Chapter Text
“So, did I hear it right? You want to take the plunge and get a tattoo?”
How the hell…
Caitlyn looked up from her phone, diverting her attention from the doomscrolling on Instagram as they waited to board the plane back home to Piltover, to see her head dancer Skye stand in front of her, hands on her hips and legs slightly parted in a pose that reminded her of the victory stances in comic book characters. “Yes, that’s the thought.”
Smiling, Skye twirled on the spot and then sat on the uncomfortable chair at the private gate of the airport and elegantly folded her long legs beneath her butt, leaning close to her. Maybe a little too close. “Any ideas?”
She shook her head and shrugged her shoulders, shoving her now locked phone in the back pocket of her skintight jeans. “Nothing concrete yet. I have some, but I just know I want it to remain covered most of the time.”
“Ah, considering your stage costumes, you don’t have much leeway on the placement. Buttcheek and sideboob almost exclusively!”
Caitlyn rolled her eyes. She loved Skye, deeply, but the young Zaunian dancer sometimes had the tendency to be extremely direct with her words and at times it made Caitlyn uncomfortable, especially when talking about bodies, of every shape and form, and their functions. Her stage room talks about the, according to her, mind blowing sex she seemed to always have with her current partner were legendary. Caitlyn tried her best to hide the discomfort by shoving her sunglasses back up on her head as they had fallen down in an awkward halfway position. “I’ll give it a thought, thank you.”
Skye smiled and stood again, stretching her back. “Good idea. By the way, if you really decide to go for a tattoo… pick one that has a meaning for your first. You won’t ever regret it!”
That was actually a very good piece of advice, solid and thoughtful. “I’ll keep that in mind Skye, thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.” With that, she returned to her clique and sat back down with them as they all waited for the plane to be ready so they could board and finally, just finally, get back home after six months of constant traveling all around the world and performing countless dates in front of millions of people if the preliminary statistical data on ticket sales were to be believed.
She loved her job. She loved writing music, arranging it, recording it and then going on tour to perform said music in its natural state, live in front of her audience, she loved to see her fans smile, laugh and sometimes cry in the first rows, singing along with her, she really did. There was nothing like the live performance, nothing that mattered more than that, but after six months, she needed a break. A long, well deserved break to rest, recharge the batteries and then work on the new album, to make it even better than the last one and if things went the right way, sell more copies and tickets than before. Not that she cared much about the economical success, but her producer loved to brag about it in interviews and when talking to her peers at big meetings with publishing houses and when Mel said that she wanted the new album to be more there was no way to make her take it back and rethink the idea.
Caitlyn had to admit that she was tired, exhausted even. Physically because each concert required a degree of fitness and activity very few musicians would pull for four nights a week for six months straight, but most of all she was mentally drained. She was tired of the press, of always having to put on a happy face even when she didn't feel like it, missed home, her parents, her friends… her cat! The tuxedo kitten she had found in a trashcan close to school on her way home on the last year in middle school was now a twelve year old lazyass that answered to any call but his own name and was hopelessly devoted to the sound of kibbles being shaken in the tin can, but he was still her sweet boy that loved to nap on her legs as she read in bed before sleeping and that would still listen enraptured as she composed her songs on the guitar or the piano. When he was younger he would often lay on top of the piano in her parents' living room as she practiced, or as she had her lessons with the private tutor. That cat had been raised with music always playing around the house, be it her singing, practicing, composing or just playing along with her favorite songs or because her father was home and he seemingly couldn’t live without his radio turned on, a habit she had picked from him and that she still maintained when she was home, only having upgraded from the old, banged up boombox he refused to give up and kept using in his office to a brand new surround system and interconnected bluetooth speakers that would play whatever she felt in the mood for through her phone or laptop.
For the past six months, none of that had happened. There had been no home with warm, simple furnishing, no kettle whistling on the stove announcing someone - her mother most likely - was making tea when she visited, no gentle humming of old Journey songs on old, damaged record tapes while her dad worked on his next artistic project. It was just cold, impersonal hotel rooms, backstage dressing rooms all furnished with the same items, neon lights that gave her terrible headaches with the constant flickering, conference halls with off white walls, plastic tables and uncomfortable chairs and secluded gates at airports with more security than the President of the United States. The lack of privacy was what had chipped at her sanity the most, if she had to be honest, the feeling of being constantly controlled by someone had gotten on her nerves quickly early in her career. Even now, as they were about to finally head home for a good amount of time - at least two years if plans would go right - Caitlyn felt the eyes of the bodyguard on her, this huge man the size of a wardrobe with shoulders twice as large as her, long sleek blonde hair tied in a topknot and a suit and turtleneck that screamed security . Three more guys dressed in similar attires from the security agency were scattered around the gate to avoid unpleasant meetings.
With whom, only they knew. The gate had been sequestered, reserved for them exclusively in advance months prior. It gave them direct access to the charter plane that had rented for the duration of the tour to move long distances; there were no external passengers, only her crew, her musicians, her techs and herself. Caitlyn Kiramman, the golden child of world pop charts.
Sighing with boredom and weariness, she grabbed her phone and resumed her doomscrolling on Instagram. Her personal account, the one that didn’t contain any picture of her face and was pretty much a simple moodboard of cool things she saw around her was the one she used to look for things around. As of recently she had started looking into getting a tattoo, and more photos aimed after said research had started appearing on her feed through the algorithm, accounts dedicated to different styles of tattooing, with various subjects and body parts shown inked in so many variants that it actually made her heart sink in her chest at the thought.
Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea. Maybe she wasn’t made for something so permanent, but there were cute designs of tiny animals that really appealed to her, like minimalist drawings of flowers on the inner wrist. But at the same time, there were designs much bigger and bolder, done in full color and with defined lines that she really liked and that would love to see on her body as proper art pieces and not just decorations.
Her stylist would be so against it…
She was scrolling through the account of a tattoo and piercing shop when she received a direct message from Skye. Mildly surprised, she pushed the pad of her thumb on the notification and opened it. It was a link to the account of a studio in Zaun, ATLAS516 Tattoos and Piercings, with a brief message attached to it.
I went here for most of my tattoos, the recent ones at least. I can vouch for her. She’s a great artist, professional, clean and precise. If you wanna take a look.
The icon of the profile showed the intricate design of the logo of the studio, with the name enclosed in an intricate frame that reminded Caitlyn of street art she had seen all around Zaun, plumes of smoke on the bottom side and mechanical gearing, almost steampunk in design on the top, and the bio was short and concise.
Vi she/her.🏳️🌈 Tattoo artist and piercer. Appointment only. For consultations text 324-555709 or write atlas516[email protected] and then the address of the studio. If memory served her well, it was in an area called The Sumps, one of the oldest neighbors of the city, once a widespread industrial complex that after a long period of neglect had been reclaimed and transformed in a thriving commercial and residential district, the symbol of the rebirth of Zaun, a thirty something years prior when a new administration had grabbed the bull by both horns and had started a hunt against the chembarons, how local drug kingpins loved to be called, and threw them out of the city and in jail, allowing the citizens to finally live without fear and finally own their own city, instead of being owned by the drug trade.
The pinned photo on the top of the feed was that of a redhead girl with a side shave and a slightly choppy haircut bent down on a table covered in single use paper, working on what looked to be a large piece on a thin, pale thigh with intricate lines, almost like a mechanical diagram of some sorts. The face wasn’t visible, obscured by the angle of the photo and the light source casting a shadow on most of her face, but Caitlyn could clearly see that she had a tattoo of similar mechanical design coming up her neck and down both her arms and pierced ears. On her left cheekbone, right below the eye, there was a tiny tattoo but it was cut off by the shadow so Caitlyn couldn’t see it properly. The artist was wearing a sleeveless shirt which left her arms on show, which showed she lifted heavy. She had blue nitrile gloves on her hands, the tattoo machine was wrapped in single use plastic and the tray at her side where the inkwell was resting was also covered with a single use paper medical sheet. There were what she had learned through research that were called needle cartridges on the tray too, still wrapped in their sterile containers.
The photo didn’t show much of the area around, but it looked neat and clean, like Skye had said.
The account clearly was a portfolio, containing photos of both work in progress and finished pieces, videos timelapses of tattoos, mostly small ones that could be completed in a couple hours, and longer works on paper, or better on a digital surface. The girl was talented, there was nothing to say about it, and showed versatility with a vast repertoire of styles, while mostly remaining true to a vision if Caitlyn had to judge. There were little details that appeared to be the same in all her works, like the patterns of swirly clouds - or was that steam, or maybe smoke? - that appeared in the background of most of her works, to mention one. The pieces were neat and polished, the lines straight and the colors bright, even on tattoos done on darker skins. Flowers were a subject that kept coming up, of all shapes and sizes, in color or black and gray, both on skin and in other more traditional works.
Some of them were absolutely gorgeous, like a realistic half sleeve on a man’s forearm with three red roses arranged together in a small bouquet with banners underneath each rose, and three feminine names inside the banners with dates, the caption said a dad’s tribute to his best girls , and it was indeed a beautiful tattoo for a lovely tribute. There was another, that she really really liked, a bouquet of sunflowers and peonies on a feminine back, with the customary plumes of vapor in the background, a detail that looked like a trademark of this artist. Scrolling further, Caitlyn saw one of Skye’s tattoos on display, the little Super Mario from the videogame done in pixel art style as he jumped and punched the air that she had done a few months back, before they left for the tour, on the inside of her wrist. It was a delightful tribute to her brother, a lifelong fan of videogames that had just recently been hired at Nintendo as a marketing analyst for the Western market.
Even her older works, those from two, three years prior, were beautiful.
She decided to follow the account and as she scoured the photos for details, she noticed a comment by a certain Jinx that said AMAZING JOB SIS on a particularly complex back piece depicting the skyline of Zaun as seen from Piltover, with the Bridge of Progress in the foreground, photographed with the reference photograph held beside it for comparison. It was indeed a massive work and it was amazing. The details were astounding to say the least.
On a whim, she clicked on the profile of said Jinx and found the account of a young girl, probably twenty two, maybe twenty four at most, with long braided blue hair and purplish blue eyes, bone thin but not emaciated. The profile picture showed her behind a bar as she pulled a pint of beer while she looked at the camera, crosseyed and with her tongue sticking from the side of her lips. She was wearing some kind of costume, it had been probably taken on Halloween night, just a week prior. This account was a mishmash of different things this girl enjoyed, and looked like she was an artist too, a painter with a talent for colors and large canvases, and scrolling further down, Caitlyn saw she also sculpted. There were also many photos, mainly selfies, of her and an older looking woman with the same haircut of the tattoo artist, indeed her older sister given how often she appeared and the captions of the photos. The woman looked a little rough around the edges, with a scar on her lip and another on the eyebrow, but her bluish gray eyes looked kind and joyful, and her smile was absolutely stunning, especially in a photo taken behind the same bar of the profile picture of the account. The two sisters were engaged in a mock battle with things they probably found at hand in that moment, Vi brandishing two pint glasses stuck on her hands as very fragile knuckle dusters and Jinx holding a mop as if it was a very heavy gatling gun by the pose. They looked like they were having fun cleaning up the place. The caption said My fathands sister believes she can bring boxing to a gunfight! What a dum dum!
