Deep down (and despite all of his hesitation and bluster), Ashton pretty much knows that if anyone here is going to sell him on their ability to handle the re-work he has in mind for his piece, it’s Link Remington.Notthat he and Link have ever actually met—not officially, anyway—but Ashton has been a fan of his work for years, following him on various social platforms, reading articles, and buying magazines that feature the man or his shop. Overall, simply admiring his skills, steadfastly but from afar. Link does follow him back in several places, but Ashton figures that’s a professional courtesy—they’ve never spoken.
The thing about Link's work that sets him apart from other magical tattoo artists is that it’spure. Each piece he creates has an obvious, visual backstory, the mystical elements entwined seamlessly with the ink in a thoughtful, intentional manner that Ashton recognizes from his own process. Link doesn’t merelytattoo,he creates. A single glance at his art reveals someone who takes immense pride in everything he sends out into the world, a work ethic that Ashton relates to very strongly, and something that’s non-negotiable when it comes to fixing his own piece.
As he approaches the booth for the studio that Link co-owns with his sister,Soul Survivor,Ashton spots the younger Remington—Sam, short for Samantha—first. It’s widely known that the siblings perpetually have a plethora of magazines clamoring to shoot and interview them, partly because of Link's immense skill and fast-rising popularity, but also because both of them are model-gorgeous, and naturally so. The type of human beings admiringly referred to as “God’s favorites,” without irony. Thanks to that, it’s quite likely that almost everyone in this room could easily pick both Remingtons out of a lineup, and Ashton is no exception.
Sam’s freehanding. A lock of pink-streaked, blonde hair falls across her forehead and she brushes it away reflexively using her forearm, undaunted. She’s in the zone, channeling laser focus onto the spot where her needle meets the client’s skin. For the moment, she’s working behind the right side of the table, at one of two stations the extra-wide booth offers, and Ashton weaves his way into the crowd of people gathered to watch. Sam’s client is a particularly fit and muscular man sitting backward in the tattoo chair, and the piece that Sam is inking onto his shoulder is fairly photorealistic—her signature style.
Ashton’s eyes scan it critically, noting a design that contains various but reasonably common elements, mostly skulls and thorny branches. It’s nothing overtly elaborate or complicated, which is somewhat surprising. At first glance, the tattoo might even seem mildly generic, especially for a Remington piece, but Ashton knows what to look for and his eyes swiftly clock the spark of magic being infused from Sam’s machine into each and every line. His own artistic experience and gut instinct both tell Ashton that underestimating this tattoo would be a mistake.
He’s right. Sam finishes what she’s doing less than five minutes after Ashton’s arrival, and then the real demonstration begins. Sitting back and wiping her brow with a rag, Sam nods at the client to stand while one of her assistants drags a full-length mirror across the floor. On her feet, Sam positions the muscular man where she wants him: sandwiched between the mirror held up by her assistant and a second, enormous looking glass that’s been propped against the back wall.
The size of both mirrors would probably seem more impressive if Sam herself wasn’t so tall. The frames alone must be pushing ten feet, but the top of Sam’s headhasto be breaking six, though her high-heeled combat boots probably add a good five to seven inches. Live and in person like this, Sam dwarfs her own equipment and it’s a bit jarring to absorb—magazines and social media don’t do her presence justice. She’s stunning—dressed in a whole lot of leather, her long hair pulled messily into a ponytail, accenting the tattooed stars on her left cheek. She’s very attractive, aesthetically speaking.
As the audience murmurs amongst themselves, Sam clears her throat to indicate that it’s showtime, and Ashton promptly forgets about her appearance completely.
This should be good,he thinks, recognizing the mirror setup as the standard way for a client to witness the full glory of a completed magical piece on a tough-to-see region of the body. This particular one has the benefit of reflecting everything that’s happening for the crowd, as well.
“So,” Sam says, clapping her hands together and turning to address the audience, larger than when Ashton first arrived, but that’s expected for a reveal. Ashton tries not to be too annoyed when he’s jostled roughly to the side by a handful of inconsiderate newcomers who partially obscure his view.
“For those of you who weren’t around when I spoke earlier, this piece is a cover-up, and we did a bunch of work on it before the final session today,” Sam explains, smiling widely. The excited, innocent look on her face is terribly charming in person and has Ashton developing an immediate understanding of why people gravitate toward the young artist. Pretty and charismatic, her personality stands in stark contrast to her usual creations, which from what Ashton has seen tend towards the dark and macabre. It’s part of why he never considered hiring Sam over Link, though their skills are arguably comparable.
Depending on what happens next, Ashton wonders if he should reconsider.
“We all know that tattoos are personal, especially magical ones,” Sam continues, the crowd murmuring their agreement. “So you’ll forgive me for not delving into the backstory too deeply on this one, but suffice it to say, Remy’s goal was to replace some bad memories with good ones. To show love and joy flourishing in the face of pain and death, and I hope—”
Here, Sam cuts herself off, faltering nervously. She flushes a little, which Ashton finds rather endearing. A genuine but unnecessarily self-deprecating reaction, since Sam is objectively the kind of skilled (andpopular) artist that would have anyone who knows their salt laughing at the idea that she’d showcase subpar work at an event such as this. Apparently, she is just that humble.
