Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Good morning!” The barista said, and if my expression inspired that kind of enthusiasm at six in the morning it was news to me. I did my best to intensify my glower but the barista just pointed at me with a big smile. “M.B., right?”

I squinted. His smile was, much like the sun, way too bright for this hour. “What?”

“Macchiato over Black coffee!” He beamed, and I winced. “It’s what you got yesterday, or would you like to try something else?”

“Do I look like I’d order anything else?” I was genuinely curious—I mean, if the black clothes, the black lipstick and the neck tattoos didn’t give anything away…

“Oh, you never know.” The barista, ‘Ratthi’ according to his name-tag, looked over my shoulder as he held up a cup of what appeared to be rainbow vomit.

“Unicorn frozen breve, extra whip, extra sweet, extra sprinkles!” he said, and I turned just in time to see the scariest dude that Planet Granola Coffee and Market had ever hosted walk up to the counter.

His black hair was shaved off on one side, and he wore big ugly boots and patched-up pants and a shirt that had the words, 'This unit was already rogue’ scrawled on it. Probably song lyrics from some band no one's ever heard of. I don’t think he was wearing eyeshadow, he just looked that covetously fucked-up all on his own.

He noticed me staring with wide-eyed fascination as he took the glittering monstrosity, and his leather-gloved hands squeezed the cup so hard it spilled over.

I definitely laughed. Hey, I’m not a robot.

He growled, then daintily licked sprinkles off his knuckles as he stomped away. His arm was nearly covered in blown-out, fuzzy-edged tattoos. I was personally offended by this, since I give people tattoos for a living.

I shivered to banish the sight of such bad ink on such a badass person from my mind, and paid. By the time I was done the punk with the sweet tooth had disappeared. By the time I got back to my shop I wondered if he was just a figment of my imagination.

*

I could have become one of those tattoo artists they make TV shows about after apprenticing with some of the best in the business, but then I realized how much business acumen (snore), networking (gross), and self-promotion (yikes) becoming a celebrity entails. It had been about four years since then, without much progress on getting a TV deal, but a lot of study and perfection of my craft. People don’t want to watch shows about that. As the next Netflix sensation, I was a terrible failure.

Then I saw a shop opening in Preservazione Square. It’s one of those rent-controlled art spaces in the middle of the inner-city, surrounded by corporate offices and big box stores. The kind of place that gets a lot of attention, struggles on for a few years, raises prices through the roof to make ends meet, then inevitably gets turned into a Walmart parking lot. I’d say it was in its ‘price hike’ stage if what I paid for my macchiato was any indication. There was the coffee shop, a flower shop, a wine tasting bar, a leather goods workshop, a gift boutique, and even a branch office for the nearby Pansystem University; none were long for this world. But it was quaint, for now, and as I mentioned, was rent-controlled. Faced with the prospect of going to work in someone else’s studio drawing eagles on bikers and the Chinese symbol for ‘dumbass’ on drunk college students, it was no contest. And Murder Bot Ink was born.

I spent a long time developing the logo (a robot fighting a giant worm), the décor (I covered the walls with analog TVs and curated a library of VHS tapes rescued from local thrift stores), and customer comforts (only the highest quality headphones for customer use, so they wouldn't talk to me). And then I waited. And waited. And waited.

Yeah, I'm sure the social networking shit would have come in handy here.

My first client, would-be client, was from one of the corporate offices. She was possibly too young to get a tattoo (not that I would dare to card my first customer). She had a couple extra piercings in one ear and looked vaguely familiar. If we met, she certainly didn’t show it.

“I want a tattoo,” she said.

“Thank God you came to a tattoo parlor,” I told her.

She rolled her eyes, but I guess she deemed me cool enough (or young enough? I have one of those faces) to continue her pitch. “Something that will piss off my mom.” She winced. “But—not too much, you know?” I don’t want her to know I’m getting one…yet.”