Caitlyn smiled. This Jinx sounded like a blast.
And she was a fan of hers. There was a selfie taken from the first row of the concert she had held in Zaun at the beginning of the tour, given the date. It had been taken before the beginning of the show, probably right after she had reached the front line at doors open, the caption read MADE IT MADE IT MADE IT . In the corner of the slightly angled photo there was a hint of red hair. Maybe her sister was a fan also?
Who knew.
Caitlyn was pulled by her train of thoughts by the shrilling voice of a ground steward dressed in a tight deep blue tailleur with golden highlights and ridiculously high heeled ankle boots announced that the plane was ready to be boarded and that they could approach the entrance. Check in had already been performed hours prior, documents had been sorted out and the baggage had been checked for illegal items around the same time.
Caitlyn grabbed her carryon bag and her guitar case, then shot out of the seat at the speed of light.
Time to go home.
The plan for the return home had been very simple, but effective. They had taken a red eye flight, used fake names for the boarding passes - in accordance with the airline they had used for transportations during the tour - and had requested a sequestered gate for the arrival, in order to avoid rabid fans causing a scene at the airport as it had happened a number of times in the past. Also, recent events of the same kind had started escalating to actual violence between the fans and security. Thus for this tour, they had decided to use fake identities on the boarding passes that would be made public for the airport personnel and then hope for the best.
Maybe the idea of a private plane isn’t so stupid as I thought… Caitlyn mused as she climbed in the dark blue sedan with obscured windows on a side entrance of the airport reserved for employees and workers. No, it’s not. Too much hassle, too many emissions and taxes for something I’d use like six times a year . She thought. She greeted the driver, a young woman around her age with a neat bob hairdo and light makeup that made her dark eyes pop, and then relaxed on the seat as the car drove away and poured into the traffic of the outskirts of Piltover heading towards the city center and then towards the hills, where her parents still lived in the family mansion.
At four AM in the morning, Caitlyn was surprised to see so much traffic on the highway. “Never thought so many people were outside driving at this hour,” she thought, aloud.
“It’s all those people that work at night so we can live by day,” the driver replied. “Mostly people working logistics.”
“I suppose you’re right…” She looked at her smartwatch. 4:12 AM. By her standards, she would be sound asleep at this hour, but for some reasons, she didn’t feel the tiniest speck of tiredness, in the sense that she doubted she would sleep anytime soon, even if they reached home in the supposed 43 minutes marked on the car’s navigation system on the dashboard. “I would have expected more trucks, rather than cars.”
“If I have to guess, most truck drivers are taking their obligatory pause, Miss Kiramman.”
She frowned. “Their what?”
“Truck drivers are required to take frequent breaks while on the road, there’s a device on their trucks that marks how long they drive and how long they stay parked. Given how truck traffic goes, it's more than likely that many have taken their last pause about two, two and a half hours ago and are now parked somewhere to get some shuteye or a cup of coffee at a gas station. It’s to avoid falling asleep at the wheel.”
Caitlyn chuckled, surprised by the existence of such a rule but at the same time, entertained. “I had no idea. Our trucks with the stage decor, costumes and such usually travel separately from us on the buses.”
“If you noticed, even your bus driver took frequent rests. Some shorter, some longer. It’s a requirement for all those that drive for a living. I myself have to adhere to some regulations of the same kind, even though I usually do shorter routes that allow me to take frequent breaks,” the woman explained. “It’s how the industry goes.”
The car ride proved to be much more comfortable than expected. The driver, Mikayla, was nice and easy to talk to, very knowledgeable about a lot of things and polite. Not once she tried to intrude in her private life, or get Caitlyn to do her some kind of favor because of her celebrity. She was probably used to driving famous people around and had built up a facade. Most likely she acted differently in accordance to the person she was driving around.
When they reached her parents' home, a large, sprawling mansion nestled in between the hills north of Piltover, Caitlyn handed her the keycard to open the back gate, and when they reached the parking space behind the house, Mikayla opened the door for her and helped her take her baggage out of the trunk.
“It was a pleasure, Mikayla,” Caitlyn said, extending her hand.
“Likewise, Miss Kiramman.” They shook hands. “Driving for a member of your family is always a pleasure.”
Caitlyn smiled. “You have driven for my parents?”
She nodded as she closed the trunk. “In the past, yes, a couple times. Delightful people, really.”
“I’m glad you had a positive experience with them. Now, how do you like to receive your tips?”
Caitlyn left a hefty tip to the driver, grabbed her bags and guitar case and finally, entered her parents' home, where she would stay for a few days before permanently relocating to her own apartment downtown once the buzz of her return home would fade and she’d be free to move around as she wanted.
