Skin Game

Skin Game

T. James Harris

When I arrived at the studio called ‘Mirage,’ a lovely young woman, who introduced herself as Jezella, greeted me.  I was slightly surprised that she was without ink.   

“Hi.   I’m Gary Lindon.  I have an 8:00 o’clock appointment.”  I shook her tiny hand, and she guided me past the meticulous, yet almost rustic, greeting area at the back of her work station.

She sat down at a small computer station, indicating I should relax in the oversized chair.

“So, Gary, why did you decide to get some skin work done?”    It was as though she had asked that question countless times before.

“Well, I just discovered at the age of 38, that I had missed a lot of the adventure in my life.” Nervously, I ran my fingers through my hair and wondered if she could spot the thin spots.  “I just needed a change.”

“What kind of work do you do?”  She turned to her computer screen, and I could see that she was calling up various kinds of images from a tattoo data base.

“Advertising mostly.  I build interactive websites that demonstrate a number of products.”

“So, I take it that you have a great deal of contact with clients.”

“Yes.”

“During work hours, do you want the artwork to show?”

“That’s why I’m here.”

“Then let’s get started.  I’ll explain how it works as we go.”

“Just one question.”  I stopped her, the fear in my voice probably apparent.  “Wh-when the tat is, you know, shut off, is it really invisible?”   She turned her left wrist up in reply, and then tapped a spot five times, counting out each touch.   A pattern on her arm began to form almost instantly.  I watched it spread into green and gold vines from the backs of her hands, and quickly laced up her arms to her shoulders.  The blossoms of a lotus manifested, then emerged into a design that covered her cheeks and forehead.  Even the whites of her eyes took on the palest of greens, making her gaze more intense.  She tapped out the command on her wrist again, and just as quickly as they arose, the pigments sank from sight.

“Amazing.”  I breathed softly.

“The nanites that we use, control the pigment.  They travel to a programmed pattern, through the epidermal layers, and are activated by a micro-command sensor that I have here in my wrist.  When active, they take on their color.  When deactivated, they become transparent.”  She smiled again, and this time, it was genuine.  “Saturday night at the club.  Sunday morning in church.”  I felt a lot more comfortable with my decision to have this procedure done.

She injected my right arm with several small cylinders of dark ink.  After that, I experienced the most painful part of the procedure.  She took a small, yet wicked-looking instrument, that had a gas cartridge attached to the end.  I yielded up my left wrist to her, and she implanted the micro-command sensor.  I tried not to wince, but failed nonetheless.   She then turned the screen to me, and we began to discuss what emblem was to become my new ‘sleeve.’

“Now Gary, once you decide on the image, the nanites become fixed, and there is no going back.”  I nodded.

I found a celtic knot pattern, from the book of Kells.  Something about the look just resonated right through me.  Without a second thought, I indicated to her that I had made my choice.  She seemed pleased, as she fed in the final commands to the processing program.

My skin started to tingle.  It was as if a piece of fur were running along my arm.

“Does it feel like this every time?”  I asked.

“Yeah, and it never gets old.”    I left her studio with a spring in my step, feeling a little giddy after my adventure.

My body modification secret was almost as much fun as the tattoo itself.  I would catch myself studying the layers of my skin, trying to find if there was even the smallest trace of visible ink showing.  After a week, I was convinced that the ungodly amount of money I had paid for this indulgence was well worth it.  This is, until the dreams started.

The dreams were mildly disturbing, at first.  In one, I crouched above rocks over an open field, scanning the glade for prey.   But as the dreams progressed, they became more lucid.  So much so, that when I awoke I was surprised that I did not have the stone knife in my hand.  The rabbit I had been skinning was no where to be found.

At work, others took note of a change in my personality.   After concluding a meeting with a client, who had a reputation for being hard to please.  My assistant  Judith met me in my office.

“I can’t believe that you actually raised your voice to Mr. Peters.” she said with a smirk.

“Well,” I explained, “He claimed that he wasn’t satisfied with how his product was being represented on the web.  He wanted to pull out of the deal, offering us only 20% of the contracted fee.    He’ll probably think twice before trying to pull that on anyone again.”  She laughed, and handed me several files I needed to review for up-coming meetings.

“What’s wrong with your face, Gary?”  She took on a concerned expression.   “There’s something on your cheeks...” she stammered.   I instantly excused myself, and dashed into the men’s room.  My image in the mirror nearly caused me to shout.  Staring back at me were my own features, but along my cheeks, eyes, and mouth, were the tribal marks of a Maori warrior.    I waited for the phones to ring, then peeked out to see if Judith had gone.

