Turns out I was going to get scorched regardless. I am laying on my stomach, butt naked, with only a towel around my waist. I thought I'd never have to go back to this moment, boy was I wrong.
Zara's soft fingers trace along my markings as she leans her elbow into my back. With a steady hand she holds Benga's scorcher. The tip glows bright white and is oozing molten godsblood.
"You ready Tits?" Dior asks. She's right beside me, holding my wrist. If she held my hand there's the risk of me accidentally crushing it.
I bite down on a block of wood they gave me and give them a thumbs up. Why the fuck did I agree to this? I look up at Dior's beautiful yellow eyes. She's lead me this far. This can't be so bad. I've had to survive much worse over the past couple days.
Bloody damn. Fuckin gory shit buckets. Gods that hurts like hell. My skin boils in close proximity to the scorcher and the seething pain latches deep into my muscle tissues.
Every millisecond under the white liquid death slithering on my skin feels like someone is repeatedly stabbing me. Micro tears of flesh and muscle eat away as the new embroidery settles in.
Dior's grip tightens on me. She knows the pain. Well, not exactly my pain. She went through something similar but they just used an ink gun that was infused with godsblood. My skin was too tough so they had to use the only thing they knew would break through it.
I look up at Dior's face again. Her once angular face has now turned round, and her skin and pointy ears have changed to look more human. The marking under her shirt has also taken a differing form.
This is our disguise to enter the peaks. According to Zara they prefer softer shapes. Our rugged sharp features needed to be sanded out and smoothed. Initially the plan was to have Zara constantly conceal us with her illusory blessing.
While Dior and Zara were telepathically discussing this, they realized that was not a reliable strategy. Her Tao would be depleted and we would be too vulnerable to be left counting on her at every moment within those walls; but Zara had another intriguing idea in mind.
There was a new wave of an emerging class of elite societal figures in the peaks. They were called artisans. Wizards who could paint the air in godsblood using their wands. Spells casted by the super elixir was a new trending discovery.
They put welders out of work. The once highly valued forgers of godsblood tech were placed down at the level of a diver. They now live on the outer layer as maintenance workers for the mech suits of divers.
But the artisans soon lived among the sovereign, becoming the most valued members of society. Zara, being a sovereigns daughter, had an artisan tutor who taught her godsblood alchemy. With certain runes etched into our body, it could mimic her blessing permanently.
Unfortunately, the process of which would cause us serious pain. The tattoos that are burned into our skin create a protective illusory layer around our costal features. Once Zara is done with me I will look similar to Dior.
My sharp jaw replaced by a circular one. My triangular eyes more oval and less slanted. The colors of our hair and pupils will be a shade of monochromatic black white and grey. The peak society is so boring.
Our markings will be transformed to those who look at it. If we run our hands through them we can feel the original grooves and ripples that the demons and gods burned into us.
Although the scorcher penetrates deep, it does not leave a texture. It is perfectly smooth, almost as if it is a part of my skin. The godsblood lays in evenly into the burn and levels out precisely to the rest of my flesh.
Tears brim my eyes. Drowning in the oasis was half as painful. Why am I bitching about some tattoo? I can handle this much. I battled death and lived.
Death's face appears before mine. He's taunting me again. I can't tell if it's an illusion but I mouth the words, "I'll kill you".
This is torture. Zara keeps mumbling encouraging words, telling me she's almost done, babying me throughout the process. Dior is trying to hold in a laugh. I pull my wrist away.
Fuck me. This is just as embarrassing as it is painful. I keep squirming under Zara and she curses trying to hold me in place. It feels like an eternity later when she finally lifts the scorcher and gets off my back.
"All done! You did so well Titus. Want a lollypop?" She holds out a short stick with a circular wrapper at the end of it.
"What's... a lollypop?" I sniffle away my tears.
"Oh, you've never had one before? C'mon try it." She nudges me with the end of the... "lolypop".
I peel off the wrapper and study the contents that it revealed. A clear green round ball, glistened in the light as I held it up.
The scent of sweet green apples hits my nose as I hold it closer. I lick it and the sweetest sensation dances on my tongue. I stick it in my mouth and suck on it. Damn. That's one hellova good tasting treat.
"This might be my new favorite thing." I tell Dior.
"Right? I love them too. People in the peaks reward kids with them but I've never grown out of them. I'll give you grape flavor next time, it's my favorite." Zara says with a grin.
"There's different flavors?!" This is possibly the best news I've received all day.
Zara laughs in amusement. It's oddly pleasant to hear. Her once annoying face is starting to grow on me. The crescent smile helps break up the evenness of her circular face, hinting at the once angular features of her natural face.
"Were you always one of them?" I ask.
"Of who?" Zara's big round eyes look deep into mine. I can see her marking reflect in her pupil.
"A peakie."
"I was born in the peaks. My mother sent me to get sculpted at the age of twelve. I threw a fit of course but it was over before I knew it. Once the baby fat leaves your face, the peakies deem it hideous to have natural human features. Sculptors are the elites favorite servicers, being able to mold anyone's figure into anything they like is a coveted gift."
"Sculpt? Mold? What do you mean, is it a blessing they were gifted to change someone's appearance permanently?"
"No, humans don't sculpt. It's the androids. We call them BEE's (Below Elevation Engines), they're the lowest working class, damn near slaves. The process of sculpting a human is all surgical. They have perfected the craft enough to do whatever anyone desires. It is extraordinarily painful though. About four times as much as what you just endured. The patient is healed through godsblood right after the procedure so they don't hold back during the process."
I shudder at the descriptions. She must have hated to have experienced that, and at such a young age. The peaks had their own hell, crafted by their very own elites. What a shit hole. Can't wait to stomp it out.