Snow & Ink

A trio of needles pulses through E’s skin, and a river of ink floods her cheekbones. I wipe the loose pigment away, then examine my artwork. Everything’s looking exactly as planned. My lines are crisp. My placement's perfection. My gradients are blended with expert technique. Soon, my design will bloom across E’s face, setting her free of the queen’s cruelty.

That’s what I pray for, at least.

I pause, shaking my hand back to life. I’m at the point in the session where my tattoo gun feels like a bolt of hot lightning.

Buzz. Buzz.

Or maybe a bee sting. Either way, everything’s numb. Hours of sharp currents have chased the nerves out of my fingers.

Proshche prostovo, I think in my native tongue—easy peasy. Enduring the loss of sensation is cake. I’m a marathon inker. I enjoy feeling frozen. It’s a nod to my motherland, perhaps—a faraway world where the winter’s eternal. I thrive in cold, harsh places. It’s as if I’m made out of winter itself. Or snow.

Buzzzz.

Up above where the city’s streets are, it’s early March. Without a whisper of warning, a brutal storm crawled over the mountains and blanketed the Earth with fresh powder. Hibernating creatures who were emerging for spring—raccoons, deer mice, and wood frogs—are being pushed back toward their burrows. We’re 280 feet below them here in the underground slums, but I can sense their distress in my soul. The snow's an evanescent canvas, just like our skin. If given the right dye, it can tell stories—possessing the power to amplify narratives. The little creatures that run from the cold are tattoo artists, too. Their muddy footprints ink the white world, etching tales of strength into the planet.

Kak nashi delayut, I think—as do ours.

We, too—the people of New Amera’s immigrant community—are fierce, but we’re being forced back into hiding. Not because of the storm, however.

Vzzzt. Vzzzt. 

Upon careful listening, the queen’s surveillance drones can be heard up in the streets. There, they scan the city’s civilians with a new Facial Classification System (FCS), which is run by the royal Mirror Bureau. They’re looking for those who fail to meet certain physical aesthetics, such as idealistic degrees of symmetry and proportion. The goal of the Bureau is to determine which of us are beautiful enough to be allowed to stay in New Amera, and which of us must be removed.

We’re all beautiful, of course. Just not by the queen’s standards. To her despicable highness, physical perfection isn’t subjective—it’s definitive. It’s also a status symbol and a sign of respect. The queen’s obsessed with beauty and youth to the point she feels her citizens should be willing to “improve” themselves for her. Each day, the drones scan our faces, then grade them with a strict beauty rubric. Scoring at or above a certain percentage classifies us as citizens. Unsatisfactory scores, however, brand us as Fades—or illegal immigrants. Fades get deported to wastelands unless they refine themselves with cosmetic procedures.  

Eto khnya, as we say in my home country—it’s pretty fucked up. None of us understand what this country’s become. One things’s certain: immigrants like us are no longer safe.

Of course, that’s where my ink work comes in.

Buzzz.

I wipe a bead of sweat from my brow, then glance at the studio. The scent of rich petrichor fills my lungs. It’s grungy and earthy in here, like a wasp hive. It’s also a bit mechanistic. The scalloped gears of the waiting room’s steam-punk clock tick through the walls, keeping rhythm to the uneven purr of our ink guns: 

tick-tick…

buzz-buzz…

Grrrgl-grrrgl.

I reach down to pat my poor stomach. It’s angry with me.

“You should eat something, Snovetka,” E says.

I wipe a fresh stream of ink from her chin, then scoff.

“Nikogda—not ‘till we’re done here.” 

E’s only sixteen, but you’d never guess it. She’s feisty. I met her parents briefly at a festival back in the fall. I didn’t know E herself until just this morning. Now, we could almost be sisters. Tattooing’s odd like that. I become connected to my clients within a matter of hours. Sometimes less.

E won’t tell me her real name. She insists I call her just “E”. Her family’s from Michoacán—part of the migrant farmworker municipality. I get the sense they’re good, honest people—dedicated laborers who bust their backs putting food on the nation’s dinner plates. E’s the youngest of five and a bit of a princess, I’ve learned. She’s very much loved. Her father paid double for my special Sigil Encryption package, which adds an extra layer of protection against the FCS’s LuminaCast technology. Sigils—often called crown marks—are small, crest-like emblems we’re all born with. In addition to my Glitch Contour service, which reshapes your face by glitching the system, I can reline your crown mark so it’s interpreted as a royal crest.

That’s right. For an additional $250, E’s father wants me to not only ensure she’ll pass the beauty index and keep citizenship, but that she’ll also be classified as royalty.