“I respect client confidentiality.” I mean, easy enough, I didn’t even know her name yet.

She immediately relaxed, though, and looked through one of my design books while I debated calling Child Services or something. How old did kids have to be before you let them wander around by themselves? “What do moms like?”

I admit I floundered for an answer. “…Flowers?”

“Okay,” she said, like it was her idea all along, “Flowers. On my arm.” She pointed at her bicep.

“What kind?”

“I don’t know—I like marigolds,” she said. “And um, poppies. Icelandic poppies.”

…I mean I could look them up but I don’t really trust the internet. And the library was kind of far. “Come back tomorrow,” I told her. “I’ll have some designs.”

She brightened. “Thanks!” Then she looked around furtively and added, “And if Ayda Mensah ever comes in here, you never saw me!”

Oh, shit, yeah, now I remembered where I saw her. She had wandered into the lease office while I was signing for the space with Ayda Mensah. You know, the woman that, like, financed the whole Preservazione Square project.

And I just agreed to give her daughter a tattoo.

Awesome.

*

I closed for lunch and walked out into the square to grab my bike. I might just make it back from the library in time to be open in the afternoon, for all those customers I don't have. Ratthi was outside handing out drinks and sandwiches, and waved at me as I passed. The sun was shining (for once, the buildings around the square usually blocked out the sun) and everything looked bright and cheerful. The trees lining the square practically waved at me like I was in a cutesy cartoon.

It was probably the only reason I noticed the florist shop sign. In the shade, the spray-painted lettering spelling out GURATHIN'S FLOWERS had more or less matched the ultra-urban vibe. I didn’t realize how the bars on the windows and utter lack of visible greenery from the street really didn’t match the Disney-princess vibes of the rest of Preservazione Square. It looked closed, but then I saw a man with muscles like a professional weight-lifter step inside.

Well. It was a lot closer than the library. Maybe this 'Gurathin' would give me some for free.

I crossed the square and stepped inside.

“…’Much Sympathy On Your Engagement’?” the weight-lifter was shouting, veins popping out. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“I’m sorry,” a voice said.

I had to fully step around the big yelling guy to see the speaker, who was none other than that skinny punk from the coffee shop, sitting behind the counter.

“You asked for a lemon balm plant," the punk said. "Given its symbolism and your demeanor on ordering, I can only assume you wish to express your condolences on the union.”

“Mateo just likes lemon balm!” The guy yelled. He waved around a leafy green plant covered in tiny purple flowers, “And just because my best friend and my ex are getting together it doesn’t mean I’m not perfectly overjoyed at their engagement, okay?” He tore up the card. “Write a better card!”

“That will be another twenty-one sixty-five.”

“What? You’re gonna charge me??”

“If you had chosen myrtle your instructions may have been more clear.” He glanced at the plant. “You’re bruising the balm.”

“Just—forget it!” He slapped some money on the counter and stormed out.

The punk glanced at me, then cleaned up the confetti of ripped-up paper. There wasn’t anything else to look at—the shop floor was completely empty.

Okay, I'll bite. “Where are the flowers?”

“In the back,” was the man’s reply.

“…Don’t you want people to see what they’re buying?”

“People tell me what they need, and I get it for them.” He glanced up at me and added, “The language of flowers is difficult for most people to decipher. It acts on a subconscious level.”

“…Right.” Yeah, I was trying not to laugh at the guy again. “I need some marigolds and poppies.”

His face remained impassive as he reached for a receipt book—like an old-school receipt book, with triplicate. “And whose death are we celebrating? There is an extra twenty-one sixty-five cost for a handwritten card.”

“No one? What?"

"Marigolds are a flower for those in mourning, while poppies symbolize extravagance. I can only assume a monarch has died."

"...It’s for reference for a tattoo design. I design tattoos. Murder Bot Ink." I looked him up and down. "I guess you're Gurathin."

Gurathin scratched something out. “So no card, then.”

