Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.
~ jishin means ~
Ash slowly emptied the glass. The others started drinking again, too. Nobody said a word. The silence was not uncomfortable, but it bore a note of sadness. It was hard to put a finger on it, but there was… a kind of resignation… in the air. Ash let his gaze wander from one face to the other… Winston, Guerrero, his dad… they looked tired. And he somehow had the feeling it had not much to do with his tattoo. What had happened in Ecuador?
Chance didn't refill Ash's glass and he was just about to take that as his cue to leave when the elevator signaled unexpectedly. It was two am by now, they were not awaiting anyone. Usually late night visitors represented a reason for alertness and quick reaching for the nearest weapon, but this time around the security system hadn't gone off, so it could only be…
"I left some important papers in my office…" Ilsa came walking in, still ridiculously well-clad, considering the time of night. High-heels shiny, skirt wrinkle-free, blouse without a whiff of sweat even after a long day of discussions with Connie via video conference, later continued on the phone. After years of criticizing her San Franciscan activities now the board of directors suddenly needed her help. Ah yes, and in between she had also arranged transportation for the team.
"Glad you're back home." Breezing past the table she walked up to Guerrero's side and breathed a kiss on his cheek in a rare moment of public affection. In an even rarer moment of emotionality on his part, Guerrero returned the kiss and briefly touched her hand.
All of a sudden Ilsa froze. Her face took on the expression of a hawk that had just spotted a dove. Only then, as her gaze practically zoomed in on his upper arm, did Ash realize that he hadn't put his shirt back on.
"Is that a tattoo? Did you get yourself a tattoo?" She left her spot next to Guerrero and headed over to Ash's side, high heels clicking loudly in the silent office. Muffled footsteps of bare feet on the metal stairs that connected Chance's mezzanine quarters with the main floor indicated that Ames was awake now, too. Only Carmine didn't bother and kept snoring away on his favorite pillow in Chance's living-room.
Ash wasn't quite sure what to reply - telling Ilsa that that was a rather stupid question was definitely not an option since yes he undeniably had gotten himself a tattoo. Luckily she didn't expect him to answer. "What irresponsible pillock of a tattooist put this monstrous obscenity on the arm of an underage kid without parental guidance? I'm going to sue his arse into paying not only the complete removal but also serious damages for pain and suffering!"
Guerrero coughed slightly. "Ilsa…"
Having learned a thing or two in the past few years about the way the men thought, she immediately wheeled around and turned on Chance. "You didn't give permission for that, did you?"
Chance wished Ilsa would cut her boss act and just leave his son alone. There were still traces of wiped off blood on Ash's unnaturally pale skin, he was slightly trembling and his eyes had taken on a certain dull darkness, a clear sign that the adrenalin that had carried him through the application process was now slowly wearing off. In an hour or two the pain would set in and he'd be terribly exhausted for days to come.
What was done was done.
Ash had made a decision and he'd now have to live through the consequences. He was in for a pretty rough time. There was no point in yelling at him. He'd soon find out everything about the repercussions of his choice all by himself.
Boy did Chance wish he could spare him that experience, could take away all of that pain, both the physical one from the tattoo and the emotional one that had pushed his son to hurt himself like that. He could take it. Hell, he had been thrown out of airplanes, taken bullets for ungrateful clients and once blocked a strike of a Masai blade with nothing but his back. But his child… Ash looked so fragile…
"Do you realize that unsterile needles and equipment can lead to serious infections such as hepatitis or HIV? And what about allergic reactions? Even if you're now feeling fine, it's not uncommon to get one after having had a tattoo for years. Not to mention granulomas and keloid formation…"
Before getting her own tattoo, Ilsa had done some thorough research.
"Your skin already seems to react to the tattoo pigment! It looks totally unhealthy, as if someone carved the pattern into it… A doctor must look at this! Immediately!" She whipped out her cell phone.
"Maori tattoos aren't applied with needles", Guerrero said. "The paint is driven into the skin with chisels and a hammer. Creates the carved look."
For a moment Ilsa just stared at him. Then she shook her head in utter disbelief. "Could you say that again? For I must have misheard you." She spoke very slowly, like a tigress approaching a cobra. "I understood you said chisels and a hammer."
Guerrero shrugged.
"THAT SOUNDS LIKE ONE OF YOUR TORTURE METHODS!"
Ash screwed his eyes shut for a moment to escape Ilsa's shrill voice. His upper arm was starting to significantly hurt… in fact his whole body was viciously protesting against the violent treatment he had put it through in the past few hours. His bones felt like lead and his head started pounding vehemently from the onslaught of Ilsa's fierce British accent.
"AND WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?" Ilsa had spotted the empty glass in front of Ash. With impressive speed she grabbed it, lifted it to her nose and sniffed at it.
"YOU GAVE HIM SCOTCH? HAVE YOU ALL LOST YOUR MINDS?" This was mainly directed at Winston, usually the voice of reason in the lot. "HE COMMITS AN ACT OF BLATANT ASININITY IF I'VE EVER SEEN ONE AND YOU GIVE HIM ALCOHOL IN REWARD?"
Winston sighed. "Ilsa…"
"Cut it, Ilsa", Ash snarled.
The atmosphere in the kitchen immediately changed. Ames, hovering by the doorstep, stiffened, Guerrero raised an extraordinarily arched eye-brow, Winston let out a mixture of a gasp and a chuckle that he had well-cultivated ever since meeting Chance while Chance himself was torn between telling his son that he was overstepping the mark and curiosity how this would play out.
"You're not my mom", Ash continued, voice tinged with anger and pain. Jaw firmly set he got up and faced her directly.
All men tensed. This was clearly heading towards overstepping the mark big time.
For a moment Ilsa said nothing. Never before had the boy dared talking to her like that, harsh and impolite, with no respect. All of a sudden she realized how much he had grown. She remembered how she had dressed him up for that school play, when he had obtained the role of Juliet in Shakespeare's Rome and Juliet to impress a girl. Back then he had been cute, a wide-eyed kid… equipped with his father's natural charm and good looks he had easily wrapped them all around his finger.
Those days were gone. His face had lost its slightly babyish roundness and made way for sharper features, thanks to ice-hockey and martial arts training he had built up some serious bulk… and now the tattoo. Had she met him on the street, not knowing him, she would have given him a wide berth. He was radiating violence! Good lord, what had they allowed the boy to become? Granted, he had suffered great personal loss, terrible trauma, but Ashley was on the verge of becoming the proverbial angry young man, ready to lash out at anyone getting in his way. How could Chance not see that? This needed to stop, right here, right now!
"Oh yes, you're absolutely right", she hissed in reply. "I am not your mom." She paused, looking Ash straight in the eyes. "I am your boss. I am the one signing the paychecks around here, keeping the lights on and providing the money you used to get that ridiculous tattoo. And as YOUR BOSS I'm ordering you to get off your arse and do something for your money. The Marshall Pucci Foundation is having trouble with one of our branch offices in Haiti. Connie asked me for help this morning. Donations for the earthquake victims keep disappearing. I want the team to investigate and I want YOU to go with them."
Ash was speechless. So were the others. Ilsa briskly turned to Chance.
"What? He's old enough to have sex, drink alcohol and deliberately mutilate himself, he should definitely be capable of handling a job!"
And out the door she stomped.