“Please, protect her,” he pleaded, “she means the world to us.”

I nodded stoically, accepting the job. Truthfully, I felt guilty. In normal circumstances, I would’ve agreed for less. Times have been brutal, however. Yuri, my 3-year-old son, needs a new winter coat.

I push a strand of dark hair from my face, then examine E’s cheekbones. Below her layers of epidermis, my patented ink’s at work.

I’m about to finish her up when she grabs my wrist.

“I mean it, Sno, eat something.”

She’s right. It’s 7pm, and I haven't eaten all day. I glance out toward the waiting lobby. There, a beautiful basket of fruit sits on the counter. Among a colorful assortment of pears, oranges, pomegranates, and figs, there’s a shiny red apple I’d die for right now.

I’m thinking about devouring it when I realize I’m staring off into space.

“Earth to Sno,” I hear E say.

“Chert voz’mi”, I blurt out—“Damnit, I’m sorry, E. I drifted off for a minute.”

“Don’t worry about me—I’m just thinking about them.” She motions to the line of clients filling the common area. It wraps around the underground corner.

They’re here to see one artist: me. That’s because I’m the best at what I do—at throwing up middle fingers to the queen.

My heart sinks at the sheer number of people, however. We’re running out of time.

We’re little creatures being pushed back toward our burrows, I think.

I look back at E and identify the unfinished areas.

“Hold still, E. Just one more small line.” With a steady hand, I complete the last stroke: Buzzzzzzz. “That’s it. You’re all done.”

E’s jet-black eyes are exhausted and bloodshot. Her small, dainty face is covered in geometric red scratches. I study them, ensuring I’ve added enough line work to re-contour her bone structure—to achieve alternative profile depth. Though she looks a mess now, my ink’s invisible to the naked eye. Once her wounds heal, the changes I’ve made will be an illusion—detectable only by the queen’s FCS. That’s why my work's so popular: I can change your face without actually changing your face. To the outside world, you remain beautiful you. Underneath it all, however, you gain a new identity—a universally attractive one. It’s why, besides being icy, I’m known as the Gifter of Beauty. E should now be able to avoid deportation.

“No sun or swimming for four weeks,” I say. 

“What about the Sigil Encryption?”

I blink, having forgotten about that. Of course—E’s father paid extra. Luckily, it’s a two-part process anyway.

“That ointment will reduce the initial swelling of your Glitch Contour. In forty-five minutes, your skin’ll be less irritated. At that point, we’ll go in for your sigil. Hang out in the meantime.”

“Great!” Says E. She leaves the room, then returns with the shiny red apple. “I hope that means you’ll take a break.” She hands me the scarlet fruit. “Eat.”

I smile, accepting the snack. I sink my teeth through its flesh. I immediately feel energized.

I’m about five bites in when I stop. I eye the next client—a good-looking fellow in his late thirties. I shyly motion for him to step up to my chair.

“Buonasera,” he says. His voice is velvety and baritone. He takes off his cap and smiles brightly at me before sitting down. “Wow—you’re a fair and bellisima one, aren’tcha?”

I resist rolling my eyes. I end up blushing instead. Glúpaya dévushka, I scold myself—stupid, stupid girl. I notice I’m feeling lightheaded, but I ignore it.

“Standard Glitch Contour today?” I ask him.

“No, love. Sigil Encryption.” He holds his hands up to his face as if to say: this here’s all good and fine. His lips curl in a flirty grin as he does so.

I swallow a scoff, avoiding the warmth of his eyes. I detest cockiness. I find myself unable to disagree with him, however.

“What happened with your sigil?” I manage to ask.

“Damn drones passed my face with an 81% approval rate, then tripped up on my crown mark. You wouldn’t believe the amount of paperwork I had to complete.”

I hold up a black light to his forehead.

“Ah, I see—the line work’s blown out. Where’d you have it done?”

“Down the street. My brothers and I all went there—all had the same problem.”

“And where are your brothers? What are they doing about it?”

He flashes me an attractive smile, and I feel my core melt like crushed ice. Why am I so dizzy?

“They’re right there—all six of ‘em.” He points to an odd assortment of young lads in the line—all of whom are a tad bizarre in their own ways. One looks aggravated. Another seems to keep falling asleep. One, I’ve noticed, hasn't been able to stop sneezing—the hypochondriac in me can't ignore that. Then there’s the other three: one has his arms crossed over his chest. He’s examining the ground and avoiding eye contact with me. Is he…scared? Bashful? And the last two—they seem quite content. They shoot juvenile jokes back and forth while play-punching each other like frat boys.

“Oh,” I say, “and…what are their names?”

His eyes sparkle.

