hundred sneezes later, I was down the ladder sitting on the stiff couch surrounded by said pillows with one, musty, dusty cardboard box full of photo albums and something that would rattle every time you took a step.

My grandmother sat next to me, her wrinkled frail hands clasped in her lap.

Unlike her attic, my grandmother was the stereotypical, rosey cheek, wrinkles as deep as the grand canyon grandmother. Her pale skin stretched across her face and she was quite short, with a slight curve to her back so she waddled around like the hunchback of Notre Dame. She had tight grey ringlets that, unlike the other seniors of Yachats, Oregon, she refused to dye purple or blonde. Her nails were always a gut wrenching “Rose Blush” red and the only thing in her wardrobe was polyester pastel dresses in every shade of pink and yellow.

“I never realized the attic actually contained stuff," I said as I pulled apart the criss-crossed cardboard flaps.

“Where do you think we put the rest of your crap when you moved in?” a voice said from the kitchen and I immediately placed it with my year older cousin, Patrick.

“Well sorry I never thought of climbing through a bunch of cobwebs in my freetime," I replied sarcastically and rolled my eyes. He fully appeared from around the corner of the kitchen, a half-eaten banana in his hand.

My cousin was like the brother I never had nor had I ever wanted. He had short, blonde, curly hair that took 3 different brands of combs to tame. He was much taller than my grandmother and I, and acted as if everything was made of glass. “The gentle giant." seemed appropriate. He was currently wearing his black button up shirt for his catering job and his favorite pair of hotdog boxers.

“Well maybe if you didn’t spend so much time in your roo-” he started.

“Hush now, I’m learning," I interrupted and returned back to the box. I heard him move behind me and lean over my shoulder.

“You know all that stuff Mr. Gilbert says is crap so the board doesn’t get suspicious and find the bottle of Jack in his classroom," he whispered low enough that my grandmother wouldn’t hear. I smirked and waved him away. He chuckled, took another bite and went back to the kitchen.

Back in the box, there were two photo albums and polaroid pictures crammed around in the empty space. My grandmother's face lit up at the sight of the pictures and fondly stroked each one like it was a living thing.

I picked up a picture of a small boy sitting in a pile of snow. He was wearing a red fleece hat and a puffy blue snow jacket. He was squinting into the camera, his cheeks red from the cold.

“That there is Patrick when he was about 5. Boy did he love that hat," my grandmother smiled, looking over my shoulder to see the photo.

“I heard my name," Patrick said and reappeared from the kitchen, the banana gone.

I held up the picture and looked over my shoulder and said, “Awe, Patrick remember when you were cute? What happened?”

He glared at me and snatched the picture from me. He studied his 5 year old self. He cocked his head then said, “What are you talking about? I’m still extremely handsome."

“Maybe if you wish really hard it will come true. Or at least you will know how to dress," I mumbled that last bit as I snatched the picture away. He looked down at his shirt and hot dog boxers, before narrowing his eyes at me.

“Shut up. I have to leave at 3:30. I’ve got time," he frowned and walked up-stairs.

Patrick and I always bickered. It drove my grandmother insane but at the end of the day he was the one helping with my homework because he had already gone through all the classes or trying to slip me a test from last year. I never accepted of course… okay once.

My grandmother and I sorted through pictures for nearly an hour. We chatted about baby pictures and prom photos.

“And this is of your mother," My grandmother said, turning the page in one of the photo albums. I had moved closer to her and now looking at the picture, I felt too close.

My breath hitched in my throat as I saw my mother in her prom dress. I heard Patrick freeze on the bottom of the stairs. The entire room went silent and I couldn’t take my eyes off my mother.

“I’m sorry darling," My grandmother said, trying to flip the page.

“No, no. It’s okay. This is the kind of stuff Mr. Gilbert wants me to know about. He wants a report on the entire family, including mom."

The truth was I didn’t want to know more about my mom. I already knew everything. She had never had a lot of money, she worked two jobs and was still home every night to make me mac & cheese. She was kind and gentle, if she had the chance she took me to every county fair. Her porcelain face was worn from no sleep all the time and her hair had been cut short because she never had anytime to brush it. And she had died 5 years ago from a hit and run.