I didn’t like his disapproving attitude. “Those are the flowers the client picked.” I glared then added, reluctantly. “Why, what would you pick?”

“It’s for Amena, right? She's the only one I've seen go into your shop.”

Huh. So the guy was watching my shop. I stood up a little straighter. “How do you know her?”

“I taught her how to drive.” He scribbled something else on the receipt and tore me off a copy. “I'll pick something better. Come back in an hour.”

“…Sure.” There did not appear to be any money expected up front, so I left and got some lunch over at Planet Granola. I ate it while I watched Ratthi try to console the weight-lifter, who was crying into his lemon balm. I’d never seen a florist make a grown man cry before. I hated to admit I was impressed. 

I was even more impressed when I returned to find the most beautiful bouquet in existence waiting for me upon my return. It was a lot of flowers I didn’t recognize, wildflower type stuff, and yet it somehow looked like what wedding magazines wish they could photograph. It was quite possibly magic. It kind of freaked me out.

“There's a code to it,” Gurathin said, as I stared at it. “One twenty-five, ninety six.”

Okay, now I was staring at him. “For flowers?”

“You don’t want it?”

I pointed at his arm. “Let me fix your tattoo for you and we’re even." Hey, at least I could probably count on this guy not to talk to me while I did it. "Who even did those? They look terrible.”

“I did.”

Oh. But he nodded and pushed the bouquet across the counter at me. "I'll come by next week."

I put a show on one of my TVs and spent the rest of the day drawing a few different takes on the bouquet. Maybe I’d keep it around when she came in to look at the designs, it really did brighten up the place.

It was around closing and I happened to look up in time to see Gurathin staring in at me and my TV, looking absolutely appalled. Maybe a goth watching daytime TV was a little out of character.

“Hey, you’re the one that drinks unicorn blood!” I said. Of course he didn’t hear me through the plate glass, and he continued on his way with a very judgemental raise of his big ugly eyebrows. Asshole. I glowered and switched off the TV for the night.

Amena loved my designs, of course. Now I'd have to think about that florist the entire time I worked.

Chapter Text

“…Which do you think he’ll prefer? I mean, I think sunflowers, since you told me that stuff about Van Gogh, but I don’t want to give the wrong impression, you know?”

I walked in on Gurathin’s flower shop to find Ratthi sitting on the counter, gesturing expansively with a coffee cup that matched the one in Gurathin’s hand. The florist was standing behind the counter, stacking boxes, nodding occassionally as Ratthi continued to pour his heart out.

“…But I mean, I do want to give him an impression. And sunflowers make an impression. What do you think?”

“I think you have your mind made up,” Gurathin said with a small shrug.

“Okay, so—sunflowers, then. Final answer! Oh, hi, MB!” Ratthi got off the counter. “Sorry, we were just chatting—I’ll be back later, alright?”

Gurathin just nodded and the barista left.

“When are you coming over to get your tattoo touched up, anyway?” I asked, not very politely—I was still offended about how he reacted to my soap operas. “I want to get it on the calendar.”

“I wasn’t aware the repayment had a deadline,” Gurathin said. “Do you really watch The Rise and Fall of Sanctuary Moon?”

“…Rule one of my parlor is that you do not criticize anyone’s media preferences,” I snapped.

“I asked, I didn’t criticize.”

“Yeah, you did.” Did he? “You criticized with your eyes. Your vibe was very critical.”

“It’s always like that.”

“Yeah—well—” Okay, I guess my vibe is anxious and depressed. Maybe he couldn’t help it any more than I could. “You can watch whatever you want while I’m working,” I allowed, reluctantly. “I have headphones.”

“Can I bring my own movie?”

“I probably already have it.”

Gurathin actually smiled. Wow, that really changed his whole face, didn’t it? “No, you don’t.”

I narrowed my eyes. “I have some obscure stuff.”

“Undoubtedly.”

“With some really, wacky plotlines.”

