Red Rain

Chapter 25 - Oh Love

"That's an interesting set of scars." Kara, the assistant to the Bridge's resident tattoo artist and a Supergirl look-alike in more than just her name, raises a needle up to my arm. "What's the story behind them?"

I look at Gabe, who's sitting in the seat next to mine, his shirt off just like mine, holding a mirror so he can examine his freshly-inked upper arm properly. "Should I tell her?"

Gabe chuckles. "No way. She wouldn't believe you anyway."

"'Cause I'm a cheeky bastard, right?"

"You've been learning."

I turn to Kara. "Nope. Sorry. Can't tell you. State secret."

"That's a shame," she says, loading the machine with black ink. "But you're entitled to your privacy."

She sticks the needle into the skin on my arm. It hurts, but not nearly as much as I thought it would. It actually hurts about as much as cutting my arm - which I just did two days ago, along with Gabe, for our birthday tradition.

Definitely non-traditional for us, however, is the present to which we're treating ourselves today. Going along with the demonic custom of getting inked at seventeen (like Paul Smythe did, despite not being a demon), we decided to get matching tattoos to symbolize our unique dual natures - an angel with demonic powers, and a demon with angelic powers. Gabe and I have always wanted to get inked, and only now have we come up with this idea for what to get. As unfortunate as our parentage is, there's really no getting around who and what we are, so we figure we should really own it.

So today, we're combining the Heaven and Hell symbols that appear on the floors of the Bridge into a single symbol - the spiky black cross, with the rounded triangle connecting the top three points. The only difference is that we've chosen to re-color the Hell symbol blue, in honor of our water elemental. These tats stretch about six inches down our right arms from our shoulders, and if I figure it correctly, only the very bottom should be visible below the ends of our shirtsleeves.

About the only concession we'd made, on Kara's advice, was our decision to get the tats on our arms instead of our chests like we'd originally wanted. She'd suggested that we do the arms instead because the skin there was less thin, and therefore it would be less painful. Unlike, say, Tobias Eaton, neither Gabe nor I is a borderline masochist, so we'd decided to go along with the idea. And besides, we didn't realize until later that having a cross tattoo on the chest was something Justin Bieber did, and therefore it's something to be avoided at all costs.

And yes, we're getting these tats without parental permission. In Hell, you don't need it if you're over seventeen anyway.

An hour later, I'm done. Kara gives us the aftercare instructions - warning us not to unwrap the bandages for twelve hours, then not to get the tattoos wet for twelve hours after that, that sort of thing. "So no water, no spilling your coffee, and if you feel the urge to jerk off, try to land your loads anywhere but there. Capisce?"

"Why're you looking at me when you say that?" I ask.

"I dunno...you kinda strike me as the sort of guy who'd do that," Kara says. "What can I say?"

"He's the jerk-off, not me," I say, pointing to Gabe.

"Hey, screw you, candy-ass!" Gabe yells, shoving me in the chest.

"And don't be doing any of that, either," Kara deadpans, undoing her ponytail. "Especially not around the arms. That's another surefire way to screw up your new ink."

"Got it," I say, grabbing my T-shirt and hoodie and darting out the door before Gabe can get another jab in.

But I still manage to bump into another sentient being anyway - in this case, none other than Gideon. He trips backwards as we run into each other and also nearly knocks over Juliet, who's standing next to him.