Pick'N'Mix Mods for The Sims 2

24 - Xavier

Xavier paused. It was too easy. The thin curtain of the wide-open French-doors shimmied in the gentle sea breeze, it would take less than a second to enter the bedroom beyond. But that would be too easy, it had to be a trap. Xavier scrutinised the doors, their frame, the curtain and what he could see of the floor beyond from his bat-like vantage point on the over-hanging chalet roof.

There was nothing out of place, but then he wouldn't expect to see anything until it was too late. He'd stick to his original plan.

Half an hour later, Xavier lowered himself, head-first, through the opening where the fake flue pipe exited the living room.

Quickly scanning the room, his trained eyes alert to the smallest inconsistency, he spotted the journal and looked at the open spread - dense archaic script, too much to digest here. Taking a small camera from his pocket he pointed it at the spread - he'd rewind the feed and find the message later. He reached out to return the journal to its place and stopped. She wouldn't be that obvious. Remembering the open pages, he propped the camera up and opened each spread in turn before it - he'd read the entire journal later. He needed somewhere for the camera, somewhere high to take in the full room. He hid it amongst the decorative top scroll work of the bookcase.

He knew he should leave, but he couldn't help himself. On silent feet, he stood just beyond the door to the bedroom and gazed in.

She lay naked, face-up, in the middle of the bed. Her golden locks, tumbling over the pillow, giving her a halo. A light smile rested upon her lips, in the peaceful sleep of an innocent. The silk bed-sheet lay crumpled in a line on the floor. He was jealous of it, it had caressed her body in its long, slow fall. Fondly remembering the gossamer blue baby-doll, he wondered where it was. He could easily kill her while she slept, but other tasks needed completing. He may have audibly sighed, or it might have been the night-breeze in the curtain, but she stirred in her sleep.

He carefully replaced the flue and returned to his small hotel room to study the footage from the camera.

By morning he had a splitting headache. The cramped, cursive script in the journal was almost illegible, and what little he could make out was unintelligible. Absentmindedly, he popped two headache pills from their foil sheet.

He spent the next hour in unbearable agony, doubled over, clutching his groin - the empty "his'n'hers" packet lying on the floor.

23 - It's Not the Fall ... 25 - Not That Kind of Girl