SSKINDOG

No rest for the sleazy! Team Recon have been early to bed early to rise to shoot new gear coming soon to the Recon Store. Our willing model is ‪#‎FWL2015‬ rubber boy, Luca.

The roses were still fresh when Jack tossed them into the gutter. He’d bought them an hour ago, red and perfect, wrapped in crinkling paper. Now they lay in the dirty water beside a crumpled fast-food bag, petals already bruising.

He shoved his hands into his pockets and kept walking. The city smelled like exhaust and wet pavement, the kind of night where the air clung to your skin. His phone buzzed—another message from Lisa. He didn’t read it. The streetlights flickered overhead, casting uneven pools of light between the buildings.

A shadow detached itself from the alleyway ahead. Jack slowed, instinct tightening his shoulders. But it was just a kid, maybe seventeen, scrawny in a hoodie too big for him. The kid nodded at Jack, a quick jerk of the chin, like they were in on something together. Jack didn’t nod back.

Then the hands grabbed him from behind.

The grip on Jack's arms was like a steel trap—cold, unrelenting, and shockingly practiced. Before he could shout, a rough palm smothered his mouth, pressing so hard his teeth cut into his lower lip. The taste of copper flooded his tongue. Someone chuckled low in his ear, the sound vibrating through his ribs as he was dragged backward into the alley. The scrawny kid from before was suddenly in front of him, grinning, but the grin didn't reach his eyes. Those were flat, almost bored, like this was just another Tuesday night errand.

A sharp shove sent Jack stumbling onto his knees on damp concrete. He barely caught himself with his palms before face-planting into a puddle of something slick and foul-smelling. The hood of a car popped open somewhere nearby—not a car, he realized as his vision adjusted—a van, rust-eaten and unmarked. Two more figures loomed in the shadows, their faces obscured by the brims of their caps. One of them tossed a bundle of rope to the kid, who caught it with one hand.

"Don't make us tape you," the kid said, nudging Jack's shoulder with the toe of his boot. "Tape peels. Rope just… holds."

Jack's pulse roared in his ears. He opened his mouth—to beg, to bargain, to scream—but the kid was already moving, looping the rope around his wrists with a speed that spoke of muscle memory. The fibers bit into his skin instantly, tight enough to burn. A voice from the van muttered something about "too much slack," and the kid yanked the knot harder in response. Jack's vision whited out for a second, pain spiderwebbing up his arms.

The van's interior smelled like stale cigarettes and motor oil. They shoved him face-down onto the metal floor, someone's knee grinding into his spine. The engine rumbled to life beneath him, vibrating through his ribs as they pulled away. No one spoke. The only sounds were the wet crack of gum being chewed and the occasional scrape of a boot shifting on the floor. Jack focused on counting the turns—left, right, left again—until the motion made him nauseous.

When the van finally stopped, the silence broke like a snapped bone. Doors slammed. Hands grabbed him again, hauling him out into air thick with mildew and ammonia. Concrete steps, uneven underfoot, led downward. A basement? No—the echo was wrong. Jack caught flashes of graffiti-streaked walls, a flickering bulb swinging overhead, before they threw him into a chair. Cold metal arms pinched his biceps as restraints clamped over his wrists.

Light flooded his vision. A bare bulb dangled inches from his face, hot enough to feel on his skin. Figures moved beyond its glare, their shapes indistinct except for the glint of something in one man's hand—needle-thin and wicked-sharp. The scrawny kid leaned into view, rolling up his sleeve to reveal a forearm dense with ink: snarling faces, thorned vines, a spiderweb that stretched from elbow to wrist.

The needle-thin glint came closer, resolving into a tattoo gun held by thick, scarred fingers. The man wielding it didn’t speak—just exhaled through his nose, the sound like a bull snorting before a charge. Jack’s throat tightened. He tried to jerk back, but the chair held him fast. The scrawny kid smirked and pressed a grimy palm to Jack’s forehead, forcing his head against the metal headrest. "Relax," the kid lied. "This part’s just the outline."

