Wasteland

Merely mortal, was he, and a slaver once a slave. Looking at him now, she might not have known if she hadn't seen the mark and he had never told her. Pity mingled with disgust and an odd sense of needed to stay kept her as the light filtering through the makeshift curtains dimmed into late afternoon. He would be required to tend to his business soon. Though, she supposed that Egor would take the reigns for a night if and when it became clear that Jack would not be coming out of his room. She wanted to know more, though it would not benefit her once she left this place. Previously afraid to ask the question, Leona posed it now to the man who seemed to drift in and out of reality.

"When did you get the tattoo?"

"I'd say 'bout a month af'ter that first run. B'then I'd earned it through hard work 'stead o'amusement. Me an' Scout brought in the mos' merchandise an' the bes'. I guess they figured I deserved it. T'was a surprise, ya might say."

"Can I look at it?" Leona asked with an innocent curiosity.

Jack left the bed and shuffled across the floor to the wardrobe. He seemed to be lest agile, even sluggish. She wondered if it was for lack of sleep or food and water. He opened the bottom dewar and brought out the candle and matches. The fibers of the rug mad soft swishing sounds as he made his way slowly back to the bed, handing her the candle and match box. He crawled over her legs to his spot on the bed beside her. He was exhausted, though he'd done very little physical work that day. She lay the candle next to her leg so she could find it again quickly. Sliding the cover of the match box open, she took out a stick and struck it against the rough strip along the side. The yellow flame sparked to life at the end of the short splinter of wood. She dropped the closed box to her lap and picked up the pale beige candle with her other hand. The dry wick caught easily and she put out the match on her tongue. The familiar quick sting of heat and the hissing death of the flame reminded her of nights alone under the stars, listening for any threat that may wanter near. She missed the open air, but not the dangers. Glancing down at the man next to her she wondered if he was not simply a different breed of danger.

Jack lay on his stomach so she could get a good look at the mark on his back. She held the candle over him, mindful not to let the wax drip onto his skin. But the flickering shadow made the image difficult to make out. Leona resolved to straddle him and hold the flame as close as she dared. He grunted a little when she executed her plan. His skin was dry and cool to the touch under her nudity. Feeling his back muscles beneath her sensitive folds unexpectedly excited her. Ignoring her body's foolishness she leaned in over the ink that marred his flesh.

Whatever the slavers had used for ink, the needle had been of quality and the artist; a master of shadows. Precise lines and detailing painted a stunning scene with graceful curls and sways along the edges and down his back in simple black. The design was much larger than she'd thought it to be, remembering the brief flash of skin she'd seen from the window. As elegant as the framing was, and how seamlessly the lines became part of the picture, they did not keep it from masculinity or ferociousness. A hairy Deathclaw hunched over a fresh kill, a man and a woman, their bodies torn to shreds. In it's claws the beast gripped their hearts. A bite of the flesh torn from one of the organs hung out of the Deathclaw's mouth. Blood dripped from it's chin and a string of saliva draped from the morsel to the gore in it's hand. It's face was turned upward to a cold sun, looking back over it's shoulder at the disconsolate wilderness surrounding it with apprehensive, wary eyes.

"Was this a mark o'yer clan?" Leona asked, nearly breathless and shaken.

"Naw, nothin' so uniferm as that. Ever'ne had their own special t' 'em. Scout had 'ne, t'was a ferret wit' sharp eyes an' a rabid look 'bout it. Ne'er really cared much fer it. Rodents ain't good fer much, 'cept stew if yer in a pinch. Betta than roach though!" He replied, teasing.

His deep chuckle vibrated through her, tingling the flesh that pressed moist and naked on his thoracolumbar fascia. Fingers from her free hand traced the intricate framing lines, admiring the flowing grace that graced his skin.

"Why d'ya think they picked this fer ya?" Leona asked.

She was beginning to fear the truth of the more vague areas of his story. Ferrets naturally sought out food and shelter for themselves and their families, so a tattoo of one for a man called Scout made sense. Deathclaws were ferocious killers, hunters and scavengers. They were quick and brutal, roaming the wasteland in packs. They rarely wondered alone as his tattoo depicted.

"I cain't tell ya. Don' really know fer shur." He answered.

Straddled across his lower back, Jack could feel the smooth skin of her thighs and the moistness between them pressed against him. Were they not verbally in the middle of his life he may have rolled over to have her. As it was, he lay contently on his stomach while enjoying her light touch tracing the lines on his back and shoulders. Suddenly there was a shock of liquid heat that stuck to his skin, burning like fire. Some part of him knew it was wax from the candle. He faintly heard the girl apologize and wipe away the hot wax with her own fingers. However, his mind had already returned to the night he received the mark that was so tenderly being caressed by a delicate touch.

"It's okay..." He says, but he's not really talking to Leona. Only repeating what he was told that dark hour.

Rough, strong hands drag him from his bed. He's still sleeping when the words float into his dreams and rip him to the darkness of the conscious world.

'It's okay! It's okay!' a man tells him, forcing him down the steps by candle light and mischievous grins on the other men's faces.

He's afraid they're going to use or take his pets, or worse; put him back in the hut, or maybe the cage. They've put a wooden snaffle bit in his mouth like he's a horse and secured it around his head with rope. His hands are cuffed and he starts to panic.