I hurriedly grabbed my coat, and ran out of the office before being observed.  I can not remember the route I took back to Mirage, but before I realized what was happening, I found myself pounding on the door.  Jezella answered.

“Mr. Lindon?”  She asked, and I pushed my way past her.

“What the hell is this?  I thought you said that those nanites would be permanently affixed to a set pattern!”

“What are you talking about?”  She asked with a true look of bewilderment.

“My face!  Look at my face!”  I pointed at my cheeks, but she still looked puzzled.  I turned, and looked into an ornate wall mirror... and saw nothing but clear skin.  I turned my wrist up, and tapped out the pattern to activate the micro machines, and I then saw that my fingernails were black.  She saw that, too.

“There must be a flaw in the programming.  Come with me.”  she insisted.  We went back to where her terminal station was.

I am not certain what type of detection devise she had, but she did seem troubled.  After forty-five agonizing minutes, she finally turned to me.

“I am going to inject you with a new series of nanites.  They will be programmed to seek out the ink, and destroy it.  They will then deactivate, and your own body should absorb them.   Don’t worry Gary, we can fix this.”  

A part of me wanted to believe her.  To have faith in this brand of technology.   So I allowed her to continue.  She seemed confident enough.

My body did not react well to the intruders.  Instantly, I went into a fever, and nearly fainted.  She held my hand, patting it, trying her best to make me feel better.  When my eyes passed over the computer screen, a warning window popped up.  “Virus detected.”  It beeped, drawing her attention away from me,

“Oh no.”  She said, almost too lightly to be heard.  I ran my hand up into my hair, and drew back a handful of it.  I stood up, and realized that the new batch of  nanites that were thrust into my body, were in my blood, and doing something they were not programmed for.  

“Gary -”  She started to say, but I pushed her away from me, and fled, catching a brief, but telling image from the mirror.   A pattern along my skull was forming.  My mind felt clouded, and I lost myself in the coming darkness of evening.

A blast of lightning struck a tree near my dwelling.  I am not certain if it was enough of a discharge to weaken, or destroy the nanites.  But my mind was clear long enough for me to record my story.  I can’t say how long I had been in the forest, but judging from the macabre pile of animal bones nearby, it had been quite some time.    Now, I feel the call of the savage growing, and that is a game I will gladly welcome.  I suspect that the nanites are awakening.  I have become them.

Slavering Moon

Slavering Moon

-T.James Harris

It is said, that those of my ilk would eventually become cognitive, even during the worst of times.  Though I lived in the skin of a beast, my heart was still human.  However, reclaiming my humanity would take time.  A great deal of violence and uncertainty would transpire before reaching that goal.

My human name is Ieo Warren, and with the exception of a decent education, I was like any of the mortals that walked the streets of Woodlocke.  A fletcher by trade, I once made the best arrows, and was even contracted by the City Guard to provide them with my product.  Even the Royal Queen’s “Hounds” sought me out.  But with the discovery of black powder, and the invention of muskets and wheel-locks, my craftsmanship soon lost it’s value.  I had to take to hunting the Queen’s deer in order to feed my family.

It was on a poaching trip that I encountered my fate.

The moon was bright and high, so I was able to track my prey,  though not an easy feat in the pale light.  My success needed the dark.  But, being caught in daylight, with an ill-gotten prize, would have won me a noose.

While still within sight of the city wall, I spotted a buck that would have kept us in meat for a month.  I took aim with my best bow, and my truest  arrow.  But a moment before I released, the stag bounded quickly into the cover, and was lost.  I had not made a sound!  I had approached it down wind, and I wore colors that would blend easily into the shadows.  I lowered my weapon, and pondered which direction I should go, when the faintest of growls reached my ears.  I realized at that moment, that I had become the prey.

Of the attack, I could tell you little.  Dun colored fur.  Teeth and claws that ripped into me without effort.  Time seemed suspended as my body was tossed wildly about.  Suddenly, I heard someone shout, and then the crack of a wheel-lock as it fired.  The last thing I remembered was a chilling and defiant howl, and then blackness.  Not of sleep, but something much deeper.  Like falling through the bottom of myself. 

A sharp pain signaled that the world was not done with me yet.  I saw a silver cord attached to my chest.  It shone brighter then any light I had ever seen, and it pulled me soundly backwards.  I awoke in the dark, on my back, and in some kind of box.  The air was very stale, and thin...

I had been buried!

Panic reared up in me, as I franticly clawed at the thin wood.  I shouted, and cried out to any who might help me.  But no answer came.  Soon, I felt myself slipping away... but when I became aware again, I was back in the forest.  I was naked, and bloodied, and my mind was filled with questions.

I found a stream, and washed off the gore, and realized that I had not a wound on me.  My belly felt strangely full.  Better then I was used to.  But I had no memory of eating.