He nodded.

“But still heartfelt—you know, vibrant side characters, connected A and B plots. A big blue monster or two is a welcome addition, obviously.”

Gurathin started to look suspicious. “Obviously.”

“And time travel?” I snapped my fingers and pointed at him. “Time Stream Defenders Orion!” His defeated sigh filled me with triumph for a brief moment at least. “…Okay I don’t actually have that one. But I saw some of season two.”

He looked genuinely horrified and said, “I’ll bring it,” like he was saving my life. “Tomorrow night?”

“Fine.” I did kind of want to see it from the beginning. Maybe the emo florist’s taste wasn’t entirely bad.

Gurathin went back to stacking boxes without another word. I let myself out and headed back to my shop, only to find someone actually waiting outside for me. Oh. It was that big guy—the one that threw a fit over lemon balm. I pointed to Gurathin’s shop, in case he was lost. He just startled.

“Oh—no, sorry, I am actually here for a tattoo.” He glanced across Preservazione Square toward Planet Granola coffee shop and sighed. I noticed he had a massive drink in his hand, the name ‘Tarik’ written on the side in sharpie. Was that a smudge or was there a heart over the ‘I’?

“…Should I be worried?” I asked as I let him in.

He barely waited until he was inside to pull up his shirt—I winced, I mean the human body is my canvas but that doesn’t mean I want to be subjected to one without warning—and showed off a row of hearts going around his hips like a belt, all blacked out except for one on the end with an ‘M’ in the center.

“Can you do another just like it,” he said, “Only with, uh, ‘R’ in the middle? As soon as you can fit me in!”

Turns out I did have a reason to worry.

“…I guess I’m free now…?”

He beamed. “Thanks!” He whipped his shirt off fully, revealing a staggering amount of both muscles and ink, including an assortment of military tattoos of varying quality. I don’t know much about the armed forces but these ones seemed to be some heavy-duty, death-squad shit. This did not match the man I saw crying over lemon balm and, now, leaping into one of my chairs with the eagerness of a dog on a favorite sofa. The chair creaked dangerously under him as he kicked his feet like a little kid.

I think every tattoo artist has to resign themselves to a few eagles, as well as hearts with your crush’s initial written inside. Whatever, it pays the bills. Tarik—army, I learned from his military ID when we were filling out his paperwork— looked so pleased when I was done that I worried he might hug me. He took one look at the spikes on the shoulders of my black hoodie and wisely refrained.

“Do you want me to black out the ‘M’?” I asked as I got ready to bandage it up.

“Oh—No,” Tarik frowned. “I mean, he doesn’t—we might not even be a thing. Like, does making out in the back of a coffee shop even count?”

I honestly had no idea. But, deciding it was better to be safe than sorry, I said, “Ratthi’s my friend.” I don’t know if we were friends, but I already knew Ratthi was the kind of solid guy that let anyone call him a friend. And I didn’t want this guy fucking around with him just for fun.

“Oh! That’s great! He’s a really—I just—I want to get him something else!” Seriously, it was like talking to a big nervous Great Dane puppy. “Do you know what he likes?”

I blinked and said, “If anyone knows, it’s Gurathin.”

“Oh, flowers! But from him? He was so weird about the lemon balm.”

Far be it from me to throw one certified weirdo into the path of another. Still, referrals are the name of the game with indie businesses, right? I said, “He knows a lot about flowers. And Ratthi trusts his opinion.” Plus I’m pretty sure I knew who Ratthi ordered flowers for, and the idea of them meeting while picking up bouquets meant for each other was—cute, I guess? I don’t normally go in for cute, but the idea was so rom-com I could almost pretend they were characters on a show. Maybe it was just all the romantic vibes of Preservazione Square rubbing off on me. Who knows, maybe Ratthi was buying flowers for someone else. If so I could ask Gurathin for gossip about the ensuing trainwreck, so win-win either way, I guess?