'It's okay!' the voice assures him in a whisper at his ear. 'It's Scout, man. It's okay! Yer gonna get yer tat t'night! Don' worry 'bout yer pets. Boss told 'em not t'touch 'em.'

Hearing this, Jack is excited, and afraid. He still worries about his girls. He knows these men well enough to know they can't be trusted with what is chained to his bed. He struggles against the hands that grip him and push him into a room with a bright light centered over a strange chair, fashioned specifically for tattooing the back of a man. They force him onto the torn and cracked padding of the old piece of furniture and hold him down while he's chained to it. Then a taller, stronger man steps up from the shadows. It's Boss, the head slaver, the man in charge. He's rarely seen out of his office and Jack stops his struggle and does his best to lower his head in respect. He hears the deep chested laugh of Boss and his heart pounds in his chest. Beside him a wooden stool is set on the floor and the sound of a generator clicking on hums endlessly in his ears.

'What ya wan' me t'put on 'em, Boss?" Picture Boy asks from the stool, pulling up the rolling tray of supplies.

'Deathclaw... and a reminder of what freed him from his bondage.' The deep voice of Boss echos through the room.

Picture Boy doesn't answer. Simply picking up the altered psycho needle and delivery system, the artist goes to work on him, drilling freestyle into his flesh. The ink is made of anything they could find that was black, ground into powder and mixed with water. If Jack survives, he'll rise in the rank above the new recruits. Right now he is more worried about Picture Boy's talent and skill, and sobriety, than what is going to be carved into him. Then he feels the pain. It's unlike anything he's ever felt, like fire and glass being ground into his flesh repeatedly for hours. But he doesn't cry, or groan. He can't. Not in front of the men. Not in front of Boss. They might kill him if he does. So he grits his teeth and bares down on the wood in silence.

Blood seeps up from the tiny holes in his skin to color his back in a red slick. Picture Boy pours vodka over him to sterilize the miniscule wounds and hopefully prevent infection. The alcohol stings and worsens the pain. After a while the pain dulls as endorphins release in his brain. The feeling is almost as euphoric as his experience with jet. Pain almost turns to pleasure, except where the needle hit's bone as it passes over his spine or shoulder blades.

Picture boy finishes in what seems like days latter, but is only a few hours. The light of dawn peeks over the horizon. It's warm, feminine colors brighten the sky framed by a window he can see from his place on the parlor chair. He's so exhausted from lack of sleep and pain that he believes for a moment that he's looking through a window to heaven. The the vodka cleanses his wounds and jars him to reality with fresh agony.

Boss nods his approval after a brief glance at his back and leaves the building. Jack is released and shown to a mirror to look at the physical expression of their acceptance of him. What he sees is beautiful and terrible. Realizing that it was how they saw him, how Boss saw him, gave him pride. Gave him a feeling of power.

Given a bottle of vodka for his new tattoo, he head up the stairs to his room and his bed. He hears sounds inside he knows all too well. Adrenaline, already coursing through his veins, pushes him into a rage when he opens the door to find what he knew would happen. Two men, Gunner and Blade, the two that should have known better the most, were having their way with his slaves. He's going to kill them, but not because he loves the women, rather it's because they're his property and they were being used without his permission.

Jack sees red and runs at them, catching them off guard when he entered the room. He head butts Gunner off of Anne hard enough to send him to the floor with blood pouring from his temple. The other man volunteers his leave of Lucy out of shock at Jacks powerful aggression. Jack doesn't taunt them or ask questions. He doesn't make threats. He rolls Gunner over onto his back, groaning on the floor and crushes his throat with repeated stomps with his bare heel. The gurgling sounds of Gunner gasping for breath through the blood flooding his airways is a faint annoyance in the background of Jack's mind.

Blade tries to flee, but Jack is faster, more spry than the older, fatter slaver. Jack trips the rapist with a kick to the back. Blade falls to the floor, his momentum sends him skidding a couple meters from where he fell. His chin is skinned and splinters are wedged deep into his skin. Jack grabs the man by the hair with his free hand and drags him across the floor screaming 'No, Jack! Don'! I's sorry!' But Jack doesn't care. He drops Blade's head by the door frame, then slams the door on his face until blood pours from his nose. When he's satisfied with the yelps of pain, he kicks him in his exposed groin until it bleeds just as bad.

Behind him the gurgling has stopped. He leaves Blade to check on Gunner. He's not dead, but close. He tells Lucy to bite off the dying man's 'pecker'. She does it happily, spitting the removed flesh on Gunner's face. The last sputtering screams that usher from Gunner's blood filled mouth remind him of a chicken clucking as it runs from the cook. Jack goes back to finish off Blade, who is trying to crawl away. He kicks him until he rolls into the open hall, then finally over the edge of the rail-less walkway to the bare floor below. The fall should not have been a fatal one, but Blade's head hits the lip of the pool table below and the impact snaps his neck.

Everyone who witnessed his marking is gathered below, staring up at him in silence and awe at what he has just done. There are many more of them than him, but he hardly notices the crowd. He simply looks down at the body, primal rage and triumph on his features. Tired, he goes to bed leaving the bodies where they lay until morning. Comrades or not, Gunner and Blade are meat and the community eats well that day.

Over the next week, Anne tends to his back, cleaning it with the vodka. The scars heal perfectly. He rewards her for her loyalty by removing her cuffs. He expects her to run away, but she never does.