The buzz of the needle drowned out Jack’s gasp. Fire lanced across his left bicep, precise and unbearable. He’d gotten a tattoo before—a stupid little wave on his ankle during a college spring break—but this was different. This wasn’t ink seeping into skin; this was violation, branding. Tears blurred his vision as the gun moved in quick, merciless strokes. The kid leaned in, breath sour with energy drinks. "They call this one ‘the welcome,’" he said, almost conversational. "Everyone gets it."

Jack squeezed his eyes shut, but the pain kept him razor-focused. Behind his eyelids, he saw Lisa’s face—her frown when he’d canceled dinner again, the way her fingers had tapped impatiently on her phone. A hysterical laugh bubbled up in his chest. If he’d just answered her texts, if he’d just taken the damn flowers straight to her apartment—

The gun lifted. Someone tossed a rag at the kid, who dabbed at Jack’s arm with rough, perfunctory swipes. Blood smeared the skin, but beneath it, black lines coalesced into a snarling wolf’s head, its teeth bared in a permanent snarl. The artist grunted, swapped needles, and reached for a pot of red ink. "Now the fun part," the kid said, grinning.

The red ink burned worse than the black. Jack’s muscles locked as the needle dug into fresh skin, layering crimson over the wolf’s snarling maw until it looked like it was dripping real blood. The artist worked with methodical brutality, pausing only to wipe away excess ink with a rag that smelled like bleach and sweat. Jack’s fingers spasmed against the restraints, his nails scraping uselessly on metal.

"Still thinkin’ about your girlfriend?" the kid taunted, leaning so close Jack could see the burst capillaries in his nostrils. "Bet she’s texting you right now. ‘Where are you, Jack? Why won’t you answer?’" He mimicked a high-pitched voice, laughing when Jack flinched. "Too bad. You’re ours now. And we don’t share."

A door creaked open somewhere behind the glare of the bulb. Footsteps—heavy, deliberate—echoed against the concrete. The tattoo gun lifted, and the artist stepped back, wiping his hands on his jeans. The figures in the shadows parted, and a new presence filled the space: broad-shouldered, smelling of leather and cheap aftershave. A hand gripped Jack’s chin, forcing his head up.

The man’s face was all hard angles, a jagged scar running from his temple to his jawline. His eyes were the color of old pavement. "Look at me," he said, voice gravel-dry. Jack tried to twist away, but the grip tightened. "That wolf’s not just art. It’s a receipt. Means you’ve been paid for."

The scarred man released Jack’s chin with a shove, letting his head snap back against the metal chair. "You belong to the Pack now," he said, turning to inspect the fresh ink on Jack’s arm. His thumb pressed into the swollen skin, making Jack hiss. "And the Pack always collects what’s owed."

Behind him, the scrawny kid tossed the bloodied rag into a bucket with a wet plop. "Boss wants him prepped by dawn," he muttered, fishing a vape pen from his pocket. The scarred man—Boss—nodded once before disappearing back into the shadows, his footsteps fading like a retreating storm.

The tattoo artist wiped his needle on his sleeve and reached for a different tool—a slim, cruel-looking clamp with serrated edges. Jack's breath hitched. The kid exhaled a cloud of synthetic blueberry vapor directly into his face. "Ever had your septum punched?" he asked, tapping the clamp against his palm. "Hurts like a bitch, but the soldering's worse. Burns the hole shut so you can't take it out. Like… ever." He grinned, revealing a chipped incisor. "Welcome gift. Part two."

Metal bit into Jack's nostrils as the clamp seized his septum. He bucked against the restraints, the chair screeching against concrete. Someone grabbed his hair, yanking his head still. The pain was immediate, white-hot—a singular, blinding point of agony as cartilage separated with a wet pop. Blood dripped thickly over his lips, metallic and warm. The kid whistled. "Nice flow. Shoulda brought a cup."