She went through the motions of coming home from a tour, as she always did. The first thing she did was hug her cat, Mr Bonkers - Bonks for short - as he trotted down from wherever he was sleeping and started rubbing his side against her shins. “I’m back home baby!” she whispered into the still luscious fur as he purred. When he was satisfied with the welcome he had bestowed on her, he demanded to be let down and then trotted around her, following her as she took care of the doing some of the chores right away before she completely forgot. She took the bags with her personal belongings upstairs - the costumes and other things related to the tour would be delivered to a storage area she had purchased for that reason a couple of years ago when she realized she couldn’t keep everything at home - and quickly divided the clothes that needed to be washed into whites, colored and delicate to throw in the washing machine later, then brought them downstairs in the laundry room for when she woke up, placing the three piles in three different washbowls. Then she looked through the carryon for her glasses and contacts kit, then took her contact lenses off, being extremely careful with washing them with plenty of saline solution before she stuck them in their container before she went to sleep. With her glasses on then, Caitlyn took something more comfortable from a drawer and changed into a pair of knee length leggings and an oversized purple t-shirt, an old leftover from a phase in her teenage when she had done everything in her power to hide her breasts as puberty hit her hard and had made that particular part of her body increase in size faster than her peers and it had become a source of embarrassment and bullying for a time.
“Alright, I am definitely exhausted…” she told herself as the memories of her schoolmates mocking her for something she could control resurfaced from the darkest parts of her mind while she brushed her teeth. “I’ve got to get some sleep, soon.”
She glanced at the window, the sky outside still pitch dark against the start light of the streetlamps outside the tall fence that bordered the property. Maybe if she managed to lay down now she could at least get three or four hours of sound rest before her parents came rushing into her room to greet her after six months of phone calls and the occasional video chat.
The unpacking could wait. Her guitar was safe and sound in its case by the door, the dirty clothes were in the laundry room downstairs and in any case it was stupid to unpack too much stuff when in a few days she’d have to pack again and move back into her place. Right now, she needed to rest.
She scribbled a quick message about being home, safe, sound and extremely tired for her parents on a bright pink sticky note and attached it to her door before she closed it and finally threw herself on the bed and sneaked beneath the thick duvet. The sheets had been changed recently, most probably since her parents knew she would have arrived that night, and they smelled of home, the mix of the usual detergent they had always used since she was a child with a little hint of jasmine essential oil that her mother used to keep linens freshly scented in the closets. The fabric was soft and well used, but cared for, not threadbare, and it felt heavenly on her skin after months of either too new hotel sheets, which no matter the thread count tended to feel rough, or dressing rooms that smelled of disinfectant and often lingering smoke, since so many artists just didn’t care about the no smoking rules and the disgusting reek of stale burned tobacco permeated the walls and singed her nostril.
She sighed, burying her face in the pillow and finally feeling herself let go. Who knew how long she had retained that tightness in her shoulders and neck, but as it finally left the muscles and tendons she actually felt the ache creeping up her spine and into the back of her head and making her swoon for half a second, before she found a good position in which she felt more comfortable and closed her eyes, letting her mind wander.
By contract, she had three months for herself. Three months during which she could do whatever she pleased, away from her team and not obligated to attend any event from her label or other brands she endorsed. She could accept invitations, on her own free will, but she wouldn’t be forced to go anywhere. After those months passed she was required to get back in touch with her producers and in accordance to their schedule, they would start work on the new album. She had ideas floating in her mind, pieces of lyrics scribbled on notebooks and scrap paper, chord progressions and melodies recorded on her phone on late nights when she couldn’t sleep or on long trips between dates on the tour bus. Those were things she could and most certainly would work on in her free time too, but in that very moment, in that slice of time between the blink of an eye and the start of a dream, she was just so very happy that she had no obligations in the near future. Let the mask fall off, be just Caitlyn for a while, not the queen of pop music, the multimillionaire daughter of a famed politician and an equally famous sculptor that had risen to glory when fresh out of the Academy of Fine Arts in his native Ionia he had been commissioned a commemorative piece for the five hundredth anniversary of the foundation of the Ionian kingdom. The wooden sculpture, carved in a single tree trunk, was such a marvelous piece of work that it was still on display in the Ionian parliament and it had catapulted a very young and much still wet behind the ears Tobias Kiramman to the olympus of modern arts.
She just wanted to be herself for a while. Enjoy the company of her family and her friends, the very few she had.
Maybe go to the family mountain lodge for Snowdown, since for the first time in years she wasn’t traveling over that period of time.
With the delicious thought of sweet, sweet freedom and lack of responsibility, Caitlyn finally drew one long, unrestrained breath and felt herself sway on the brink of sleep, but as she was about to cross the threshold and fall in the dark bliss of rest, a moment of clarity sparked.
I’m going to write to that tattoo artist tomorrow .
She woke up nearly at noon, mouth gaping and a pool of drool spread on the pillowcase beneath her. Bonks was, as usual, curled on himself beneath the covers beside her, a ball of breathing fur soundly asleep against her thighs. Groggily, she turned on her back, shutting her eyes tight as she stretched and realized that what woke her was the distinct sound of a hammer being used somewhere close in the house. To do what, she had no idea, but she intended to discover it sooner rather than later.
She checked her phone and found messages from her crew saying that they were home already and that they couldn’t wait to spend some time on vacation. Only a few who lived in different cities were still traveling, but they would soon reach their homes too. She noticed the battery was almost drained, so she checked her carryon bag for the charger and plugged it in the socket by the nightstand, before she dragged her feet in the ensuite bathroom and turned on the water in the shower to let it warm up. She stripped, and before she stepped into the shower, she took a good look at herself in the mirror.
