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Aug. 13th, 2019 11:40 pm[The tattoo shop at the BoO started like a burr on a wool sock. They didn't have space for it before Lindianne and the AFOs cleared out all the shit from the post office, and they sure didn't have time for it before the 42nd ID got here and they had the manpower to push back the Cleaners and the Rikers enough for some tangible breathing room.
It wasn't much to look at when it started - there was only one chair, and the only artist was an old Master Sergeant from the intel shop who ran a tattoo parlor in civilian life - but it's going full swing now that Kandel's antivirals and vaccines have proven to be an unmitigated success. Things have stabilized down here in Manhattan enough that they're talking about putting apartments back up for sale by the end of the month. What stability operations are left to conduct are all down in DC. People are taking the time to get ink to commemorate both the good times and the bad while it's still fresh in their minds.
In time, what's left of the world will brush all of this off like it was a bad dream.
The shop has two rows of chairs now. The pros are off working on one side, the trainees still under supervision on the other, all underneath a stenciled sign that reads 42 ID TATTOO SHOP - YOU DREAM IT, WE INK IT. A sign below that says NO KANJI/CHINESE CHARACTERS. Classic rock blares from a stereo somewhere in the back as the tattoo machines buzz, doing work putting ink into the skin as the scents of disinfectant and stale cigarette smoke linger in the air.
Standing at the reception desk is the bossman himself. He's off-duty, with a perma-stained skivvy shirt up top, his uniform blouse down below, and his Army-issue boots below those. As Lindianne walks up, he looks up from the art portfolio he's organizing, sheaves of laminated tat pictures in a black binder that could stun a small mammal with the right hit. He looks her over once, the bad lighting exaggerating the bags under his eyes - he's 35, but could pass for 50. That's been going around.]
Help you, miss?
It wasn't much to look at when it started - there was only one chair, and the only artist was an old Master Sergeant from the intel shop who ran a tattoo parlor in civilian life - but it's going full swing now that Kandel's antivirals and vaccines have proven to be an unmitigated success. Things have stabilized down here in Manhattan enough that they're talking about putting apartments back up for sale by the end of the month. What stability operations are left to conduct are all down in DC. People are taking the time to get ink to commemorate both the good times and the bad while it's still fresh in their minds.
In time, what's left of the world will brush all of this off like it was a bad dream.
The shop has two rows of chairs now. The pros are off working on one side, the trainees still under supervision on the other, all underneath a stenciled sign that reads 42 ID TATTOO SHOP - YOU DREAM IT, WE INK IT. A sign below that says NO KANJI/CHINESE CHARACTERS. Classic rock blares from a stereo somewhere in the back as the tattoo machines buzz, doing work putting ink into the skin as the scents of disinfectant and stale cigarette smoke linger in the air.
Standing at the reception desk is the bossman himself. He's off-duty, with a perma-stained skivvy shirt up top, his uniform blouse down below, and his Army-issue boots below those. As Lindianne walks up, he looks up from the art portfolio he's organizing, sheaves of laminated tat pictures in a black binder that could stun a small mammal with the right hit. He looks her over once, the bad lighting exaggerating the bags under his eyes - he's 35, but could pass for 50. That's been going around.]
Help you, miss?