“…Okay, If you say he’s the best—I’ll give it a shot!” He tried to dash away to get flowers without even paying me, which was annoying, but the tip he left more than made up for it.

 I just hoped he waited until the tattoo healed a little before showing it to Ratthi (and that I had a chance to black out the ‘M’ first).

Okay, that left the finishing touches of Amena’s tattoo on the schedule, and of course Gurathin’s disaster. Did that really count as work though? He was basically doing me a favor.

Either way, I needed a longer client list.

The door opened a few hours after Tarik left, welcoming in a woman with a warm smile who took one look at the parlor and declared, “I love what you’ve done with the place.”

Oh shit.

“…Dr. Mensah.” I stood up, then realized that this gesture looked absolutely Victorian and sat down, then realized that looked rude and jumped up again. I at least refrained from a) calling her ‘Ms.’ Mensah, or b) saluting.

(Quick aside, I really like Dr. Mensah. I don’t know her that well but her PhD is in Economics and she’s not using it for evil. It’s people like her that are the reason these little small shops still exist at all in the age of big box stores. Literally everyone in Preservazione Square loves her, even Gurathin. And, perhaps most importantly, she gave me a chance at the boutique tattoo artist scene without signing a TV deal. She’s basically one of my favorite human beings.)

“How can I help you?” I asked, managing to be slightly less of a general embarrassment. “Is there a problem with the lease?” She better not say there was a problem with the lease, I don’t actually make enough money to afford this place.

And she said, “I was actually hoping you could give me a tattoo.”

My tailspin of paranoia and anxiety about taxes or something suspicious coming up on my background check ground to a halt. “Oh?” Or maybe I said, “Oh!”

She sighed. “My daughter wants to get one. Amena?”

Well, fuck.

“I haven’t agreed yet,” she continued. “I guess I’m not so sure about it—she’s only seventeen.”

Double fuck. “Understandable.”

“And there’s the pain, and the upkeep—I’m just not sure she’s ready for it. Of course I want her to be able to express herself, and she’s mature enough to make so many other decisions…. Anyway, I thought I can’t really make an informed decision without trying it myself.” She remained stoic as she said, “So, something small, I think—perhaps a flower, on the arm?”

I had to take a few seconds. Mainly because I didn’t know whether to pretend ignorance, confess everything, or just—die of cute. Preservazione Square really does bring out the best in people, it’s weird.

I decided to pretend ignorance first, confess everything later, and die of cute after work.

I told her I’d have some designs by the end of the week.

*

“Irises,” Gurathin said as he walked in to my shop the next morning, right at opening, before I had a chance to say anything. He had a bouquet of them in his hand.

“What?”

“Sometimes Dr. Mensah and I get coffee.” He dropped the bouquet, which looked like it had been snatched out of fairy-land, casually onto the front counter. “Irises symbolize nobility, loyalty, and strength of purpose. They’re the ideal choice for her tattoo.”

“And what’s this?” I pointed to the smaller flowers arranged perfectly around the irises.

“Carnations and bird’s-eye. Affection between mothers and children. It was in Amena’s bouquet too.” He didn’t meet my gaze as he said, “We still on for tonight?” Like his appointment was a playdate. I guess it kind of was, I mean I didn’t write it in my calendar or anything. Something in his expression, not his face but the way his shoulders were all bunched up, did not give ‘appointment’ vibes. This was… just for fun.

“Uh…yeah, sure. Soon as possible, that tattoo needs help.” Then I remembered he was the one that did it in the first place. I made up something about appointments to get him to leave.

Of course, evening eventually came, and there he was, back again like a bad penny. Gurathin sat down gingerly in my chair.

“I’ve never gotten a tattoo in a shop before,” he said. He was frowning disapprovingly at my box of surgical gloves.

“Yeah, I guess you just do yours in back alleys?” The tattoo was a total mess and I had to start with just basic damage control.