I had been living with my grandmother for about 6 years. I say 6 because my mother and I had moved in 7 months before the accident. Afterwards my grandmother legally adopted me. At the court the issue of my father came up, which I wish to no longer speak about for the remainder of this story. The courts offer about my father was turned down and I had been with my grandmother since.

Patrick was here because his parents had kicked him out when they found out he was dating a boy. The boy then broke it off, but my aunt and uncle refused to let him back in the house. He had been here since he was 12 which meant he had been here 4 years and counting. Honestly, my grandmother had already disowned her daughter and the anger only strengthened when Patrick was kicked out of the house.

But it was nice here. Patrick and I went to the same high-school so I always had someone to sit by on the bus. He was like and older brother to me. My grandmother was soft spoken and continued to take pity on us even after Patrick had broken nearly every window in the house and I had brought the police to the house… twice.

Innocent shoplifting. Okay I was 13 and it was a pair of sunglasses and some chapstick.

Still, we had 3 meals everyday and tea before bed. It was one of the many odd things my grandmother required us to do after dinner. It supposedly cleansed the soul and we were shunned if we missed it.

“Your mom was a good woman, more a mom to me than that other woman," Patrick said and fake shuddered. “Alright, I’m going. I should be back by dinner."

“Bye darling," My grandmother said as he leaned down and kissed her cheek. He patted me on the shoulder before suddenly remembering something and running back up the stairs.

I moved back to the box and moved a few rolls of film out of the way, revealing the source of the rattling noise.

It was a brown wood box, the size of a generous jewelry box. As I removed it from the cardboard box and set on my lap, I heard my grandmother go still. I paid no attention and opened the box. Inside was a strange assortment of items.

There was a small glass case with a white butterfly pinned to a piece of cardboard, a broken ballerina that could have fit in a music box, a locket with a clip of black hair, a glass or crystal orb, and you guessed it- more dust.

“What is this a time capsule? You know you’re supposed to bury these right?” I joked and dug through a few things. I pulled the crystal orb out of the box and examined it in the light coming from the window. It distorted everything on the other side, like you were looking into fun house mirror. It was about the size baseball and it cas cold, clear, and heavy.

“Not exactly," My grandmother and I looked to her, expecting a sad smile and wise story. Oddly enough, her face was grim and serious.

Patrick appeared behind her, staring at the orb in my hands. He had only barely put on his backpack and it dangled on his shoulder. I glanced back and forth, between my two very eerie relatives before quickly putting the ball back in the case and slamming it shut.

“I’m guessing it’s not a good memory?” I said and they seemed to come out of a trance, their eyes snapping up to me. “Assuming it is a memory box," I continued.

“Of course it’s a memory box dear, what else would it be?” My grandmother said and Patrick’s grip tightened on his brack pack strap. He looked angry, but not at me.

“Because if it's something else…” I trailed off and glanced back to the box, slightly opening it.

“Don’t worry about it. It’s just a glass ball, an over-sized marble," Patrick said angrily. He was staring at the back of my grandmothers curly gray head. He seemed to be more focused on the galls orb than anything else in the box, he was clarifying that the ball was nothing even though I hadn’t specified anything.

I put my arms up in defense and set the box on the floor. I looked away but from the corner of my eye I could see Patrick still glaring at my grandmother. He has never looked at her this way, it was considered impolite and he was always kind to her.

“Whatever I have to go," Patrick said, and quickly left the living room. The door slammed with such a terrifyingly angry force that multiple hanging pictures rattled from their places on the walls.

I didn’t bring the small memory box back up. Not when I sealed it back in it’s cardboard tomb. Not even when it was 5 minutes to tea and Patrick still wasn’t home even though he got off of work three hours ago. My grandmother and I sat on the couch, she already adorned her blue bathrobe and I was wearing my Harvard sweatshirt.

