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whiskygoldwings · 2 months

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The Tattooist

The first clone trooper client she tattoos is an act of remembrance.

The man stands forlorn and desperate in the reception area, his borrowed clothes fitting poorly on his slumped frame. His face is tight, like a man on the edge of screaming, holding it back by the skin of his teeth. She recognises this pain, and quickly ushers him into her workroom, calling for A'maa to take the front desk while she speaks to a client. He breaths slightly easier once they are no longer in public, and she gestures for him to sit on the well-worn sofa she reserves for guests.

“I haven't got many credits,” he admits straight up. “They don't exactly pay us. I just wanted to see what could be done for what I have.”

She nods and grabs a pad and stylus, settling herself into her armchair and crossing her legs. “Tell me what you want and how much you've got and I'll see what I can do.”

He swallows painfully, and reaches into his pocket. “I have exactly 134 credits,” he holds a handful of ingots, and she glances down before looking back at his face. “I looked you up; I know it's not much in terms of tattoos. It's just... It's all I could scrape together...” he stumbles over his words, embarassment curling his lips.

“And what you want?” She interrupts, halting his ashamed attempts at explaining himself.

He takes a deep breath, grimaces, then sighs. “My brother was killed in the last battle. His name was Star. The long-necks... The Kaminoans I mean, never let us mourn each other where they could see. But he's my brother. We were born of the same batch, he helped me when I struggled with the maths tests, we had each others backs... I have a million odd brothers, but he was mine...” He presses his thumb and forefinger into his tightly-shut eyes, choking back a sob. “I want to honour him forever. I want to carry him with me, in a way they can't take away from me.” At this he straightens, bringing his hand down to stare at her determinedly. “They can make us wash our armour off, take our possessions from us. They will have to flay my skin from me if they want to take this.”

She stares back, stylus against her lips, and feels a swell of righteous fury in her throat. She's always had a mild force-sensitivity. Not enough to make training her of any worth, but enough that she can get a feel of a person, enough she can get a taste of their emotions.

This is a proud, strong man. And he is not broken by the hardships he faces, as much as he should be.

She will honour his brother with him.

The design practically leaps from her stylus, as she coaxes little stories from him. Little tales of his brother. His name was Star, he tells her first, and she sketches the rough outlines of one. He named himself, the man tells her, not giving his own name. Named himself after the balls of fury in the universe that were always out of their reach of Kamino. He laughs quietly, painfully, as he tells her the first time they had snuck out on a rainless night, when there was a brief respite in the clouds of Kamino, and by chance, there was a meteor shower over head. They'd all been amazed, confused and delighted by the sight, their little squad of five. One of the trainers, a kind man named Kal, had chuckled and told them “That'll be a shooting star” when they ask him about the phenomena, and Star had whispered to him in their bunks that night that he had decided on his name.

“I used to call him a shooting Star when we were in sims,” the man admits, a crooked grin on his face. “He kicked me in the shin for it once. Think he actually kinda liked it though.”

She adds a trail of dust behind it.

“He was so proud of being an ARF,” the man whispers. “So proud when I was nominated for ARF training alone with him. I was never as good as him, but he always took me with him, wherever he went. When the Commander told us we were getting the training, he basically hugged him. The Commander just gave him a pat on the back and told him never to do it again or he'd demote him quick as sithspit” the man snorts. “He didn't mean it, but Star'd never moved so bloody quick back into a salute, I couldn't help laughing at him, the idiot.”

She tabs out and finds a reference for an ARF troopers helmet on the 'net, and draws the trail of star dust bursting out of it and curling round to meet with the star itself.

“Our battallion wears green. Mainly olive-green. The commander started it, reminds him of the General I suspect. We became Green Company.”

The dust trail gathers sprinkles of olive green, the Star limned in the colour. She hesitates for a moment, then asks. “What markings did he wear?”

The man startles; she'd been loath to bring him out of his memories, but she wants to make it accurate. Needs to make it accurate really. She can feel how important this piece is to the man, and she finds herself strongly opposed to disappointing him.

“He had two stars on the left hand side of his helmet, one within the other.” The man indicates a point on his crown, above his ear. “And his visor was lined in green. He had a stripe vertically down the right hand side, ending just under the visor itself. On his chest piece...”

She lets him continue detailing his armour, drawing another star in olive green within the big one, then delicately tipping the helmet to conceal where the star would have been on the left. She's good, but it would have been too small to depict without potentially bleeding into a solid line, and she doesn't want that to happen. Instead, she marks in the line on the right-hand side, and ensures the big star is representative of what she imagines was on the helmet.