“Prison, actually.”

The needle gouged outside my perfect line. Oops. Oh well, not like anyone would notice. You get what you pay for.

“…What were you in for?” Yeah, sometimes I think I have a death wish. Not like some florist could do much to me, but—still. Tact, MB.

We sat in silence for a long couple of moments before he replied, “What do you think?”

“…Guerilla flower-arranging?”

That got an actual smile out of him, though he didn’t say anything else. I guess that’s fair, it was kind of rude. I liked the smile though, it was… quiet. Like a fl—

No, I’m not gonna say it. I will not sink so low into sentimentality!

Once I cleaned it up I could tell the tattoo was a really good design, and with some consultation we got it looking like what it was meant to be: a Japanese chrysanthemum. The guy stood up like he was going to just walk out with it all bloody, and I basically had to hold him down while I applied coverings and went over the proper care spiel.

“Let it heal this time and I’ll clean up the others. Don’t want you passing out on me.” My professional pride demanded no less than giving this man a full sleeve of revitalized tattoos, now that I saw what they were meant to look like.

Gurathin just frowned down at the bandage like it was the most novel thing he’d ever seen. “Coward.” What kind of prison did this guy go to??

Guess I’ll have to keep giving him free touch-ups to find out.

Chapter Text

“We’re on our honeymoon!”

“And you're...here?” I mean I didn’t want to be rude but I just saw Gurathin heading towards the parlor and make a B-line away as soon as these two idiot newlyweds who had no business showing their face in public decided to darken my door.

“I know,” one said, I think her name was Overse, “We were going to get them before the wedding but our parents totally freaked out—I mean, you’d think that if we wanted tattoo rings we’d have a reason!”

“Sharks,” the other one, Arada, said, with the kind of firmness that bore no asking for explanation. I don’t know, maybe sharks like shiny stuff, and who am I to turn away a paycheck?

“Your friend Gurathin referred us,” Arada said as she sat down in the chair like she was going to get her nails done and not ink injected into the sensitive skin of her ring finger. “Does that get us a discount?”

“It gets you a upcharge,” I said, which made them both laugh. Yeah, I didn’t believe myself either. I did rings for both of them, it took half a day because I had to wait while they psyched each other up between sections. They turned out really good though, and I ended up with an invite to their, I kid you not, ‘anniversary wedding’. Not wedding anniversary, I did check. New Age people exhaust me. Why did I even get into this business?

Because I’d seen shitty tattoo parlors that prey on people just like this and give them debilitating blood-borne diseases, that’s why. I make fun of drunk college students but no one deserves to get saddled with a lifelong illness.

I wondered how many lifelong illnesses Gurathin had. Probably several if his attitude was any indication. After the newlyweds left I waited for him to come back around so I could ask him, but he never showed.

“You were lucky.”

…Someone else did.

*

So, let me back up real quick—I was over at Planet Granola earlier that day, right? Not because I like the food, but my gut has other opinions, and whatever acai bowl nonsense Ratthi gave me for free that one time because be messed up my coffee order had me feeling way better, and I guess it put me in one of those good moods that makes you vulnerable to bad decisions, because I wandered into the Pansystem Community College of Art branch office.

I really don’t know what I expected. I sort of thought they might have a library that was closer than the real one. It turned out they did, one of those Little Free Libraries that cause so much confusion on maps but which usually consist of some James Patterson novels, a picturebook with the cover ripped off and a diabetic cookbook. This one looked pretty nice—three shelves stuffed with offerings. I started looking for something good. I was on the second shelf before I noticed that all the books had titles like ‘Ending Big Business Starts With You’ and ‘Plastic-Proof Your Gut’ and ‘How to Build a Molotov Cocktail That Works.’

And then I noticed someone watching me from behind the desk and, yes, I ran away. I couldn’t handle a TV deal, you think I can handle talking to admin?