“Was it about his family?” I asked finally, breaking the obnoxiously thick silence. Setting the steaming cup of orange and cinnamon tea on the coffee table. “Like a family heirloom or something?”

“Something like that. Patrick is very sensitive. You having nothing to worry about Amethyst," My grandmother replied.

I suppose this is the moment when I should mention my full name. Amethyst Cecilia Preston was not the name I wanted. Even though I have a feeling my mother gave it to me as a very deep meaningful soulful label, I also had a feeling it was a joke that she was playing even from beyond the grave. It sounded like some 50s pin-up girl that had only signed up for the posters because Victoria’s Secret hadn’t been founded yet.

As soon as those words left my grandmother's mouth, the term “speak of the devil and he shall appear." became very useful.

Patrick burst through the door, once again slamming the door and rattling the pictures on the walls. He quickly ran to the kitchen, poured himself a cup, and sat down across from us in the over stuffed floral pattern chair, his coat still on. My grandmother and I were still so shocked about his dramatic entrance that it took awhile for her to say something.

“You’re late for tea," My grandmother mumbled and took a sip of tea, not making eye contact with him.

“Right sorry, Annaleise showed up late. You know how she is," he chuckled, mimicking my grandmother and casually sipping the tea as if his tantrum hadn’t happened before.

“3 hours late," I mumbled into my glass and Patrick shot me a glare.

It fell into an awkward silence which usually didn’t happen. Usually it was Patrick not shutting up about some boy from school or my grandmother asking if I had found a guy yet in which case the answer was always no. I wasn’t used to a guardian encouraging me to date.

“Come now Amy, there is always a guy for every socially awkward, friendless 15 year old," Patrick has said one night.

He wasn’t saying anything now.

“Well," I suddenly exclaimed causing my grandmother to jump. “I am going to go to bed, there is only so much awkward family time that I can take."

My grandmother sat down her cup and looked up at me with a look that I couldn’t quite describe before saying, “Oh alright then, goodnight dear."

“Goodnight Amy," Patrick said and gave me the fakest, cheesiest, “I’m-actually-a-secret-murderer” smile that I have ever seen- and I have known him for most of my life. I looked back at him and crinkled my nose (he was giving me the shivers).

I slowly walked backwards up the stairs, Patrick's maniac eyes following me the entire time until my door clicked shut. I turned around, taking in the darkened room before sitting on my bed.

Most 15 year old girls have pretty much figured out what they like and have stuck with it. Decorating their rooms with boy bands and filling their closest with ungodly clothes that would make Lady Gaga weep. Unlike the other girls, my room was littered with Van Gogh posters and journals that I never actually wrote in. My duvet didn’t match my curtains or pillows causing my grandmother to go crazy. Other than that, it was pretty normal. I had a closet, a bookshelf, a bed, and a window. Basic human habitat.

I was about to actually consider going to sleep when I heard bickering from downstairs. I kneeled down and put my ear to the vent that fortunately lead into the living room like in all the spy movies that just happened to have vent that lead directly to where you needed to go.

“...was gone! We can’t have that here!” Obviously Patrick.

“Do you know how difficult, not just physically but mentally, it is to get rid of an ampoule!? It’s not that simple. That was her entire life Patrick. Even Barney had trouble getting rid of his wife's!” Now it was my grandmothers turn.

I quickly made a mental note to look up what the heck an “ampoule” was.

“We can’t have a spare rolling around here, literally! It’s dangerous for everyone," Patrick said.

“Why because Amy is just going to go and take a over sized marble and-” her last few words were cut off by the tea kettle whistling. There was shuffling and I quickly opened my door and sat at the top of the stairs hoping I could hear everything.

“I’m thinking we should tell Amy," Patrick said, slightly quieter.

“Patrick don’t you dare bring that girl into this, like you said, it’s dangerous," My grandmother said from the kitchen.

“It would be more dangerous if we didn’t tell her," he replied.

“You will not tell Amy a thing. Have you not been listening to yourself? You’re shouting at me while you want to tell her everything about… well everything!”

“You kept the ampoule here! Where she could find it and now that she has she’s not going to give it up. How many times did she ask about it while I was gone?”