“That’s Brontolo, Felice, Pisolo, Raffreddo, Tonto, Savio, and Vergognoso.”

“Such beautiful Italian names,” E pipes in from the corner, “except for ‘Tonto’. In Spanish, that means ‘stupid’, you know. Doesn’t it mean the same in Italy?

I fight back a grin. It’s suddenly apparent E’s only sixteen.

Tonto mutters something under his breath to Felice. They then both flash E love-drunk smiles.

Uh-oh. Don’t you two even think about it, I warn them in my mind.

I turn back to my client—the lethally handsome one.

“And you are?”

“Fiero,” he says. He lassos the two moons that are my eyes with his smile.

My knowledge of Italian’s minimal, but I believe that means ‘fire’. No wonder I’m starting to melt.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Sno.”

“How dreamy,” squeaks E, “a song of fire and ice—blossoming before us.”

“Ay, wrong fairytale,” Tonto jokes.

“Game of Thrones is a political fantasy,” corrects E, “besides, fairytales are dead in this world. Haven’t you noticed?”

I’m perplexed by E’s sourness. However, lightheadedness has taken me over. Don’t you dare faint, I order myself.

“Fiero, I’ll fix your crown mark for you. Then I’ll fix those of your brothers. When I’m finished, you’ll all go home with the fairytale ending you deserve—freedom.” I smile, noticing Fiero watching me. “After all, my motto here's “fuck the queen.”

“Ay, I like her!” Applauds Felice.

The rest of the folks in the studio applaud with him—everyone, I note, except E.

I reach over and grab E’s hand.

“Is everything ok?”

But E doesn’t answer.

“When’ll it be time for my sigil?” She asks.

“Your skin’s still settling. I’ll work on it soon.”

E slumps backward, dissatisfied.

Her demeanor alarms me. However, I’m not feeling right. I can’t worry about it—I have work to do.

I position my needle at the bottom of Fiero’s sigil, reworking the lines by moving upward. It’s best to work upward when tattooing—it prevents ink from smearing.

Upward, upward, I think. But my hand doesn’t want to cooperate. I’m concentrating on moving my needles from bottom to top—on creating crisp, clean lines around Fiero’s sigil. I’m trying to do what he came to me for—to transform his crown mark into something the queen will interpret as royalty.

But I’m dizzy. And sleepy. And before I realize it, I can’t keep my eyes open. I start to see snowflakes.

I’m spreading ink rivers across Fiero’s face when my soul drops to my feet. I reach down to grab it, but it evades my hands.

“Come here,” I order it.

But it defies me. I look back up at Fiero. All I see now is darkness.

“Come here!” I order once more.

Again, my spirit ignores me.

Then, suddenly, I hear them.

“She just…fell asleep!” Exclaims Fiero.

“Let her nap on the floor,” says Pisolo, “Like me—I always do that.”

“How on Earth did she just fall asleep?” Fiero asks.

He’s so close, I believe I can touch him. I attempt to reach out my hand, but discover I can't. I’m paralyzed.

“I poisoned her,” I hear E say, “I’ve been tracking her for months—she's cheating my system.”

My heart jumps. It scampers away toward the mouth of a den like a creature—a tiny creature fleeing the cold. How could E do this to me?

“I knew there was something odd about you!” Fiero exclaims, “You’re too wise for your years."

Of course E’s the queen, I think in my native language. She's so beauty and youth-obsessed, it makes sense she'd reconstruct herself as a teenager—kidnap one’s spirit, even. Oh no, I realize—poor E!

I’m lying on pins and needles amid blankets of snow, unable to move. There’s a rough and tumble on the other side of the veil—some muffled noises. Then, everything goes silent. That’s when I remember I’m not a creature that runs from the cold. I am the cold.

“Fiero, come here!” I shout. But my voice is a snowflake. When there’s no response, I repeat: “Fiero, come here now!” This time, my command is a blizzard.

Fiero emerges—I knew he would. Tattooing’s odd like that. I become connected to my clients within a matter of hours. Sometimes less.

“Yes?” He asks.

“You’re in my dream right now, and… you need to kiss me. It’s the only way I’ll wake up.”

“I can’t do that,” he says, “I’m not the prince in this fairytale.”

I raise my eyebrows.

“I fixed your crown mark, right?”

He flashes me that lethal smile, and I melt.

“Kiss me,” I say, “then, let’s rescue E—the queen's kidnapped her spirit. Oh—and let's throw up some middle fingers at the kingdom while we’re at it.”

And atop a blanket of snowflakes, little ink-footed creatures pause to applaud us…

all while tattoo guns hum: buzzz!