What of my wife?  My children?  They must have believed me dead.  Who had fired the single shot I heard?  Was it from the wheel-lock of a patrolman?  Had he reported that I was slain by some unknown forest demon?  But more importantly, if I had returned from the grave, what was I?

I could not go home.  My family would be in danger.  At the very least, they would be terrified of me, thinking my soul now belonged to the Dark Lord.  How could I explain something I did not understand myself?

While pondering my circumstances, I became aware of a change in my senses.  They fascinated and repelled me.  Colors were brighter then ever, and the scent of the forest become utterly intoxicating.  I spent the next several days wandering in the daylight, experiencing what my new senses had to offer.  However, the moment I viewed the moon, my memory faded.  When I became aware next, I was in a sorry, yet satiated state.  The events of the night, were a complete mystery.

One morning, I awoke to a wild odor.  I opened one eye slowly, and there, regarding me, were three young male wolves.  I sensed that they regarded me as a brother of the forest.  Indeed, in time, I did become a part of their small pack.  Each had his own personality,  so I gave them the names of my own sons.

It was during the new moon, that I decided I would return to the city.  I wanted to find out how my family had fared after my “death,”  free from the effects of the moonlight,   In the darkness, I was able to easily slip past the night guard.  I found a set of trousers and an ill fitting shirt draped over a balcony, so despite my feral look, I would be able to walk amongst men unnoticed.

My home on Carver street stood like a welcoming fire.  I had to keep myself from rushing to the door.  When I came to the steps, however, my nose detected the scent of another man.  I was able to leap onto the second floor roof, and peer into the window of the room my wife and I shared.  She had taken up with another man.  And this, less then a month after my funeral.  I managed to get across the roof without alerting the neighbors dog, and tried to glimpse the boys.  I could just make them out in their beds.

When I dropped to the back gate, I discovered a set of boots on the steps.  The scent they gave told me that it was Del, the butcher.  A man I knew well.  At least my boys would have meat on their table.  They would grow strong... even without me.

My heart broken, I left the city, and returned to the three companions who held the names of my beloved off-spring.  In their coats, I wept my tears, and vowed never to forget my precious sons.

I would have been happy in the woods, hunting and surviving.  But always, my mind would drift to my children.  How were they fairing with their step-father.  What kind of story had my wife told them about my death?  I became more dissatisfied with every moment away from them.  I needed money.  I needed to be a part of civilization, even  if I was some kind of monster.

I became a bandit. 

Several months passed, and during the day, I took to relieving fine fat merchants, of their heavy purses.  I can not say that no harm came to these men.  That would be a lie.  Had I my wish, no harm would have befallen them.  But some resisted.  Some took unnecessary chances.  Some died at my hands.  Not many, but all who perished received a Christian burial.

I had amassed enough wealth, that I could function meagerly inside the city.  I could do this.  I could watch over my sons.  Safe in the shadows I had claimed as my own.

Though I still suffered the curse of the moon, I had discovered that if I were not touched by it’s silver light, I would remain in the skin of a man.  My hair had  grown long.  I was leaner then I had ever been, even as a youth.  I removed any trace of beard that I used to carry proudly, and I dare say that if my wife were to meet me on the street, she would just take me as a distant cousin of her dead husband.

I took up residence in an abandoned house on Rope Street, next to the bridge.  It’s basement was very damp, but possessed no windows.  I then found work on Gallows Hill, ironically, serving the City Guard as a stableman.  It allowed me to earn a wage in the daylight, and give me access to conversation held by the Constables.  I might find out if there were more of my kind.

It was during the Autumn Festival that horrific murders were discovered.  Not the simple throat-cuttings of common thugs, but vicious attacks, that left female victims torn, and destroyed.  It could not have been me, or so I thought.  I  would usually awaken in the morning, in my clothing, and hungry.  But on further investigation, I discovered that when the moon was full, I was not immune to it’s effects, even in my hiding place.

To my horror, I realized that I must have dug my way out of the basement.  My fingernails were clogged with earth.  Worse, I carried on my skin the evidence of my crimes.  For the remainder of that day, I lay in the darkness, convinced that the Guard would be forcing their way into my underground home.  I would be tossed into a pit under Gallows Hill, or dancing from a rope over the city wall.  But no one came for me.

As soon as the sun had set, but well before moon rise, I ran like a man possessed to the stables.  I found a length of chain, and a pair of rusted shackles.  Once back home, I bound myself as securely as I could, even tying my ankles with rope thicker than my fingers.

