Angus's Arc

Chapter 1 of 3

Angus watched the machines buzz and hum in the shop, hands shoved in his pockets like always. He'd been sketching stories on practice skin for months now, but nobody would let him touch the real thing. The work mattered — telling someone's survival on their body, making it permanent, making it theirs. The artist outside the small studio nodded toward the wooden easel by the door. Flash sheets covered it — skulls with roses, eagles with banners, hearts wrapped in thorns. Pretty pictures. The kind of work Angus didn't want to do. But the artist's eyes stayed on him, waiting for something. Inside, the shop smelled like leather and antiseptic. The artist pulled a machine from the workstation, metal body covered in fine engravings that caught the light. He set it in Angus's hand, heavier than expected. Then he rolled up his own sleeve and sat down. Angus stared at the bare skin, then at the machine in his grip. His first real chance, but not on practice rubber or borrowed trust. On the artist himself. The buzz filled his ears as he pressed the pedal. His hand steadied. The needle touched skin.