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SCL Chapter 57: Blood, Ink, and Brotherhood
🕑 Added 2025-05-02 00:48:18 +0000 UTCAugustus was truly happy. Throughout the meal, he kept smiling.
“We’re the Heaven’s Devils. That’s what we are,” Augustus said. “We’re brothers. Family background, honor, status—none of that matters. The blood of the Heaven’s Devils flows through all of us.”
“We all share one identity, and that’s Heaven’s Devil!”
“Augustus, you’re drunk,” Raynor said beside him.
“How can one beer make me drunk… What, you think I’m about to stand on a chair and shout like Napoleon, claiming Lady Luck is on my side?” Augustus said.
“Well, normally you’d never say this kind of thing,” Raynor laughed.
Outside the restaurant, the sky had grown darker still. Most of the townsfolk had already turned off their lights and gone to bed. The night draped itself in deep, impenetrable black.
Two hours had passed. Once the Marines had devoured everything on the table, Augustus stood up. He could hold his liquor well and was always in control, so he remained sober throughout the meal. Raynor, on the other hand—who had been nagging him to drink less—was now passed out on the floor, snoring soundly as he clutched one of Augustus’s legs.
“Anyone still able to move, get up,” Augustus said. “Go fetch those who are sleeping on the floor, slumped over tables, or passed out in the toilets. It’s time to head to the tattoo parlor.”
“Who the hell fell asleep in a toilet?” asked Lundstein, who hadn’t drunk much and was still standing tall.
“I just went to the restroom and saw Harnack with his head shoved in the bowl, hugging the toilet and snoring…” Amy Brandon groaned, visibly embarrassed.
“I’ll go drag him out…” Lundstein pulled a napkin off the table and walked away.
“You’re really going to have all of them tattoo the Heaven’s Devils insignia?” Warfield approached.
“Yes. They all agreed to it days ago. We made the deal back then,” Augustus replied.
“You planning to get one too?”
“I’m not a Heaven’s Devil,” Warfield said. “But I’ll be keeping a close eye on you all—just in case you decide to pull something stupid. And no face tattoos. I know the kind of ridiculous stuff you got up to back in school.”
“I knew Arcturus would tell you about that.” Augustus stared into Warfield’s eyes. “What else did he say?”
“The bit about the skirt?” Warfield burst out laughing.
And just like that, the topic was dropped.
Augustus led the Marines out of the restaurant and around the corner to a tattoo parlor that was still open. The tattoo artists were burly, heavily tattooed men, many of them bare-armed or shirtless. They had Augustus strip off his shirt and sit on a bench, then started tattooing him using images pinned up on the wall.
Nearby, the other Heaven’s Devils sat at tables and chairs, each one having already chosen their own design and placement.
“I really like this one,” said the tattoo artist working on Augustus—a woman with sea-blue hair. She held a blade and a fine-pointed tool, gauging their position against his muscular chest.
“It’s cool,” she said.
“This fusion style is all the rage lately,” Augustus replied.
When the sting began, he didn’t utter a word. Experience told him this part was necessary.
The tattooing took quite a while. By 02:00, the blue-haired artist was still coloring in the skull that stretched from the right side of Augustus’s chest to his forearm.
Lundstein stood beside him, watching the process while showing off his own chest tattoo—an image identical to the Heaven’s Devils banner: a skull cloaked in black. But in his version, the skull held a cavalry lance in one hand and a cross-shaped shield in the other.
“Where’s the horse?” Augustus asked.
“I’ve never seen a horse,” Lundstein replied. “I was going to ride a Char space shark, but it doesn’t have a skeleton.” He sounded genuinely disappointed.
“You’re unexpectedly persistent about some things,” Augustus said with a faint smile.
At that moment, Tychus walked past Augustus, 'accidentally' revealing his own tattoo. Tychus was covered in ink, and the Heaven’s Devils insignia filled the last empty space on his chest: a skull chomping on a cigar, wielding a heavy machine gun in mid-spray.