Anyway, I was willing to put the entire episode out of my mind with the help of a few episodes of Sanctuary Moon at my parlor when I heard it:

“YOU WERE LUCKY.”

It was legitimately that freaky, not just because of the depth of the voice but also because it was said to me through the front glass window. Through the glass! I shouted at Gurathin about Sanctuary Moon and that didn’t even make it through. I think I heard the bones in my ears rattle.

“What?”

The bell jingled as the door opened, then promptly stopped jingling. This was because the person that walked inside was big enough for the bell to get caught in their hair. They struggled with it.

“Hang on,” I managed. “I’ll get a step stool.”

“Thank you,” they said, politely, and waited while I got out the step stool and freed their hair, which was way nicer than mine would ever be. Everything about them screamed ‘better’. Even the very small tattoo on their forearm was better than anything I’ve ever done, I mean talk about fine lines! 

They stepped inside and dwarfed my front desk, and in that context I finally recognized where this flight response of mine was coming from. This was the same person from the college branch office.

“Gurathin never visits anyone more than twice,” they said, preening just a little. “Besides Planet Granola. The fact that he’s visited your parlor so often is very significant.”

“I’m—uh—doing some work for him. Not that that’s any of your business. What, have you been watching me this whole time?”

“Of course. I know everything that goes on in the square.”

“You work for the art college.”

“When it comes to this branch office, they might as well work for me.” They paused. “I think he likes you.”

“...Noted?” Who cares, right?

“Would you like help impressing him?”

“What? No! I’m not trying to impress anyone!”

“Incorrect. You put in effort to fit in with the Square. Gurathin puts effort into not fitting in.”

Right. Maybe that’s why I don’t like him. “I don’t need help impressing him.”

“I could cut your hair.”

“What? My hair’s fine!” I put up my hands. Maybe this member of the ivory tower treated everyone like a nice or nephew they could just casually critique, but to me we were still strangers. “We’re not having this conversation. If you’re not interested in a tattoo—”

“Oh, I’m interested.” They sat down in my chair. “Could you do ART 4 LIFE on my knuckles? In Wingdings?”

…‘Art’ and I watched several seasons of World Hoppers while I indulged this insane request. I even agreed to receive a free haircut as payment, no idea why. I mean, sure, I usually cut my hair by pulling it up in a ponytail and chopping off everything on one the other side of the scrunchie, but still—how much can a cut and color cost? Apparently I considered putting the fate of my appearince into the hands of an art student to be a wise choice. Maybe it was the fact that they covered their face any time anything remotely scary happened in the show, or the way they cried during any halfway heartfelt speech. We were just—on the same wavelength, I guess?

Anyway, we stayed to watch the season finale long after I finished the tattoo. We saw Gurathin walk past. Art and I both glared at him until he stormed off.

“Don’t worry,” Art said. “He’s going down.”

“What?”

But Art said nothing else, and we started the next season.

I didn’t look half bad with the new haircut, actually. Sort of like Pat Benatar, sort of like Prince, but if I wore it straight out of the shower I looked like the wet dog version of both, which I appreciated. Unapproachable in a cool, remote sort of way rather than the awkward mess that I actually am. Art didn’t insist on styling it, I think they liked the idea of me wearing a good haircut badly. I think Gurathin did, too—I caught him staring at me, again through the front window. Even though when I came out to ask him about it he said he was just looking at all the screens I had on (“you can’t possibly be watching all of it,” followed by a suggestion that I start a non-profit library), I know that he was really staring at me. I hate being stared at. I told him to go stare at himself, he’s much more interesting to look at. This did not come out as the insult I meant it to be, but it did confuse him, so—win, I guess.

I started drawing his profile as a tattoo design. He’s got a face for coins. This is not a compliment, it means he’s ridiculously distinctive, any CCTV across town could easily track him. Maybe that’s why he wears those glasses that confuse cameras. Or maybe it was because of the whole prison thing. I had this half-baked plan to ask him about it, I mean, maybe the tattoos he gave himself were piss-poor but he probably saw some good designs in there. Art thought I should, saying something about how the haircut had operated on his subconscious and now he would be more likely to trust me with sensitive information.