He's trailed off, staring sightlessly at his hands in his lap. She doesn't want to shake him, suspects alarming a trained soldier out of his own mind would be a bad idea. Instead, she uncrosses her legs, and clears her throat lightly. He glances up at her, and she smiles and extends the pad to him.

“Is something like this what you had in mind?”

He blinks at her, than reaches over and takes the pad. She sees the moment when he takes in the image. His eyes widen, and a tear he's been holding back since well before he got here slides down his cheek. He presses his fist into his mouth, other hand shaking where it holds the pad and he nods, clenching his eyes shut. “y-yes... Oh yes...” He stammers, voice thick.

“Where would you like it?”

“Over my heart,” he whispers. “I will carry him always in my heart.”

She stands abruptly, making him jump slightly and reaches out for the pad. “Okay, shirt off and lie down on the bed for me please. I assume as a clone trooper you're routinely screened for any blood diseases?” He nods, standing up with a slightly dazed expression on his face. She nods back and turns away, beginning the ritual of preparing her inks. She's playing a game of avoidance now, knows she won't take this man's money, and if she can keep him from asking about it she may be able to get it finished before he finds out. She suspects he'd do the honourable thing and refuse to get the tattoo. It'll be harder for him to do if it's halfway done. And while normally she'd insist on a full disclosure form and signature, she gets the feeling having no hardcopy evidence of what is about to happen will be a very good idea. The pad will need reformatting after she's done, but she's been required to do that for other clients who want their body art to be completely untraceable, so she doesn't store anything of any import on it for long anyway. She hears the rustle of cloth behind her and smiles slightly to herself, pleased at a plan going well. “Would you tell me more about him please?”

The man takes a deep breath behind her, even as she hears the bed creak as he clambers onto it. “He was always good at slipping by unnoticed. It's how he kept us both out of trouble back in training...”

She finishes mixing up the colours she needs as he begins to tell her about their childhood, what little of it there was. Checks her machine and cleans the patch of skin above his heart as he laughs about a prank played on one of their batchmates. It warms her and chills her at the same time, realising how little they had, but what great things they made of what they did. She prints out the stencil and places it over his chest as he whispers about Star easing him through the tail end of a nightmare, checking quietly that he's happy with the position before pressing the needle to his skin. He breaths in through his nose once when she starts, and she glances up at him, but he smiles and continues on into a story about when they first met their Jedi, and how Star gushed about her afterwards. She sinks into the meditative process of stamping lines into being, bringing colour to life, all the while surrounded by the man's soft voice building a memorial to his brother in their room.

When it's finished, the man looks surprised. “I thought it would take longer than that?” He blinks at her, “And be more painful in all honesty.”

She grins, “You did your research well hon, I'm good at what I do.”

He laughs and sits up, wincing slightly as the skin stretches around the wound. She squirts cleaner onto a cloth and holds it towards his chest, pausing before touching the tattoo for him to give a nod of permission, then wipes carefully across it, removing excess ink and stencil gently. Looking it over critically, she's happy with what she's done, knows she's poured herself into this tattoo as well. The lines are clean and crisp, the colours deep and rich. The helmet tilts up to look at the star above it, the trail of stardust sweeping behind it and curling up to emerge from the opening of the helmet at the bottom. Olive green accents in the tail, the line over the right-hand side of the helmet and around the visor, and the outer and inner two stars. She nods to herself, and grins up at him. “Ready to see it?”

He swallows nervously, but nods. She feels her grin quirk into a proper smile, then holds out her hand to him. He looks at it for a second, then places his own in hers, and she helps pull him from the bed. She keeps hold of his hand as she guides him to the full length mirror just beside the couch, and gently pulls him to stand infront of it. The hand in hers trembles as he stares at his reflection, taking a moment on his own face to gather his courage, then looks down at his chest.

The noise that punches out of his lungs is almost animal, and she grips his hand tightly. He cries openly, other hand reaching up to hover just under the tattoo as he looks down at his own chest. It's several moments before he can say anything, and she stands next to him the whole time, holding his hand as he clenches onto hers. He cries and cries, grief finally allowed expression, as she gives him silent comfort in proximity. His first words are “thank you”, and she smiles at him, as he starts to collect himself and turns away from her to try and pull himself back together.

“I'll give you a few minutes to check it over and make sure you're happy before I bandage it up,” she murmers, and steps quietly out of the room, giving him privacy in his sorrow.

A'maa glances up at her as she steps out, raising an eyebrow. Strictly speaking, she wasn't supposed to be working today, and she hadn't considered that A'maa might have had to turn away one of her own clients when she committed to tattooing the man. But A'maa glances over at the door to her workroom and shakes her head. “Don't worry about it Elaah,” she whispers, “Whatever it was, it was clearly important.”