Maybe it was the light that tricked her, but it looked like she had gained weight. She grimaced, knowing perfectly well that in the past few weeks of the tour she had disregarded her strict dietary regiment more often than not and maybe she had piled up a few unwanted pounds. Not many, her clothes and stage costumes still fit perfectly, but still…
Her nutritionist was not going to be happy when they met next time. A worry for another day though. She walked into the shower, under the scorching hot stream and shivered in delight as the hot water droplets from the waterfall over her head cascaded onto her, soaking her hair and sluicing down her body. She had decided to forgo getting washed up when she had arrived because of the sheer exhaustion, but right now, in that moment, it felt absolutely heavenly, it was as if the water wasn’t just washing away the dirt of the trip back home, the accumulation of sweat and dust and the grime of the airport and the plane, but most of all it was cleaning her mind and soul of everything, from the stress accumulated to the piled up preoccupations about a massive tour that had no precedent in her career.
The first shower at home after a tour always had that effect on her. It was a cleanse, a sort of purification ritual that left her born anew, body and soul, ready to take the world by storm once again.
But first… coffee.
Once she had dealt with her ablutions, Caitlyn quickly toweled herself dry and wrapped her hair in a clean towel before she changed into new clean underwear, loose jeans and a white hoodie, then she headed downstairs in search for the hot, fragrant brew that had kept her going for most of her life.
“Mum? Dad?” she called on her way down. “Is anybody home?”
When no one responded, she shrugged her shoulders. Her mother was probably at work, it was a weekday after all, and her father was probably the source of the hammering noise that had woken her up, wherever he was. In the kitchen, she found a small stack of sticky notes on the coffee maker, a top of the line espresso machine that she had gifted her parents with the first royalties check of her first album, ages ago now.
Hello darling, the machine is primed and already hot. The water tank is full and your favorite grounds are in the reservoir. Come see me in the workshop when you wake.
X
Dad
PS Mother is at work. She’ll join us for lunch.
“Just fucking perfect!” she breathed out, happy to see that for once she didn’t have to think about pretty much anything except for doing laundry. She pressed the button for a double espresso and let the machine do its magic while she grabbed the oat milk carton from the fridge. “No wait a second it’s not my fridge…” she spoke aloud before realizing that there was indeed a bottle of oat milk in her parents' fridge, and that there was a sticky note on it too. We didn’t forget this time! in her mother’s writing, most likely referencing the last time she had slept at their place and they had forgotten to add her preferred milk of choice to the grocery list.
“Thank you Mum!”
Once the coffee was brewed, she sat at the kitchen island and checked her socials for news and maybe some notable mentions, finding very little of interest. The world hadn’t ended while she was sleeping and according to an article on the Piltover Herald her mother was due to appear at the inauguration of a new multisport center later that week, one that the Kiramman industries her family owned had sponsored and helped build. It would also double as a concert hall, so the journalist implied she had signed the donation just because it would benefit her own daughter's career.
“Like I need it…” she said, rolling her eyes.
She brewed another tall coffee just for good measure, then another single shot espresso and taking both cups in her hands along with the little box of sugar free sweetener her father loved to use she headed down to the workshop, from which she could hear Journey, her dad’s favorite bands, playing from the infamous old boombox. There she found her dad covered head to toe in wood chips and dust, hammer and chisel in hands as he studied a piece of wood, probably the trunk of a tall tree cut at around three meters length laying sideways on heavy duty sawhorses as her father was intended on carving it in whatever shape or image he could see in the still rough surface, half chiseled and half hacked away with a chainsaw. He looked worried, the creases at the corners of his eyes deep as he frowned at the wood in front of him.
“Dad?” she called from the entrance. “Everything alright?”
He startled a bit, before he turned and chucked the tools and protective full face mask away. “Caitlyn!” he screamed in delighted joy. “My baby!” he took the cups from her hands and set them on a small table nearby, along with more tools of different size and use, then he hugged her tight, his long gangly arms wrapped around her torso and keeping her close to him in a surprisingly strong bear hug. “You’re home finally! I missed you so much!”
“I missed you too Dad!” she replied, hugging him in return. “How are things going?”
“Ah, same as the last time you called, we’re fine, don’t worry about us!” He pulled back and smiling, he patted her shoulders. “Look at you, for someone that just came home from a six months tour you look great!”
“The shower and the familiar bed helped a lot. And thanks for the oat milk, I really appreciate the thought.”
“It was nothing darling, don’t you worry a bit. Say what, how about we take this coffee on the patio rather than in the workshop? I could use a pause!”
They relocated on the old porch swing placed underneath a canopy that had been overgrown by lush green ivy and no one had ever dared to touch the climbing plant except the occasional trim when the branches reached the upstairs windows. It created a sort of woodsy, mysterious play of light and shadows when the sun shone and the breeze from the mountain moved the leafy fronds that everyone in the family enjoyed too much to actively make moves and take actions to remove the invasive plant. It just needed some tender loving care from time to time.
“You restored the swing!” Caitlyn exclaimed, the moment they turned the corner and she saw the old piece of garden furniture had changed color since the last time she had been at her parents' house, before leaving for the tour.
“Oh yes. It was a project I had postponed for too long. It needed to be done and one day when I just couldn’t see anything in the wood I moved to metalworks for a couple of afternoons,” he explained, sitting down on the sturdy, dark gray cushions. “Your mother said she didn’t like the color much at first, but she warmed up to it.”
Before Caitlyn had left, the paint of the swing had been a bright emerald green that had dulled in places where the sunlight shined on it more often. Right now, it was iridescent dark gray, with tiny specks of glitter reflecting the late autumn morning sky and shedding tiny glimpses of sun all around the sheltered veranda. “Mum? Warming up to glitter? That’s new!”
