It took a minute for Mitch Heart to find his way around.
There were two locations in Baltimore he knew the directions to by heart- one was Carnage Arena, and the other was the Silver Moon Diner. Anyplace else involved a lot of driving around and consulting Google Maps only to find he’d gone the entirely wrong direction. However, after a good deal of driving, turning, swearing, and cursing of Baltimore’s infrastructure, the Detroit native found himself in front of Witch Dagger Ink, which after a few checks and confirmation he was fairly certain was the right place.
Parking his bike at the side and pocketing the keys, Mitch pushed his way through the front door, looking around at the new surroundings.
“Hey, Sil, I’m here.”
“Mitch! Dude, I can’t tell you how pumped I am about this.”
Everything had already been set up, by the artist greeting his stablemate; the tattooing chair, inks, and tattoo machine. Although the piece would be fairly simple, he wanted to make sure what he did was immaculate.
“How are things back in Detroit? Is Pen doing okay?”
“She’s good. She can’t wait to come up for Ultimate Carnage.”
Grinning, he set his backpack aside, stretching off the stiff back that eight hours on the road will give a person.
“Thanks for seeing me on short notice, man. I bet you’re booked solid from now to infinity.”
“Always got time for my crew,” Silvio said, returning Mitch’s grin. “If you want a minute to decompress, it’s all good. You’ve done this before, yeah?”
“Yes and no.”
Giving a sheepish snicker, he took off his jacket, rolling up the sleeve of his heather grey ‘Property of Detroit Red Wings Hockey Club’ t-shirt and gesturing to the image on his shoulder- a broken heart, stabbed with a dagger, three drops of blood falling from the bottom. It looked like some guy did it in their basement, probably while intoxicated.
“Got this bad boy as a teenager from some college kid who said he was learning it from his dad. Cost twenty bucks and it shows.”
Although Silvio resisted the urge to scream, his widened eyes and terse smile spoke volumes.
“Y’know I uh...I could always...touch that up. Free of charge. Really. Any time. I could just...I could do that if you wanted me to. Free of charge. Completely free. Any. Time.”
“You hate it.”
He laughed, the corners of his glass-blue eyes crinkling. It made him look several years younger.
“Nah, I know it’s shit. Maybe you can fix it later but for now, I had something different in mind.”
Holding up his hand, he gestured to the back of it, the faded remains of the latest of the temporary tattoos he’d gotten.
“I’m getting tired of sticking this back on. I want something a little more permanent.”
Silvio grinned, eyes sparkling.
“I can help with that,” he said. “Actually, I was doing some inspiration doodles because I was thinking of getting one myself.”
Gesturing for Mitch to follow, Silvio took out a sketchbook, flipping through it before landing on a page dominated by red and black. On it were several renditions of different card suit symbols; hearts, spades, clubs, and diamonds.
“I thought you’d like this one.”
He taps a vivid red heart shape that looks like it was a paint splatter onto the page, it’s edges ragged and speckly. Through its center was a jagged white crack.
“What do you think?”
“Nice. Very nice. See, you’re the artist. You know what I like, and I can’t even draw a stick figure. Can play the guitar a little bit, though.”
He admired the image, A blot of blood, shaped just-so. It was very him. Reaching out, he traced the spattered outline with one finger.
“You’re probably gonna warn me that this is gonna hurt like a motherfucker. Don’t worry, I know, I already looked it up when I first thought about doing this.”
“On the back of the hand? Yeah, afraid so. The bigger thing is you’re going to need more touch-ups than average. Red fades pretty quickly, and anything on your hands is going to go through a lot more wear and tear than…”
He paused, blinking at Mitch and then snorting.
“...You already know all of that, though, don’t you?”
Reaching up with his other hand, Mitch tapped his temple, the corner of his mouth drawing upward.
“I did my homework. I know what I’m signing up for. I know it seems weird. I don’t… I don’t like pain exactly, it’s not the pain specifically, it’s… shit this is hard to explain out loud. But it’s why I fight like I do. Why I don’t have any regard for my own safety. If I’m feeling things, if I’m bleeding… I’m not fucking dead. Despite every reason I ought to be.”
Letting out a nervous ‘heh’, Mitch looked up, brows knit a bit.
“Bizzare, huh?”
Silvio’s features softened and he smiled at Mitch gently.
