Although it's short, this is one of those random things that has been in my work in progress pile for a while. It grew out of wondering how Lucas might have dealt with getting the first of his tattoos, because it was a rather unique situation for a Spook. I did say it was random.
The muscles in his jaw tensed instinctively, and he bit the inside of his lip as the wire started to scratch at his arm. It was his first tattoo. Lucas had never felt inclined to deface his body in this way before. Not that it would have been a good idea for someone in his line of work anyway. It would have made him too easily identifiable.
Here in Lushanka it was part of the culture. Petr had told him how it worked, and warned him that he should get used to it. "You don't do it, you don't belong. You don't belong, you're dead." Lucas may not want to belong, but he didn't want to die.
The wire - a guitar string attached to an electric shaver - was firmer now, digging deeper, as the ink marked him. Focus, he told himself silently. Lucas North. I am Lucas North. I'm British and I'm innocent. I don't belong here. Petr was standing at the door, watching out for guards, while Alexei wielded the homemade needle.
Given the chance to say what he wanted permanently emblazoned on his body, Lucas had chosen carefully. Prison tattoos told the story of their bearer - a visual representation of beliefs, protests, history – and complexity of meaning abounded. Ultimately, Lucas decided upon something that would signal to other inmates that he was not here to spy on them. In Russian on his arm would be the words, "See nothing, hear nothing and say nothing to nobody." That was for them. For himself, in Latin, "Dum spiro spero." A reminder that while he continued to breathe, he should continue to hope.
If he was still here in nine months Lucas would be entitled to a cupola, to signify one year of survival. If he was still here. Three months had been long enough, but a whole year? He couldn't quite comprehend that at this point. If he was here after a year it would mean that he hadn't died, hadn't been killed. If he was still here it meant that he'd been given up as lost ... or that he'd been sold out, betrayed by his own team. Neither of which did anything to make him feel his prospects for release from the Russian hell that was Lushanka were any good.
He was getting used to the feeling of the wire now, and turned his head to look for the first time. The words were slowly appearing on his bicep as the ink was crudely injected into the skin. They had a bluish hue, an indication of the ink's origins. He wished he didn't know how they made it, but he did. It was another of the things Petr had passed on. "They take the heel of a shoe and burn it. Then they take the soot and mix it with piss. That's it. Ink." Lucas had wrinkled his nose in response, but was unsurprised. It was like so many things in here, makeshift … primitive.
At first, Lucas had not wanted to close his eyes for fear Alexei and Petr would think he was not able to cope with the pain. But now, as he turned back and looked at the dirty tiled wall in front of him, he realised it wouldn't make any difference, and this was going to be a lengthy process. His eyelids fluttered closed and he tilted his head back, quietly breathing in deeply through his nose and out through his mouth. It was a relaxation technique he had learned years ago, one he had put into practice many times since then.
As he focused on the pattern of his breathing, he considered the hope that he was having permanently rendered on himself, being inextricably tied to. How long would he be confident that there was an end in sight … or a reason that he was here? What if he had to face life in here forever? Would he still have hope?
The tattoo/ink stuff is true - I did some research and it must have been the same place as Richard Armitage, because there's an interview where he talks about it too.