“If you’re still referring to the arts and craft incident when you were six, she got over it, eventually,” he said, referring to the infamous day when she had poured glue all over herself, followed by a whole jar of glitter at school because she was a clumsy little child.
“Well, she never stopped making me feel like crap for it ever since!” she sighed, twirling the spoon in her homemade macchiato. The memory of that day was extremely mortifying to this day, and she was quickly approaching thirty spins around the sun.
He sipped his espresso, hiding a smile behind the small action, then ran the back of his hand over his mouth, to wipe away any trace of the still thick foam of the coffee from his thick beard. “Making you feel like crap was never her point, Caitlyn, she just wanted you to learn a lesson.”
“Oh I learned it!” she replied, sarcastic. “I’ve been scared of picking up even a pencil ever since!”
He sighed. “Caitlyn, what’s going on? You’ve just returned from six months abroad and you’re already brooding. Aren’t you supposed to be happy to be home?”
Shrugging her shoulders, Caitlyn gathered her legs beneath her butt and leaned against the armrest on her side of the swing. “I’m still kind of tired, Dad. I came home very early in the morning and I’m slightly jet lagged. Just that. You mentioning glitter and Mum in the same sentence brought back memories I would prefer if they stayed buried. I’m fine Dad, I just need some more sleep.”
“Uhm…” His drawn out humming told her he didn’t really believe it, but he didn’t prod more than that. “What about getting some food into your stomach? You get broody when you’re hungry after all.”
She checked her watch. It was past noon and he was right, she was hungry. “Do you and Mum have any plans?”
“She has a table ready at our usual time at Gavroche’s.”
Caitlyn couldn’t see it, but she knew that her eyes lit up at the mention of one of her favorite restaurants. Despite the kind of posh sounding name inherited from an ancestor obsessed with French literature, Gavroche’s was actually a small family owned small restaurant not too far from the bustling Piltovan’s financial district, very close to her mother’s workplace. They prided themselves for their homely, hearty meals they served only with fresh seasonal ingredients, which meant that the menu would change from day to day depending on the availability of this or that item. Given the season, there was a very good chance they’d have their legendary bean soup with crunchy smoked pancetta bits on their daily menu. Her spirits immediately brightened at the idea.
“I’m gonna dry my hair!” she exclaimed as she bolted away from the swing, downing the rest of the coffee on the way to the house and without even waiting for her father’s reply, feeling the pangs of hunger actually turn into stomach cramps and gurgles. Upstairs, she blow dried her hair at record time, taking full advantage of the quick heating hair straightener she had packed for the tour and by the time her mother had arrived home to pick them up, she was perfectly dressed and with makeup on. When her father saw her, dressed up to the nines while he had just showered and put on a pair of old, faded jeans and a turtleneck sweater, he shook his head and laughed.
“I always dress like a fool compared to you two!” he exclaimed as he climbed inside the car on the passenger side, while his wife sat behind the wheel. Caitlyn rode in the backseats.
Cassandra chuckled, her blue eyes twinkling in the midday sun. “I’m just dressed for work, Tobias, and it’s not like we’re going anywhere fancy! It’s just a family lunch!”
“Well tell that to our daughter!” he added, looking back at Caitlyn while he fastened the seatbelt. “Is there anything our daughter owns that isn’t tailored to her? The clothes on her cost more than what I made with my first commission!”
Like when she was a child, she kicked the back of his seat in jest. “Dad!” Maybe not completely in jest. Comments about her appearance, even made in good nature, like what her father had just said, tended to hit her hard every single time.
“He’s trying to be funny, Caitlyn, but as usual he’s failing miserably!” her mother replied, getting the car into motion and heading towards the gate. “How are you,dear? Have you slept enough?”
“Fine Mum, don’t worry. As for sleeping, I think I may take a long long nap on the terrace after lunch, if the weather holds,” she said. “And then sleep in tomorrow too.”
Through the rearview mirror, she saw her mother smile. “You must be exhausted.”
“And hungry!” her father added.
“Both, actually!” Caitlyn laughed. “You had a good idea with the lunch out, Mum.”
“It’s your first day home after six months away, the least we could do was take you to your favorite place!” she explained. “And remembering to buy oat milk!”
“I was surprised this morning! I forgot to remind you and I was expecting to find Dad’s soy carton or just your skim milk. Thank you.”
Cassandra shrugged. “It was nothing, dear. Come now, tell us about the tour! I want the nitty gritty details!”
Caitlyn spoke for what seemed hours. Through the car ride, the short walk from the parking lot to the restaurant and through most of the lunch. It took her ages to finish her meal, a hearty bowl of soup so thick that if you stuck a spoon in the middle of the bowl it would stay upright followed by a tender, medium rare filet steak with a side of grilled Brussell sprouts. And a bite or two of her father’s roasted potatoes, because the mix of spices they used was unique and she had never been able to replicate it correctly and she loved it.
They were in front of their coffee when she finally reached the end of her tales of tour shenanigans.
“So, any plans for the future?” her mother asked. “If I remember correctly, you have some time completely off by contract, am I right?”
Caitlyn nodded, twirling the tiny spoon into her espresso. “I have three months of free time and zero plans this time. If I see another plane in the next few days I’m probably going to be sick so traveling for now is out of the question. I’ll probably rest, go through my to-be-read pile of shame and write some stuff. And I was thinking of getting a tattoo.”