“Not at all,” he said. “Your body has a reaction to that kind of thing. Kinda like, ‘Oh, shit, I’m about to get punched in the face. I better release the happy brain juice cuz this is gonna suck.’”
He grinned.
“It’s all very scientific. But yeah, I’m not that surprised. I mean, Zane was telling me all about your little fight club before the show the other day. Fuckin’ great match, by the way.”
“Thanks… wait, what?”
Mitch blinked in surprise.
“He talks to you? I mean I’m glad he’s interacting with more people in a non punchy way, that’s probably good for him. I just had no idea.”
“Oh!” Silvio shook his head with a crooked smile. “Jeez, I never told you. Zane’s actually just upstairs in my apartment. I figured it would be safer for him to live here where there’s less of a chance of someone calling the cops on him than him living in a crummy motel.”
“He’s… living with you?”
Mitch glanced around. The tattoo parlor was neat as a pin, and there wasn’t any telltale screaming from upstairs. The walls weren’t shaking from frenzied fists slamming into them. He exhaled, shrugging.
“If you can handle him, then I’m glad he’s staying someplace safe. He’s… it’s weird considering I’m definitely planning on beating the shit out of him come Ultimate, but I worry about him. He says he told you about our spar the other day… did he tell you everything that happened?”
Silvio raised a brow.
“I mean...that you fought each other,” he said slowly. “Why, did something else happen?”
Looking up through the ceiling, Mitch rolled the situation over in his mind. On one hand, King’d never said specifically that Mitch was supposed to not tell anyone about what happened. On the other, it sort of went without saying that the resident invincible beast’s weakness wasn’t supposed to be a lively conversational topic. On the other other hand…
...if the King of Lab Rats trusted Silvio enough to share his home- and be astonishingly well behaved to boot- then the Mystifying Oracle ought to know what was going on with him.
He sat down in the tattoo chair, sighing.
“I don’t know if he would want me to say. But if you’re looking after him, you probably oughta know. I think… something’s wrong with him. Physically, I mean. Like… if you light incense or have a tendency to burn things, you might want to hold off if he’s nearby.”
Silvio looked at Mitch, frozen in place.
“He’s sick? Like, in his lungs?”
King had never mentioned any particular ailment besides what was obviously physically atypical about him. Apparently something had happened in front of Mitch; maybe that’s the only reason he knew. All the same, he felt his heart twisting.
King was the only person who believed Silvio about his situation. Not only that, but had demanded to know about it and wouldn’t take, ‘no,’ for an answer.
Apparently he didn’t trust Silvio enough to be honest about his.
He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, feeling that pang of loneliness return.
WHAT DID WE TELL YOU?
“...Alright. I’ll keep it in mind. I know he doesn’t like doctors,” Silvio said quietly. “If anything happens and he tells you...I...kinda...I know a guy who works off the books. I could give him a ring.”
“Okay. Good. He’ll probably be pissed at me for telling you but I’d rather him pissed than dead.”
Mitch’s expression softened a bit, and he let out a sigh.
“I know that look. Don’t take it personal. He probably would’ve never told me if I hadn’t seen it myself. It’s not you. We’re… people like us, we’re wild animals. We don’t show our wounds when we can help it, because it’s dangerous. Even apex predators play their weaknesses close to the chest, and even if we’re completely safe, it’s hard to shake off instinct. … If that makes any sense at all.”
“Sure,” Silvio said with a half-hearted smile, going to wash his hands. “I get it.”
DON’T WORRY ABOUT THEM. THEY CAN ALL LOOK AFTER EACH OTHER. YOU? YOU HAVE MORE IMPORTANT THINGS TO WORRY ABOUT. LET THEM PLAY WITH THEIR TOYS WHILE WE BUILD IMMORTALITY.
Pulling on a pair of gloves, he took out a little disposable razor.
“Okay, gonna just clean up the work area and we can get the bad boy on permanently.”
“Excellent.”
Mitch closed his eyes, taking in a few steadying breaths.
“I’m ready.”
He wasn’t nervous about this. He could handle pain, he’d handled it all his life. He wasn’t nervous about the biggest match of his life being right around the corner, either.
