Original Fic: Coverup
Jan. 1st, 2011 01:54 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
beccaelizabethBelieving that omens attend upon beginnings I just spent the last three hours writing. So I've got 1400 words of original fiction, all new characters, all new world... at least if I filed the serial numbers off enough, I know who they're played by, I just weren't intending to show it.
Unbetaed short story below the cut:
***
There were two shadows in the window. Ten minutes before opening, the dockside lights behind them competed with the displays of the last shift’s bar signs, setting the two blinking back and forth. It added to the swaying both managed on their own.
Art flicked the window display on, lighting up both the flash and the ‘Appointment Only’ sign. The two men took a shifting glow, art scrolling across their skin. The skinny one held his arms out to catch it, rolling images along his skin to fit the blank spaces. The other stayed still, gripping his own shoulders, muscles tensed everywhere.
His mate nudged him, but he shook him off. The display slid and shook in response, but the man ignored it. Skinny pulled his hand down and led a particularly garish octogriff up his arm, and near got punched for it. Muscles tried to stretch his dress to cover, but a skimpy little backless number was never the garment for that.
Art flipped the studio ‘Open’. If nothing else he could sell the poor sod a t-shirt.
Muscles pushed in as soon as the door slid.
Art stayed behind the counter and spoke fast. “If you want some design work, we can talk it over now, but I’m booked up today.”
“It’s somewhat urgent.” Muscles’ Highcastle accent was a surprise, but wouldn’t cut him any slack here.
“You’re on the wrong dock for that. Doesn’t matter when you ship out…”
He was shaking his head.
“… you want Fleet flash, you need Fleetside.”
“Not an option.” He ground out. He was still trying to cover his shoulders. He dug his fingers in, then admitted, “I ship out twelfth of never. So these…” he dropped his hands, revealing rank and number, “Get covered up, or removed.”
He leaned into the light, showed him the shine of skinseal over a long red line.
Art backed up and reached for a different panel.
“We do removals, but…”
“I’ve lost enough skin, thanks.”
“It’s a very safe…”
“No.”
“… Right.” Art looked again, read the years of service in the blurring ink. The oldest numbers seemed older even than the fine lines around the other’s eyes would allow, especially if tension etched them this deep. Ink older than adulthood? A Fleetborn?
His skinny mate, all his ink decorative, was leaning mock-casual by the door. A stare and a certain twist to his lip said he had an investment here, but which way he wanted Art to jump wasn’t clear.
“Well… I am booked…”
Both men looked away, expecting it. They just looked tired.
“… But if you want something straight off the card… How simple were you thinking?”
“Very. But I didn’t see it there.”
Art pasted on a professional smile. ‘Simple’ always meant something different to a client.
“If I have to design it, that’s the time gone. I’m sorry, it’s just…”
“Lotus leaves.”
“Lotus?” says Skinny, just as Art says, “Leaves?”
They look to each other, but clients first.
“I just figured you for oak,” skinny says.
“Heart of?” He breathes a laugh. “That’s the one she stole.”
He turned his attention back to Art, who worked hard on not having heard that.
“We do a lot of lotus flowers, but there’s not much call for leaves.”
Muscles shrugged. “They don’t spring up full grown. I was going to start with the root, but…” He closed his hand over his shoulder again, his body closing in on itself.
Art suppressed the urge to offer police. Not what the man needed from him. He started calling up archived designs instead. Nothing was quite right, not for the place and cover he’d need, but with a bit of tweaking… and maybe a bit more tech…
“You just want it done, right? You’re not after an original Art?”
They seemed oblivious to the pun.
“I don’t mind how many others are wearing it, as long as I am,” Muscles confirmed.
Art bit his lip and tapped the desk. “I might be able to help.” He unlocked a back room and sent the designs on through. Then he waved Muscles in.
The man hesitated just out of arm’s reach, until his mate pushed off the wall and strolled over to join them. Art raised an eyebrow and led the way.
Inside it was Muscles’ turn to lean by the door, face set grim. Skinny though was in his element. He gave a low whistle and headed straight for the inspection hatch.
“Ah, ah – no, please, hands off the equipment.”
Skinny fumbled out his ID. “Actual medical doctor, here. I think I can handle an autodoc.”
“It’s more than a bit custom,” Art said, and diplomatically stopped at that.
Muscles was more blunt. “You’re more than a bit drunk.”
“Oh, sod off. Never too drunk for surgery.”
Muscles raised a sceptical eyebrow. “That a promise or a threat?”
Art wasn’t familiar with the gesture Skinny threw at that, but context was eloquent.
Muscles turned away and talked to Art. “Listen, there’s no need for all this. I’ve had ink before, it was all handheld.”
“If you want to come back later, I can do that. If you want work now, well…” He gestured. “The docs usually free.”
“I wonder why?”
“Most of the stories aren’t true.”