“Yes,” Elaah whispers back, walking over to cradle herself in A'maa's outstretched arm, seeking the comfort of her own found family. “Yes, it really was.”

It's a few more minutes before the man opens the door, glancing around the edge of it. She quickly cuts off her conversation with A'maa and smiles at him. “Ready to get bandaged up?”

He nods and smiles, face a little blotchy from the tears, though neither she nor A'maa say anything. She gives A'maa's shoulder a quick squeeze, then heads into the room, leaving the door ajar this time. The man stands infront of the mirror again, gazing down at his new ink, and she quickly grabs the bits she needs to finish off. He smiles at her as holds the fake skin bandage up to his chest, carefully sizing it up to fit nicely over the tattoo.

“How much do I owe you?” he asks, and she shakes her head.

“Nothing hon, you paid me in stories.”

He protests immediately, as she suspected he would. “Too late hon!” she grins at him. “It's already on your skin and I'll throw your credits out onto the street after you if you try leaving them behind. Good luck winning this one!” She winks and pats him on the shoulder, turning away to grab his top and thrusting it into his abdomen. He grabs it and gapes at her, clearly not quite sure what to say, before straightening and flashing a sheepish grin at her.

“You planned this from the start didn't you?” He asks, pulling the top over his head and rolling his eyes as she throws him a cheeky wink and nods.

“I've got to give you something, this means so much to me... You have no idea...” He gulps and shakes his head, blinking fresh tears out of his eyes. “Tell you what, I'll make sure anyone else who might be thinking of getting some ink heads this way?”

She shrugs. “I'm not going to turn down customers, but you don't owe me anything. I just hope you think of Star whenever you see it.”

“I will,” he murmurs, a hand going to rest over where the tattoo sits over his heart. He glances up at her. “My name is Trix. I just... wanted you to know that.”

She smiles at him, and gently rests a hand over his own. “Thank you Trix.” she says, smiling up at him, “Thank you for everything you and your brothers do for us.”

He grasps her hand with his other one and squeezes it tightly for a moment, before turning around and walking out the shop.

#the clone wars #clone troopers #fanfic #fanfiction #feels #tattoos #tattoos as healing #star wars #oc characters #also posted to ao3 #CentrauGuardian

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whiskygoldwings · 2 months

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The Tattooist: Chapter Two: Wrench

I won't lie, I've been kind of terrified of putting this out, in case it didn't hold up after the first chapter. Everyone was so amazing and writing such wonderful things about it; the fear of letting people down was very real! But, here it is, a very different feel for this chapter, but I hope you all like it too!

---

The second time she tattoos a clone trooper client, it is an act of defiance.

This time Trix reached out to her first, sending her a message asking for an appointment for one of his brothers. She'd asked if this man had any idea what he wanted in advance, and Trix had tentatively answered her that he wasn't sure, just that his brother was angry, and needed to do something to get the itch out of his skin.

Elaah had blandly pointed out that Trix now knew full well that tattoos actually made you itch, and he had blushed before laughing sheepishly, admitting she was right.

She'd accepted anyway, arranging a date and time. She'd slotted in a whole day session, figuring that if they couldn't work out a design together, she'd maybe be able to pick up some walk ins, or get some of the admin done instead. Trix had given her the name “Wrench”, and made a comment that he was a pretty great guy normally, just he might be on the frustrated side when he came to see her. She'd carefully selected a day when Cafas was in. She didn't think any of the troopers would be likely to get aggressive, but she'd worked in the lower levels long enough to not be willing to take the chance.

She was just enjoying the last few sips of her coffee when Wrench stormed through the door, a cloud of righteous fury blasting in with him, making the force smell like burnt rubber. She managed to catch her expression before she wrinkled her nose, getting the feeling he would have taken one look at her face and walked straight back out again. Calmly, she puts down her mug, and places her hands clearly on top of the counter in front of her, empty palms flat against the surface. “I assume you're Wrench?”

“That's me,” the man says, arms crossed and jaw taut. “Trix told me to come to you.”

Elaah smiles at him, hopping off the stool and waving him over to her workroom. “Trix is a man of his word. Didn't tell me much about you though, just that you were angry.”

Wrench strides after her, passing her where she holds the door open and sits down on the comfy sofa as if it is the most uninviting, hard-backed chair ever. She glances over at Cafas' workroom to see him stood in the doorway, one grey eyebrow raised at her. She quirks a smile back, then goes into the room herself, leaving the door slightly ajar behind her. She doesn't get a sense of violence from Wrench, more bottled up rage and frustration that needs to find an outlet. Cafas will keep an ear out, but she doesn't need him in the room.