The little jangle of nerves, he supposed, was the fragile, gossamer threads of hope beginning to weave a web. Hope was a rare commodity. It was something he didn’t dare indulge too much in, because wherever hope was, it’s deep and ugly shadow, despair, was always waiting in the wings, ready to make its move.
Silvio.Adrienne. Matt.King. Pen.
He had never held so many so close. So great was the hope that these connections gave him that somewhere in Mitch’s broken heart, he was terrified that if it went bad, the despair would kill him.
And then the rest of him felt incredibly stupid for thinking so dramatically.
Silvio took Mitch’s hand in his, quickly shaving the hair off the back of it and applying the transfer. He peeled back the paper, settled in beside the chair and picked up the machine.
“Alright, dude, here we go.”
The tattoo machine began its hypnotic buzz, and Silvio set to work on Mitch’s hand. He liked the intensity of it; the deep red almost maroon at the center of the tattoo, bleeding out into shades of scarlet and crimson. Silvio allowed his mind to clear, focusing entirely on the color; sinking into the red. He let it bloom up at the edges of his mind like poppies opening under a midnight sky. It was a bit like when he was lock-picking; meditative. Just him and the art.
Mitch kept his eyes closed, his breathing deep and even. Every so often, his breath would hiss through his teeth, eyes screwing shut a little tighter. The pain, as advertised, was excruciating- he could feel the needle of the machine buzzing against his bones. It felt like the bits of ivory under his skin were being etched on, not just the layer above. His opposite hand gripped a handful of his jeans from time to time. However, he never once cried out, swore, or said so much as ‘ow’, and the hand being tattooed was held as still as he possibly could.
He could feel that familiar rush zipping through his veins. Not nearly as keenly as it did in real combat, but the intensity of the pain called it forth just the same. He felt it all. This agony was an experience. He would have not a scar to show for it, but a beautiful blood red mark that said not just who he was, but that he was part of something. One ace in a Set.
He was alive.
“Tough as a coffin nail,” Silvio mused, smiling. “You take it like a woman.”
There was a tiny part of him that found the way Mitch coped with the feeling of earning a new mark on his skin fascinating. Everyone accepted their artwork in their own way. The sensation of being tattooed was unlike anything else. The pain felt like a living thing that paced the confines of the body; some wild creature briefly trapped in a cage of skin and bone. It wasn’t some great, walloping blow followed by recovery and rage, but rather an embroidery of thorns. Delicate lace stitched together from a nervous system electric with a heat so cold it burned.
Binding pins.
NOT A LOCK YOU CAN’T POP, IS THERE, LITTLE THIEF?
“I’d better. It’s the only thing I’m really good at.”
He smirked, opening one eye. Beads of saline gathered at the corners, one tracking down his face- an involuntary reaction to the extended bone-shaking freezer burn. His voice shook just a tiny bit, a light lace of sweat on his forehead, but he smiled just the same. Inside, he was electric current and blood sparks.
“How’s it going, am I moving too much?”
“Nope! You’re doing great. In fact...have a look. What do you think?”
Silvio sat back in his chair, nodding to his work.
“Let me know if anything needs adjustment, but I think we’re good.”
Sitting up, Mitch finally gave the back of his hand a good look. The image was raised, the color fresh. The intense bone-buzz was gone but there was still a residual throbbing heat, almost as if the broken heart was beating its own little pulse. A tattoo’s tattoo.
“That is so fucking awesome. How much do I owe you? … Shit, I should’ve asked that first. I’ll give you whatever you need but I may have to do it in bits, if that’s not a problem.”
He blushed, turning away a bit. Most people wouldn’t have to worry about this sort of thing. No matter how hard he worked there never seemed to be enough extra, enough for the little things that, while not essential, were nonetheless important.
“Pffff,” Silvio sputtered with a dismissive wave of one hand. “You’re my stablemate, dude. I’d do it for free. But...I mean, I wouldn’t say no to you maybe lending a hand with my latest promo. I got a spot on the cast I’m looking to fill and I think you’d be perfect.”
“That’s all? Shit, man, of course. I’ll do anything you need, that’s what teammates are for. You sure though? I’d feel kind of bad stiffing an artist.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Silvio replied with a wicked grin. “What you’re going to give me and the entire Legion with your performance? Trust me - that is going to be priceless.” Clapping his hands together, his eyes sparkled. “Tell me - how do you feel about glitter?”