“Enough are. I’m…” He pointed at himself, then balled his fist and crossed his arms. “I’m not fond of automatic surgery.”
“It’s hardly that, mate.” Skinny, despite bravado, had his hands behind his back, just leaning in to stare. “What have you done with it anyway? Hooked up the flash to the imaging system, right?”
“Yeah, and tweaked a few of the surgical arms. Plus it does removals, even replacement if you’ll wait for the new patch to grow…”
But Muscles was already back in the waiting room.
He halted there, one hand on the door. A cluster of black and blue shirts stumbled by, changing bars as the shifts changed. Muscles took a breath and tensed, ready.
“Look, just check these out first.” Art held out his hands, fingers spread. Vines and feathers trailed over them, with just a hint of glimmer. Having the man’s eye, Art twitched up his sleeves, then stepped back to get into better light. “See these? Left arm, all my own work, right? Hand made, every inch.” And some of those inches damn shaky, the only reason he wore sleeves at work. Wouldn’t do to put off the clients, usually. “But I can’t do my own right arm. That’s all the autos.” And proper nice it looked. He turned it to catch the light, carefully. “You’ve got to put the work in at design phase, but whatever you set up, you get out. What you’re after, right?”
“That’s amazing. I’ve never seen work that precise.”
“Yeah, well, there’s such a thing as too precise. Everyone that knows, knows. But…” Art shrugged.
Muscles shook his head again, slowly.
Skinny had followed them in. “When they’re left to do emergencies, it’s all defaults. They don’t care beyond coming out functional. What it ends up looking like…” he gave a big shrug.
“All we do here is aesthetics. Believe me, I care what it looks like. S’why I don’t do walk ins. Keep the quality up.”
“If I inspect it, stay in to keep an eye…?”
“You do that, you sign a waiver first, the both of you. I can only guarantee I set it up right.”
“Yeah, yeah.” The skinny one jammed his card into the reader without much looking, his attention on his mate. His authorisations came up clean, the double snake smooth since far enough back he was probably a student. Back then looked so patchy it could be rattlesnakes, but that was the client’s lookout. Art spun the display and brought up the standard release forms, plus a couple the law routine recommended.
Skinny was up close with muscles, one hand light on his forearm. “It’s up to you. I’m all for having another go at them.”
Muscles tried to laugh but looked tired and sad. “One problem – they were right.”
He pushed past his mate, not watching the bravado fall off, replaced by matching pain. Instead he just checked the desk and slid his card in too. He paged through the forms carefully, by all appearances actually reading them.
Skinny just punched his number in to authorise, then said, “Inspection?”
Art went through and popped the hatch.
Unbetaed short story below the cut:
***
There were two shadows in the window. Ten minutes before opening, the dockside lights behind them competed with the displays of the last shift’s bar signs, setting the two blinking back and forth. It added to the swaying both managed on their own.
Art flicked the window display on, lighting up both the flash and the ‘Appointment Only’ sign. The two men took a shifting glow, art scrolling across their skin. The skinny one held his arms out to catch it, rolling images along his skin to fit the blank spaces. The other stayed still, gripping his own shoulders, muscles tensed everywhere.
His mate nudged him, but he shook him off. The display slid and shook in response, but the man ignored it. Skinny pulled his hand down and led a particularly garish octogriff up his arm, and near got punched for it. Muscles tried to stretch his dress to cover, but a skimpy little backless number was never the garment for that.
Art flipped the studio ‘Open’. If nothing else he could sell the poor sod a t-shirt.
Muscles pushed in as soon as the door slid.
Art stayed behind the counter and spoke fast. “If you want some design work, we can talk it over now, but I’m booked up today.”
“It’s somewhat urgent.” Muscles’ Highcastle accent was a surprise, but wouldn’t cut him any slack here.
“You’re on the wrong dock for that. Doesn’t matter when you ship out…”
He was shaking his head.
“… you want Fleet flash, you need Fleetside.”
“Not an option.” He ground out. He was still trying to cover his shoulders. He dug his fingers in, then admitted, “I ship out twelfth of never. So these…” he dropped his hands, revealing rank and number, “Get covered up, or removed.”
He leaned into the light, showed him the shine of skinseal over a long red line.
Art backed up and reached for a different panel.
“We do removals, but…”
“I’ve lost enough skin, thanks.”
“It’s a very safe…”
“No.”
“… Right.” Art looked again, read the years of service in the blurring ink. The oldest numbers seemed older even than the fine lines around the other’s eyes would allow, especially if tension etched them this deep. Ink older than adulthood? A Fleetborn?
His skinny mate, all his ink decorative, was leaning mock-casual by the door. A stare and a certain twist to his lip said he had an investment here, but which way he wanted Art to jump wasn’t clear.
“Well… I am booked…”
Both men looked away, expecting it. They just looked tired.
“… But if you want something straight off the card… How simple were you thinking?”