“Looks great, Tychus. That Heaven’s Devil really does look like you,” Augustus said.
Tychus left, clearly pleased.
“Why does your Heaven’s Devil carry a sledgehammer?” Lundstein asked Augustus. “I thought it would be a sword—something symbolic, a mark of authority.”
“Because my grandfather once said,” Augustus answered, “‘When all you have is a hammer, everything starts to look like a nail.’”
“Your grandfather was a hero,” Lundstein said. “He once hunted wolves alone on the Steelring Wastes.”
“Mm…” Augustus murmured. “That reminds me—have you seen Lisa? I’ve looked all over but haven’t spotted her.”
“She came in with us,” said Lundstein. “But she’s definitely not here now.”
“Does anyone know where Sergeant Lisa Cassidy went?” Augustus shouted.
Then it hit him—everyone’s tattoo took a different amount of time, depending on how complex the design was. If Lisa had chosen a simple tattoo, she could’ve slipped out before anyone noticed…
That woman…
“I went out for a bit. Saw Cassidy at the art gallery,” said Josephine, who was sitting on a bench fiddling with his personal terminal.
“What was she doing?” Augustus asked.
“No idea… Maybe admiring the artwork?” Josephine tilted his head.
Throwing on his coat, Augustus stormed out of the tattoo parlor like a gust of wind.
The idea that a town built solely to serve soldiers could actually have an art gallery was as absurd as imagining Tychus, suited up and wearing glasses, calmly working through paperwork in an office.
“Oh-ho~ Boss, Lisa Cassidy is a wild mare. If you wanna tame her, you’ll need reins and a whip.”
As Augustus passed by, 'relationship consultant' Kurt Josephine held out a hand to greet him.
“I swear I’ll beat you to death right now!” Augustus barked, slapping Josephine across the back of the head.
...
At 3 a.m., the town of Howe lay in complete silence. The cobblestone streets were littered with bottles, cans, fluttering sex trade advertisements, and magazines with exposed bodies. Above, the twin moons coated the town’s shale rooftops in a silvery sheen like liquid mercury.
Augustus hadn’t even had time to put on a shirt—he wore only a jacket draped over his shoulders. He moved swiftly through the silent streets, taking several turns and winding deeper into the town, navigating through its alleys until he finally found the art gallery Josephine had mentioned, tucked discreetly in a hidden corner.
To Augustus, the gallery did appear fairly authentic. The maze-like corridors were lined with gold-framed landscape oil paintings and abstract art. At each corner stood glass display cases and tall stools, holding vintage phonographs and alien-crafted ornaments.
After glancing at the paintings near the entrance, Augustus didn’t venture deeper into the gallery. Instead, he looked up toward a few well-hidden surveillance cameras. He knew there was no need to take risks by going inside—someone would show up soon enough.
Just as Augustus checked his watch for the second time, a woman emerged, wearing high-heeled boots and sporting a short black ponytail.
It was immediately clear she wasn’t a local. Her tanned skin, full lips, and exposed waist beneath a cropped brown vest, combined with her prominent chest and tight leather pants that hugged her curvy thighs, all made her stand out. She carried a strong, musky scent—not exactly pleasant.
“This is the Chelsea Gallery,” she said, her voice laced with slang Augustus didn’t understand. “You here to browse, or are you looking for a taste of Eden’s Viper?”
“I’m not here for anything like that, ma’am.” Augustus pulled out a Fort Howe ID card along with a leather-bound credential, marked with a golden eagle. “I’m Sergeant Mengsk. I’m confirming that one of my subordinates is inside.”
“Bring her out. I want her in front of me. The Marines have reason to suspect illegal activity here. Don’t give me an excuse to shut this place down. You can doubt my identity or ignore my warning—but no one gambles their business on a hunch.”
He then held up his personal terminal. From the palm-sized device, a holographic image of Lisa Cassidy flickered into view—it was an old photo from her student days. She wore a pale dress and a lacy sunhat.
The woman in leather didn’t argue. Expressionless, she turned and walked away.