“You can’t possibly know that much about Gurathin just by watching him,” I replied.

“Of course I do,” Art said. “I keep track of all political agitators in my area.”

“Gurathin’s a political agitator?”

“Of course he is! If you needed to break into a locked building, there are the sort of friends that will help you and the sort of friends that will help you only so they can complain about your life choices the entire time. Gurathin is undoubtedly the former.”

“And you know this how?”

“Research. He came to Preservazione Square very late, as well. Statistically speaking you two would make a near-perfect match.”

“You talk a lot of math and science shit for being an art school admin.”

“you talk a lot of shit for running a failing business.”

“It’s not failing!”

“Well, hopefully the haircut will help. But you need all the alliances you can get.”

“I made good with Mensah and Iris, didn’t I?” So far I had received no eviction notices or threatening legal documents so I assumed things were fine. “It’s—not like that with Gurathin. I just like his tattoos, not who they’re attached to.”

Art gave me this look, then said airily. “Well, I suppose you won’t mind me trying to set him up with Ratthi, then.”

“Ratthi? Isn’t he going out with Tarik?”

“I’d rather end that if it’s all the same to you. Tarik takes classes at my university. He’s a terrible student. Ratthi deserves better, and direct action is the only way to attain his market’s goals of supporting sustainable agriculture. I’m sure I could convince Gurathin to set the nearest fast food restaurant ablaze.”

“No one’s setting anything ablaze, Art.”

Art glared. “Tarik and Ratthi are not compatible.”

“Well, let them figure that out on their own, okay? No arson. If anyone in this square is going to do anything dangerous it’ll be me: repeatedly stabbing with a sharp object.”

“You are ridiculous.”

“You’re ridiculous for crying during World Hoppers last week.”

“…I was in an unpredictable mood. Mood is a highly-influential factor in human choice studies.”

Yeah, Art likes to make statements like that, stuff that sounds stupid or at the very least inexplicable, until it comes around to making perfect sense. Case in point: I had Gurathin over again to work on another of his tattoos—a little fake USB port behind his ear. He’d freshly painted his nails this weird matte black, and he kept staring quietly at my new haircut like a serial killer in a slasher film. I guess maybe it got me in this mood to watch something spooky, so I put on this new horror flick. It looked scarier than what I normally like but I kind of wanted to freak Gurathin out. You know, prove that all the eyeliner and fancy nail polish was just a front, right?

And so we were watching it, right, and my plan totally backfired because I just ended up freaking myself out. And I kept stopping my work so I didn’t overreact to a jump scare and stab Gurathin in an important artery (you’re welcome, ungrateful client!). And Gurathin kept telling me to get it over with, and in a moment of complete and utter weakness I blurted out that the movie was way too much but that I couldn’t stop it now, I had to see what happened, and that this was all his fault somehow.

That’s when he offered to give me a tattoo while we finished. And for some reason, I said…yes.

Ten minutes later we swapped places, me in the chair and him inflicting the worst possible tattoo I was probably ever going to get on the preciously limited real estate of my skin while I stared at the screen. But I didn’t get quite so scared. Gurathin said it had something to do with pain and fear cancelling each other out, which seemed like bullshit that Art would refute. I asked him if he learned that in prison and he said he learned it during a protest. Maybe Art’s right about him being political.

I didn’t look at what he drew on my arm until the movie was over and Gurathin was heading for the door. It was perfect, of course—giving this guy the right tools was probably like upgrading Monet from crayons to watercolor. He drew a flower, of course, what else would it be with this guy. A pretty cool one, too— Indian paintbrush, I think.

I asked what it meant in his stupid flower language, and he said, with a quiet smile, “Courage.”

God, I hate him so much.