“Anyway,” Sam mumbles, clapping the newly-tattooed man on the shoulder and thereby directing the crowd’s attention towards him. “Hope you like it, Remy. Go ahead and do your thing.”
Frustratingly, Ashton now has to stand on his tiptoes to see over the people that have unceremoniously pushed their way in front of him. He does so willingly, though, and watches with rapt interest as Remy turns his gaze toward his left shoulder and closes his eyes. After a few seconds of silence, the tattoo on his back begins to change.
This is the most fascinating part of the process for Ashton, always and with no exception. Seeing how an artist’s magical touches influence the ink, how their charms translate onto skin and the human body—it’salwaysdifferent, always unique, and the pinnacle of why it’s so damn important to secure an artist who is in sync with their client’s vision, their needs, and who theyareas an individual. Get it wrong, and the final result could be anything from “just not that impressive,” to outright disastrous.
There’s nothing of the sort, not even ahintof that, here. There’s also nothing terribly extravagant or showy—no fireworks that shoot wildly into the air from Remy’s skin, no dragon that leaps off of the canvas and breathes fire. No, Remy’s tattoo is much subtler and far lovelier than some loaded series of cheap tricks.
As they all stand by and observe, the thorny brambles that twine and wrap around piles of skulls and bones begin to shift and move. They stretch and snake, creeping further onto Remy’s bare skin, winding around his chest and arms. Buds first appear and then bloom, blossoms peppering the full length of the vines as they continue to reach and stretch. It’s hauntingly beautiful.
When it’s all over, the skulls have disappeared completely, buried beneath a colorful canvas of ten different shades of roses, covering nearly every bit of exposed skin Remy has on display from the waist up. The crowd erupts into an enthusiastic burst of clapping and cheering, and Ashton watches with interest as Remy accepts a tissue from the assistant, blotting at his eyes before hugging Sam—quickly and gruffly, but visibly tight.
The onlookers disperse but Ashton sticks around, hovering at the periphery and half-listening as Sam goes over with Remy how he can keep the tattoo in its current form or alter it back, or even shift it to any step in between. Remy goes through the motions of doing so several times until he gets the hang of it, ultimately opting to put his t-shirt on with the roses in full bloom, many of them poking out from beneath his sleeves.
“Thanks, sister,” he hears Remy say, his voice laced with averypleasant Cajun drawl. “I’ll see yous both this weekend for poker at my place, yeah? Don’t wanna disturb the princess while he’s working, he’s liable to take my head off.” At that, Ashton’s eyes follow Remy’s vague arm gesture over toward the left side of the Remington’s stall. As fascinating as Sam’s demonstration was, he almost forgot that there was more to see.
Good art will certainly have that effect.
Once reminded, though, his eyes alight swiftly on where Link—the man he came for—is hunched over, working on the stomach of a petite redhead and apparently, completely oblivious to the show being put on less than ten feet away. That’s consistent with what Ashton knows and would expect of him, and it feels encouraging.
Quietly, Ashton leaves Sam’s area behind to get closer to Link, essentially opting to creep over the man’s shoulder in order to watch him work. He’s close enough to eyeball the tattoos Link has decorating his own skin, but sadly, the man is about as covered today as Ashton himself. Worn flannel instead of starched linen, but still covered, though probably not for the same reasons. Outside of magazine shoots and as suggested by his social media postings, that’s all Link ever seems to be wearing—flannel and jeans. It’s still a disappointment, but there are plenty of other interesting things to see.
Inching closer, Ashton somewhat belatedly realizes that Link and his client are having a quiet, lowkey conversation, one that doesn’t seem meant for public consumption. He wonders if he should back off, since their tones sound sort of loaded, but the redhead catches his eye and winks. Reassured, he opts to stay, offering her a small, appreciative smile in return.
“I know I’ve said it like a hundred times, but this really means a lot to me, Link,” she says, back to talking as if no one else is there, and Ashton supposes that’s pretty normal when you’re basically the storefront display for a bunch of window shoppers. Link only grunts, wiping a gauze square across his inked, bleeding canvas before getting back to it, and—alright, that’s less the suaveartisteAshton expected, but to each their own.
“Seriously, Link,” the redhead persists, lightly smacking Link’s free hand where it’s resting on the other side of her belly. “I thought I was a real renegade when I got that Hot Mess Express ink, still dunno what the heck I was on. I’m just glad I won’t be stuck with “Bad Skylar” written in Comic Sans and with an arrow pointing… uh, well, you know,down there,for the rest of my life.”
Link pauses at that to sit up. He dabs at his work again, exhaling a critical noise, and with his sideways movement, Ashton can now see that the piece is just a simple pair of shoes. Red and sparkly with a shiny, sequin-like effect that he knows from experience is not terribly easy to achieve, but that’s… it. Just shoes. Ashton tries hard not to feel let down, but the redhead isn’t remotely on the same page. When Link taps her shoulder, she lifts her head to look at the design andsqueals.
“It’sperfect,”she gushes, kicking her feet. “Link, how did you make that whole thing disappear?! It’s like it was never there, even though the shoes are so much smaller!”