“Once!”

“Her mind was probably screaming about it the entire time. grams she will not give up we have to tell her something."

“I will not tell you again Patrick Preston, you do not tell Amethyst anything about the ampoule and if you do…”

“Fine! Whatever. She’s going to find out and when she does don’t go looking to me or Barney for help."

There was a grunt, shuffling, more movement before I heard the first step creak. I quickly jumped up and ran to my room. I tried to close the door a quietly as possible, something I had learned from Patrick himself, and dove under my covers.

My door swung open, the light from the hallway bleeding into my dark room. Through my squinted eyes I could make out the outline of Patrick’s body, he was still wearing his coat. I tried to slow my breathing as he came and sat on the edge of the bed.

“Amethyst, you came up here like 7 minutes ago, there is no way you went to bed. Not without contemplating the meaning of life and that usually takes 10 minutes," he chuckled and I opened one eye. He looked down at me and smiled.

“I’m sorry if I upset you earlier," I whispered and sat up, my back against the metal bar headboard behind me.

“You sound so formal," he joked but then turned serious. “You didn’t."

I rolled my eyes and said, “Yeah because disappearing for three hours screams ‘I’m not upset’."

“Just some family past I thought was over and done with," Patrick informed me, resting his hand on my knee.

“Okay first of all, the knee thing is freaking creepy. Second, you and grandma aren’t good at whispering. And third, you gonna tell me or not?” I said, moving my knee away from him. He smiled again and I couldn’t help but smile back.

It was like his smile was infectious. He didn’t have perfect teeth, not even close. His two front teeth had a large white spot from heaven knows what and his bottom front teeth had slightly twisted behind each other. But when he smiled you knew whatever on earth he was looking at was worth smiling for.

“How much did you hear?” He asked

“Enough that I want to know more," I replied.

"Grams will kill me.”

“I heard you downstairs. You want to tell me even though grandma is against it. I, on the other hand, am all for it."

“Huh."

“Well are you gonna tell me?”

He seemed almost convinced. I was using his own words against him, another thing I had learned from one of our pointless arguments in the past. He pursed his lips, looked everywhere but my eyes, and wouldn’t stop picking at his fingernails.

“Patrick please? I bet it would look great on my history essay," I pleaded, my voice sounding way to desperate at the end.

“Well if, and I mean if, I was to tell you, you couldn’t put it in your essay. Or tell anyone," he said, sounding suddenly deadly serious.

Now this was getting mysterious.

“I swear on my life. Now spill," I said and crossed my heart with my finger, sitting up straighter to get the juicy details on our crazy family.

As those few final words left my mouth, footsteps were heard coming up the stairs. We both glanced at the door and I prayed Patrick would just hurry up and tell me. Judging from my grandmother’s tone of voice from their argument, if she found out Patrick had even agreed to tell me, he would probably be dead.

“Better yet I can show you," he said hurriedly, already getting off my bed. “Tomorrow if I can get off in time. Chances are Julia won’t show up by 4:30 like she’s scheduled for."

Good to know the only thing standing in between me and my dark family secrets was the 18 year old newbie.

“Why not just tell me?” I asked.

“Later," he hissed, kissed my forehead, then ran to the door and closed it as carefully as possible, mimicking my actions from about 2 minutes ago. The door clicked close as the side of my grandmother's face appeared around the corner. Their two voices were once again muffled but a few words slipped.

“What… in there?” my grandmother whispered.

“...night," Patrick replied.

“Don’t… her." The floor creaked implying my grandmother stepped forward.

“...swear… won’t."  I could imagine Patrick putting up his arms in defense, backing away. There was three creaks, a click, six more creaks then another click- both had gone to their rooms.

I layed on my back, staring up at the slightly twirling black and white light bulbs hanging from the ceiling. I nearly considered slipping out of bed and down stairs to get my phone that I had stupidly left charging in the kitchen to look up the world “ampoule” when sleep betrayed me and I was plagued with dreams about a ginormous crystal ball hunting me down like a bad remake of Indiana Jones.