Both her parents frowned, but unlike her expectations, they didn’t look disappointed, just surprised. Also, they didn’t have the moral ground to be disappointed. Both of them had tattoos. Small and easy to hide, but even her apparently straight laced mother had some ink on her body, a beautifully done swallow on her hip she had done when she was nineteen and was mostly covered by clothing except when she wore a bathing suit and another even more hidden above her hip, while her father had a koi carp on his back, a traditional Ionian symbol for good fortune.
“Oh that’s nice!” her father exclaimed. “Any ideas?”
She shook her head. “Not yet. Nothing definitive at least, I know I want a floral composition but I still don’t know precisely what, I only have a couple of ideas. Skye pointed me to a studio in Zaun where she has got quite a few of hers. I’ve seen the portfolio on Instagram, the artist is very talented and Skye vouched for her professionality and the sterile policies.”
She looked on Instagram and showed them the studio account. Her mother took the phone in her hand and started scrolling through the photos while her father watched. They both looked impressed.
“I have to say she’s great!” he exclaimed, his keen artistic eye trained on recognizing talent at first glance. “Have you already contacted her?”
“No,” Caitlyn replied, shaking her head. “Since I just have an idea for the tattoo itself, it’s vague and I want to discuss it with her before I make the decision.”
“That’s a great idea Darling,” her mother replied, handing back the phone. “I'm surprised you got the thought now though. You never cared much for tattoos, you barely asked for your ears to be pierced when you were fourteen!”
That was true. For years, she hadn’t seen the appeal of tattoos. She had admired them from afar, enjoying how they looked on other people, the artistry they required to be actually good pieces of art on volatile canvases like human skin, and for the longest time, that had been it. In truth, she wasn’t really sure what had driven her to the idea of getting a tattoo at the ripe age of twenty six years going on twenty seven in April next year, but she knew she wanted one. And she wanted it to have a meaning, hence the choice of a floral composition, since flowers were often used to convey different meanings without words.
Maybe it had been years and years of working and being on the road with heavily tattooed people. Or maybe she was just a little tired of the clean and pure public image she had always given ever since the start of her career.
“I don’t know Mum… I just feel like it’s the right moment in my life to get a tattoo.”
“Fair enough,” she replied with a quick nod. “It’s not like I can try and persuade you to change your mind, it would be extremely hypocritical of me since I have two myself, so go ahead!”
“I wasn’t looking for your approval…” Caitlyn mumbled.
“But you told us before you contacted the artist,” her father replied. “And I honestly appreciate the heads up. You know I don’t like to learn things about you from the media.”
Apparently, that settled the matter for her parents. They moved to other subjects until it was time to leave. Her mother drove her and her father home before heading back to her workplace to finish her day. True to her words, Caitlyn started the first round of laundry and then grabbed a blanket and took a long nap on the terrace, sprawled on a lounge chair and waking up when the sun was on its way down behind the horizon and the temperatures dropped too much even for the soft fleece that had kept her toasty and warm for the past three hours. Groggy, she dragged herself downstairs, where her father had just returned from the workshop and offered a cup of jasmine tea before he retreated to a much needed shower after a day working with wood, which allowed Caitlyn some time to write to the tattoo artist before dinner, after she had moved the laundry to the dryer.
Time to set things in motion.
The coffee maker beeped that it was done while she was putting back the bottles of ink on their rack after having sanitized them. With a sigh, Vi put the last bottle of bright red onto the shelf and she moved to the other side of the office part of the tattoo studio and grabbed herself a mug, filling it almost to the brim with the dark liquid and set it on the desk right beside the small cabinet she kept the scant food supplies in, mostly snacks and sodas for clients with sudden low blood sugar, then sat down in the office chair, getting ready to do the boring part of her job. Accounting.
With a sigh, she cracked her knuckles, opened the Spotify app on the PC and resumed whatever had been playing before she had stopped it a few minutes prior, then started typing the first receipt into the software that managed her balance. She also scanned it for archival reasons, then put it in the current month’s folder for the CPA office at the end of the fiscal year for the calculation of the taxes. And she did it again for the second receipt, and the third, then the fourth. All short jobs, two small tattoos and one nostril piercing she had taken care of before lunch. She was about to tackle the fifth and last receipt of the day, done for a larger work on a girl’s calf, when her phone pinged with an incoming message. Instead of picking it up on the phone, she checked the instant messaging app on the desktop computer. Easier to deal with, especially if it was a business inquire.
345-555901
Good evening, sorry to bother you, I’m texting to get a quote on a tattoo
“Uh, a polite potential customer. This one’s new!” she spoke out loud to herself as she read the message.
ATLAS516
No bother at all
Shoot, I’m all ears. What d’you wanna do?
345-555901
I’d like a floral composition on my right side
ATLAS516
Ribcage, beneath the breast or side boob?
It took a moment for the message to come through.
345-555901
Side boob, I think. I had no idea the position was called like that
Vi smiled. This one sounded like a tattoo virgin.
ATLAS516
Great placing for flowers. Do you have an idea on which kind of flowers?
345-555901
White lilies and violets
The message came quick and decisive. At least this person had a specific idea in mind and was sure about it. It made the job of a tattoo artist a lot easier, knowing that the client had a precise idea of what they wanted.
ATLAS516
Can and will be done. Color or B&G?
Vi didn’t even have the time to look away from the screen that another message appeared. This client had either a very strong conviction or they had done their research.