It was pointless.  My attempt failed.  In the morning, I looked as bad as I ever had.  My wrists were torn, my legs as well.  My belly was once again, full.  The remains on me, were that of a person.  And then, I remembered.  Not all of the events.  Just images.  A woman... a street-walker perhaps.  Blonde.  She smelled of many men.  Her blood was sweet on my tongue.

I could not go on this way.  I watched as the wounds on me faded before my eyes, and realized why I had not died in the mouth of that forest monster months ago.  If I were to try to end my life, I would simply awaken anew.  I needed to be contained behind iron and armed guards.

I removed the vile traces of my rampage, and dressed in my usual clothing.  I would present myself to the Constable in charge, and beg him to put me in a cell.  Once there, they could keep me from harming anyone else.

Never has a walk seemed so dire, so long, and so arduous.  I arrived at the office of the man who would decide my fate.  I decided to tell him that a trial would not be necessary.  I would ask him to simply lock me away.  As I approached, he was deep in a conversation with a Queen’s “Hound.”

“Are you saying that the latest victim was killed by a man?”  The Hound asked.

“Yes.  When I arrived, there were boot prints in the blood.  The wolf print was secondary.  A dog of some kind, scavenged several mouthfuls, but the wounds on her were created by a blade.  Not a tooth.”  I saw my opportunity to step forward and speak.

“Was that how the others were found as well?”  I asked boldly.  Both men looked at me in a manner that told me I had stepped far beyond my rights to ask.  The Guard nodded, but the Hound dismissed me with a glare.

The guards answer to my question impacted me like a hammer’s blow. Perhaps I was not responsible for the murders after all.  I ran back to my home, and as I did, a wave of sickness fell on me like the coming of night.  My stomach emptied itself.  And what I saw, reassured me.  Feathers.  I had raided a chicken coop.

I was not the one they sought!

Still, I had to be sure.  There was one night left of the full moon.  That evening, I bound myself better then I had ever thought I could.  Chains, locks, even a muzzle.  And when the third night of the full moon graced me,  I retained my sense of self, and my human sensibilities.  Thee rage in me was profound, but there was a trace of humanity left inside my mind.  I forced myself to be calm.  To understand.  To adapt.

And when the moon grew full next, I was waiting.

The murders had resumed.  Again, the ladies of the evening were the intended prey.  I had taken up a watchful post on the top of a steeple.  The city street was clear and clean to my vision.  I saw a lone figure approaching a woman.  I lowered myself to an adjacent roof-top.  When I saw the flash of a blade, I sprang at him.  The woman screamed, but was able to run noisily away.  I stared at the dark man for moment, and knew that he could see me for what I was.  There was no mistake.  He did not drop his weapon.  Instead, his knuckles went white around the hilt.

“Ah, so you have grown tired of taking the blame for my deeds?”  He asked me with a leer and smile.  His clothing told me he was of means.  The blade he bore was probably a tool of his own profession.  A surgeon perhaps.  It did not matter.  I could not speak to him, but my bared fangs and stiff hackles conveyed my feelings.  This display rattled him.  Yet, he lunged at me with the weapon.  It sank deep into my shoulder, and I roared out my pain.  I struck him, not with my claws, but the back of my hand.  He reeled away several steps, and then took to sprinting his escape.  I was able to follow easily.

Once we reached Rope Street Bridge, he turned to me again, and I knew he would flee no more.  He spoke again, in a voice less steady and assured.

“Ironic.  A monster with the consciousness of a man, verses a man with no conscious at all.”  He raised another weapon, this time. a cane.  It was tipped in silver.  As it struck me, a fiery pain shot through me.  Regardless, I slashed at him with all my strength.  The rush of blood sprayed darkly across his face.  This I accomplished with one savage stroke of my claws.  The look of utter shock was frozen in his eyes, as I watched him fall slowly into a heap at my feet.

A call behind me told me that the Guard had arrived.  I hesitated, growling angrily over the body of my victim.  A second later, lead balls fired into my body.  I jumped to my feet with a savage roar, and staggered to the low stone wall.  Another volley of bullets pelted me, and I fell into the river.  Semi-conscious and in pain, I drifted past them in the current.

Lead could not kill me.

I returned to my life in the city.  Not as a fletcher, but a horseman.  Though the beasts shy from me, I manage to assure them that they would never become  my intended prey.  Somehow, they seem to understand this.  I see my sons, from a distance, regularly.  I send packages to the house, always from a “distant relation.”

I do not feed on the flesh of men.  But I hunt them.  The evil-doer.  The rapist.  The mugger.  Some would think it recompense for my brief roll as a bandit.   Perhaps they are correct.

I have taken a new sire name.  Vannick.  It is from an ancient tongue.  It means “wolf.”  It also means “guardian.”