“Very. But I didn’t see it there.”
Art pasted on a professional smile. ‘Simple’ always meant something different to a client.
“If I have to design it, that’s the time gone. I’m sorry, it’s just…”
“Lotus leaves.”
“Lotus?” says Skinny, just as Art says, “Leaves?”
They look to each other, but clients first.
“I just figured you for oak,” skinny says.
“Heart of?” He breathes a laugh. “That’s the one she stole.”
He turned his attention back to Art, who worked hard on not having heard that.
“We do a lot of lotus flowers, but there’s not much call for leaves.”
Muscles shrugged. “They don’t spring up full grown. I was going to start with the root, but…” He closed his hand over his shoulder again, his body closing in on itself.
Art suppressed the urge to offer police. Not what the man needed from him. He started calling up archived designs instead. Nothing was quite right, not for the place and cover he’d need, but with a bit of tweaking… and maybe a bit more tech…
“You just want it done, right? You’re not after an original Art?”
They seemed oblivious to the pun.
“I don’t mind how many others are wearing it, as long as I am,” Muscles confirmed.
Art bit his lip and tapped the desk. “I might be able to help.” He unlocked a back room and sent the designs on through. Then he waved Muscles in.
The man hesitated just out of arm’s reach, until his mate pushed off the wall and strolled over to join them. Art raised an eyebrow and led the way.
Inside it was Muscles’ turn to lean by the door, face set grim. Skinny though was in his element. He gave a low whistle and headed straight for the inspection hatch.
“Ah, ah – no, please, hands off the equipment.”
Skinny fumbled out his ID. “Actual medical doctor, here. I think I can handle an autodoc.”
“It’s more than a bit custom,” Art said, and diplomatically stopped at that.
Muscles was more blunt. “You’re more than a bit drunk.”
“Oh, sod off. Never too drunk for surgery.”
Muscles raised a sceptical eyebrow. “That a promise or a threat?”
Art wasn’t familiar with the gesture Skinny threw at that, but context was eloquent.
Muscles turned away and talked to Art. “Listen, there’s no need for all this. I’ve had ink before, it was all handheld.”
“If you want to come back later, I can do that. If you want work now, well…” He gestured. “The docs usually free.”
“I wonder why?”
“Most of the stories aren’t true.”
“Enough are. I’m…” He pointed at himself, then balled his fist and crossed his arms. “I’m not fond of automatic surgery.”
“It’s hardly that, mate.” Skinny, despite bravado, had his hands behind his back, just leaning in to stare. “What have you done with it anyway? Hooked up the flash to the imaging system, right?”
“Yeah, and tweaked a few of the surgical arms. Plus it does removals, even replacement if you’ll wait for the new patch to grow…”
But Muscles was already back in the waiting room.
He halted there, one hand on the door. A cluster of black and blue shirts stumbled by, changing bars as the shifts changed. Muscles took a breath and tensed, ready.
“Look, just check these out first.” Art held out his hands, fingers spread. Vines and feathers trailed over them, with just a hint of glimmer. Having the man’s eye, Art twitched up his sleeves, then stepped back to get into better light. “See these? Left arm, all my own work, right? Hand made, every inch.” And some of those inches damn shaky, the only reason he wore sleeves at work. Wouldn’t do to put off the clients, usually. “But I can’t do my own right arm. That’s all the autos.” And proper nice it looked. He turned it to catch the light, carefully. “You’ve got to put the work in at design phase, but whatever you set up, you get out. What you’re after, right?”
“That’s amazing. I’ve never seen work that precise.”
“Yeah, well, there’s such a thing as too precise. Everyone that knows, knows. But…” Art shrugged.
Muscles shook his head again, slowly.
Skinny had followed them in. “When they’re left to do emergencies, it’s all defaults. They don’t care beyond coming out functional. What it ends up looking like…” he gave a big shrug.
“All we do here is aesthetics. Believe me, I care what it looks like. S’why I don’t do walk ins. Keep the quality up.”
“If I inspect it, stay in to keep an eye…?”
“You do that, you sign a waiver first, the both of you. I can only guarantee I set it up right.”
“Yeah, yeah.” The skinny one jammed his card into the reader without much looking, his attention on his mate. His authorisations came up clean, the double snake smooth since far enough back he was probably a student. Back then looked so patchy it could be rattlesnakes, but that was the client’s lookout. Art spun the display and brought up the standard release forms, plus a couple the law routine recommended.
Skinny was up close with muscles, one hand light on his forearm. “It’s up to you. I’m all for having another go at them.”
Muscles tried to laugh but looked tired and sad. “One problem – they were right.”
He pushed past his mate, not watching the bravado fall off, replaced by matching pain. Instead he just checked the desk and slid his card in too. He paged through the forms carefully, by all appearances actually reading them.
Skinny just punched his number in to authorise, then said, “Inspection?”
Art went through and popped the hatch.