345-555901
Full color, please
ATLAS516
Cool
Any allergies I should know about? Especially nickel
345-555901
Not that I know of . Only dairy as far as I’m aware
ATLAS516
Trust me you’d know if you were allergic to nickel, if you ever hold a cog in your palm it would start itching like crazy
Now here’s the deal: for color tattoos I usually do two sessions at least, one for the lines and one for the colors and shades. More if the size requires it. I ask for 500 cogs flat rate for each session and 100 cogs as an advance which will be deduced from the last session. Is that alright for you?
Vi waited for a couple minutes for the reply. Here’s the moment the client ghosts me. She thought, alt-tabbing to the accounting software and resuming her typing of the daily receipts.
Then the phone pinged again and the notification bubble for the messaging system appeared in the corner of the computer screen.
345-555901
Sorry had to answer a phone call
It’s just fine, the price isn’t an issue. Can I send the advance through wire or you have other preferences?
ATLAS516
Wire is just fine. I’ll send you the details via email in a moment. Anything else you wanna know?
345-555901
I may have a request. I have a very busy life schedule due to my job, it’s very hectic. I checked your opening hours and I really can’t make it before closing time. Would you be available to do it after hours? I can pay a premium. Double the cost of each session even, for the inconvenience.
Vi stared at the message for a moment, not sure if she had read it right. That client was loaded if they were ready to pay double the price of each session for an after hours work. It’s not like it had never happened, but given she was sometimes on double duty at the pub owned by her dad and currently managed by her younger sister she tended to value her nights and avoided going over time as much as she could. But Tuesday night the pub was closed. She could squeeze in another client after hours, if this meant the pay could be doubled.
But then she felt a bit of an asshole accepting the double rate for probably four, maybe five hours of work. She was good, great even, but not that kind of money level of good. Not yet at least. She had made a name for herself in Zaun and as of lately even some Pilties were starting to ask to be inked by her, she was also well known as a piercer and contrary to popular belief, piercings were what paid the bills, but it was still not the kind of fame that would allow to ask for double rate for such a tiny request.
ATLAS516
Double per session is too much. 50% is enough, so that makes 750 cogs. Minimum two sessions to allow the skin to heal. I’m free on Tuesday nights and I can squeeze you in even next week if you’d like.
345-555901
It would be awesome, thank you
ATLAS516
No need to thank me. I’ll work on a drawing, then we’ll decide if you want to go through with it or if you prefer something different. I can talk basics by text or call, but for modifications I prefer to talk to the client in person, so you’ll have to come down here
Yes I could send you a photo via email so you can approve but I’ll be honest, I got burned badly doing this by sending the design to a dude that then had a scratcher tattoo it on him in their kitchen, so I didn’t get paid and the dude got an ugly thing on his arm, so I changed my policy about sending drafts via social media or email. I’m sorry if it’s an inconvenience
Send me an email so I can give you the bank data for the wire
345-555901
[email protected] I’ll send the advance right away as soon as I receive the data. You should expect the money to be transferred by noon tomorrow
Also no problem about coming down. I’d rather see it in person myself and I understand the reasoning behind your policy
“Yep, definitely loaded if she can get money wired so fast… Must be a good posh bank,” Vi thought aloud as she opened Gmail and sent the pre-compiled email she sent to all the new clients for bank data and a summary of what they had spoken about via text message for the past fifteen minutes. She added the time and date of the appointment at the end of the page too, then hit send. After that, she saved the number of the new client as Afterhours Caitlyn .
ATLAS5156
Email sent. Feel free to contact me for any request. I would like to advise you not to wear a bra with an underwire as it can be very uncomfortable, given the area we’re going to work on.
Afterhours Caitlyn
Will do. Thank you very much. See you on Tuesday.
ATLAS 516
See ya!
Well, that was strange. Not the weirdest exchange she ever had with a client, but definitely among the most unusual. Requests to extend the time after hours because the client couldn’t make it on time because whatever reasons and the session would probably extend after closing time weren’t that rare. People had jobs and obligations to attend to, especially family that may have needed people home, holding the studio open for a couple more hours wouldn’t hurt her, the electric bill wouldn’t exponentially rise because she kept open a couple nights more. It could be done, and she didn’t mind doing it, not just because the client, this Caitlyn, had offered herself to pay double the cost instead of the standard fee, but also because the subject intrigued her and it felt like something deeper than what meets the eye. Violets were a known symbol of lesbian love, and white lilies, if her memory served her right in Ionian culture meant the very same thing. She’d have to go check back her book on symbolism and flowers, she had one back from her college days when her professor of semantics of symbols had made a short tangent about the language of flowers and how different flowers implied in different cultures and directed them to a book about the subject, how the same flowers could have vastly different meanings in different cultures.
Maybe it would be a good idea to fish that book back from whatever shelf she had shoved it in, and maybe get that book about botany down too, because the photo references were absolutely delightful and were perfect to get the shape and the correct shades for most of the flowers she ever had to draw and tattoo. Internet references were often labeled as the wrong flower and she didn’t trust the pictures online that much for that reason, but a true, expensive college textbook about botany? That had been one of the best purchases she had ever made in her entire career. If only she could remember where she had chucked it…
She shook her head and grabbed her coffee, now just barely warm instead of piping hot. “Ah fuck…” she grimaced when the lukewarm liquid touched her tongue. “I should have drunk this earlier,” she said to herself as she went back to her accounting. She had a full schedule the next day and she didn’t really want to let the chores pile up.
“This is gonna be fun…”