She grabs her pad and stylus, freshly wiped the evening beforehand, and sits down in her armchair across from him. For a moment, she just watches the stewing man then tilts her head at him. “So what are you here for Wrench?”

He laughs bitterly. “You know you've gotten my name right twice more than my bloody chief so far?” his fists clench. “It's not bloody hard! My name is Wrench. It's a karking tool! People across the galaxy use them every day. I didn't choose it for complexity. I like working on machines, it seemed logical and simple. Apparently kriffing not!” he gets up and paces infront of the sofa, face twisted in anger, and when she looks deeper, hurt.

She realises she knows what he's here for, and quickly sketches out the basic shape of a wrench. “Your chief doesn't call you your name?”

Wrench laughs again, a haunted, broken noise. “My chief can't tell us apart. He's natborn, doesn't lift a karking finger, yet he lords it above us all like he's some kind of gift to the universe. I'm not even sure the man knows what a wrench is, he clearly hasn't used one even once in his perfect life.” She feels bitterness and exhaustion in the force. This man has worked hard to get where he is, and the smallest bit of recognition would go a long way. “I want him to look at me and say my name. Not hey you! Or trooper! Hell, even my serial number would be better than being treated like the shit on his shoe.”

Elaah blinks, not quite sure what to make of the serial number comment, before focusing in. “You want a wrench tattoo somewhere obvious.”

He whirls to stare at her, clearly taken aback for a moment, before nodding sharply. “I want it on my kriffing face.”

They stare at each other for a moment, then she places the pad and stylus on the table and crosses her arms. “If that is what you really want, I'm not going to persuade you otherwise. How long have you been thinking of this.”

He stares for a second longer, than slumps onto the couch. His whole body seems to crumple, like he was geared up for an argument, and the strings of it have suddenly been cut and released him. “I didn't think you'd agree,” he glances up at her.

She nods. “That's part of why you're so angry isn't it? You thought I'd say no, try and convince you you didn't know what you wanted to do with your own body.” He shudders, and she has to fight with herself not to go over there and hug him. “I think you've had enough bodily autonomy taken away from you without me joining in.”

Wrench looks sharply up at her at that, before releasing his breath all at once. He sits back up, steadying his shoulders, and looks at her without anger for the first time that day. “Trix was right about you,” he says, then smiles at her. “You're right, I want a wrench. I want it over my left eye. I've been thinking about it since I saw Trix's tattoo. Hadn't really thought about it before that, I'll be honest with you. Hadn't really known it was an option I guess. But it hasn't left my mind since. Trix gave me his credits, and a few others who feel like I do have given me theirs. Trix made me promise to agree a price with you before you began,” she grins sheepishly as he fixes a stern look on her.

“Will it get you into trouble?”

“Probably,” he shrugs. “But I've made that choice. If they decommission me for this, I'll have still looked that man in the eye and made him recognise me.” His back straightens further, and she can see the pride and defiance in the tilt of his chin.

“Decommision you?” She asks, browridge furrowed.

Wrench shakes his head. “I shouldn't have said that much really. Just... Whatever happens after this is my choice and my fault.”

Elaah stares thoughtfully at him for a moment. She can guess what the word means, doesn't quite want to let herself believe that they would go that far. But Wrench had felt honest and passionate when he spoke, and she feels a hard lump forming in the base of her throat. She swallows round it, making her own choice. She had already told him she wouldn't take his bodily autonomy away from him. Denying him his choice now would be just as bad. She'll just have to deal with her own complicity if it comes to it.

He's watching her still, clearly aware she's having her own crisis of conscience, but not interrupting or trying to guide her to a choice. It settles her own decision further. This proud man, stripped of so many of his own options, has made sure she has her own, even if it will mean he doesn't get what he wants.

She clears her throat, and picks up the padd and stylus again.”I get the feeling you don't want anything fancy,” she says, glancing at his grateful expression before looking back at her simple sketch. “More something bold. Obvious. Unmistakeable.”

Wrench nods.

“Do you want it solid black, linework or colours” she asks, blocking in the lines of the tool more purposefully. She's going to make this the kriffing best wrench she'd ever drawn.

“Solid black?” Wrench queries, and she nods, quickly finishing the outline and filling it with the colour. She turns the pad around to show him, and he looks over it critically, before the corner of his mouth quirks up in a grin. “You didn't even use a reference for that.”

She hums. “It's like you say, a wrench is a universally known tool after all.” It gets a laugh from Wrench, and she bares her teeth at him in a smile. He laughs harder at that, and she stands up and goes to print out the stencil. “Lie on the bed if you would please, on your back and tilt your face to the right on the cushion.”

“Price first,” he raises an eyebrow at her, not moving, and she growls as he smirks. “Trix was very clear about making you agree to one first.”

“Fine,” she grumbles, placing the printed stencil aside and pulling out her black ink. “75 credits. I won't take anymore than that.”

“I haven't even said what size I want it” he protests, and she turns and raises her own eyebrow at him.

“What size do you want it?”

He indicates from his nose to just before his ear. “Basically as big as you can get it really. Karking obvious, like it's stamped across my force-damned face.”

She nods and turns back to her ink. “75 credits then.” It's the lowest price they quote, but she doesn't particularly want to take any of the hard-won money from these men. She'll figure out some way to feed it back into the GAR, though she suspects it'll be harder than it should be to ensure it will go to the men.

Wrench snorts behind her, clearly aware she's quoting low, but accepts it as a truce, and goes to the tattoo bed.

It doesn't take long to get prepared with only one colour on the plan for today. She carefully places the stencil, fitting the bottom half of the wrench on his left cheek and the upper half continuing on over his eyebrow, a gap for his eye. She slants it so the top fixed jaw skims below his regulation short hairline, and makes him to get up and check it before she'll begin.

He stares at it for a moment in the mirror, a fierce look on his face, before nodding at her and lying back down on the bed. She'd offer him some numbing spray, but she suspects he wants to feel every moment of this, and would resent any offer to ease the pain. With a tap of her fingers to the lower part of the wrench, she presses the tattoo gun to his cheek, and begins.

He can't talk during it, too much risk of knocking the gun out of place. But she can feel the edges of his emotions in the force, and the flow of catharsis through him. Every stroke of the needle across his skin feels like resolve, and she finds herself growing calmer as the tattoo takes shape. She lines it first, giving herself an edge to work against, then begins the careful shading in of the solid black. It won't be easy for Wrench to come in for a touch-up fighting in a war, so she needs to make this as uniform as possible. She slips into the focused meditation she usually finds in the hum of the tattoo gun, and the spread of ink across flesh.

Wrench doesn't flinch or move once during the entire process. He keeps himself rock still, in a manner that hits her all at once has been trained into him. What have they been put through, she wonders, to know how to remain unmoving in the face of constant pain. She has to set the thought aside, to be examined at another time, so her needle doesn't grow harsh and cruel in her grasp. There is, of course, plenty of pain, considering the location and simply the nature of tattooing, but she doesn't let it become any worse than necessary.

He sits so well that she finishes in record time. The solid black statement stares defiantly across his face, and she gently wipes it down as Wrench takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. She's not sure he actually blinked at all during the time she was tattooing, though he must have done. She gets close to his face, staring carefully at every endge of the tattoo, and the stretch of black at it's core, ensuring she hasn't missed a spot, or wavered in her lines. Satisfied, she leans back, stretching her arms above her, before patting Wrench on the shoulder. “It's done.”

He sits up, a little faster than she would have liked, but she gets the sense he needs to see. She's proven right when he swings his legs straight off of the bed, and marches over to the mirror before she can tell him to slow down.

Wrench stops, and stares at his own face. There's something blistered and painful in his presence in the force, yet also something wondering and cautiously pleased. She wonders what it must be like to be constantly surrounded by the faces of people who look just like you, looking for ways to make your own identity among an army of people physically exactly the same. She wonders if he's finally looking at his own face for the first time, and knowing it to be only his. A little part of her weeps for this man, but she doesn't let any of it show. This is not like Trix. Trix needed empathy and support. Wrench needed her to be quiet and to respect his choices.

Wrench takes his own time to examine his new face, and the line of his shoulders straighten as he takes on the aftermath of his decision. He turns to her, all the anger bled out of him, leaving only determination behind. With confident steps, he approaches her and nods. “Thank you,” he says, reaching into his pocket and counting out exactly 75 credits. No more, no less. He hands them to her, and she takes them with a nod of her own.

“It should be bandaged, to protect it,” she says, but is unsurprised by the shake of his head.

“I'll go to the medics on the ship if I need to, but I need to wear this openly.”

She doesn't argue, and as he walks out, she hopes she gets to hear the story of what happened when the chief officer saw it from him. She hopes she hears it from him directly, years down the line, when he's looking perhaps for a touch up.

She doesn't let herself consider what “decommissioned” may mean.

#star wars #the clone wars #clone wars #OC characters #OC clones #fanfiction #Star wars fanfiction #star wars fanfic #tattoos #tattoos as healing #crossposted to ao3:CentrauGuardian

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