The soldering iron hissed to life somewhere out of sight, its tip glowing cherry-red. Jack's vision swam. He thought of Lisa's hands—how they'd always been cold, how she'd press them against his cheeks to warm them up. The memory splintered as the iron touched his skin. The smell hit first: burning flesh, acrid and sweet. Then the pain, radiating up his sinuses like a lit fuse. His scream tore through the basement, bouncing off the graffiti-streaked walls.

The kid leaned in, inspecting the work. "Sweet. Zero gauge—no wimp shit for our new brother." He flicked the fresh ring with a fingernail, making Jack flinch. "Looks tough as hell. Too bad you're still soft everywhere else." Laughter rippled through the shadows. The boss's voice cut through it like a blade: "Give him the rules."

A new figure stepped into the light—tall, gaunt, with a shaved head and a spiderweb tattoo sprawling across his throat. He recited in a monotone: "No contact with outsiders. No phones, no socials. You fight when we say fight. You bleed when we say bleed." His eyes flicked to Jack's trembling hands. "You run, we find you. And we don't bring you back."

The boss reappeared, holding a cracked Polaroid camera. The flash exploded in Jack's face, leaving afterimages dancing in his vision. "Proof of purchase," the boss said, tucking the photo into his vest. He nodded toward a rusted sink in the corner. "Clean him up. Church is at six."

Ice-cold water hit Jack's face as the kid shoved his head under the faucet. Blood swirled pink in the basin. Someone tossed him a wad of paper towels. "Don't drip on the floor," the spiderweb guy muttered. Jack pressed the towels to his nose, his reflection warped in the dripping faucet—a stranger with hollow eyes and a glint of steel through his septum.

The clippers buzzed to life an inch from Jack’s temple, the sound like a hornet trapped in his ear. He flinched—instinct, even though the chair held him fast—and the kid laughed, pressing the cold metal teeth against his scalp. "Hold still, princess. You wanna look like a half-assed chemo patient?" The first pass sheared a dark strip from his hairline, the strands falling onto his bare shoulders like discarded feathers. Jack clenched his jaw, staring at his own reflection in the grimy mirror propped against the wall: a stranger with a widening stripe of pale skin, the wolf tattoo glaring fresh and red beneath his rolled-up sleeve.

The kid worked with rough efficiency, the clippers leaving trails of stubble that the second man—bald, with a spiderweb tattoo climbing his neck—shaved away with a straight razor. The blade dragged against Jack’s skull, scraping off the last remnants of who he’d been. Foamy lather dripped down his forehead, stinging his eyes. He blinked it away, catching fragments of conversation from the shadows: "…check the perimeter before Church," and "…owe Dent for the van tires." The razor paused at his crown. "You twitch, you bleed," Spiderweb muttered, pressing the edge just hard enough to dimple the skin. Jack held his breath.

The first needle touched his scalp an hour later, the pain a sharp, insistent throb compared to the wolf’s bite. The artist—Boss, they called him now—worked in silence, his gloved hands steady as he etched jagged runes along the curve of Jack’s skull. The ink burned, each line a brand settling deep into tissue. Jack squeezed his eyes shut, but the kid pried them open with grimy fingers. "Nuh-uh. You watch," he hissed, forcing Jack’s head toward the mirror.

The needle hit the base of Jack’s skull like a hornet sting, and he jerked forward—only to be wrenched back by Spiderweb’s fist in his hair. "Told you to watch," the kid sneered, twisting Jack’s head toward the mirror. The reflection showed the Boss’s gloved hands maneuvering the tattoo gun with the precision of a surgeon, etching the first spiraling thread of the web. Ink seeped into Jack’s pores, black and unforgiving, as the needle buzzed its way upward.

"This isn’t me," Jack rasped, throat raw from screaming. Blood from his pierced septum had dried in a crust along his upper lip. "I’m not—" The Boss dug the needle deeper, a warning, and Jack’s words shattered into a gasp. The kid laughed, blowing vape smoke into his face.

"Sure looks like you," he said, tapping the mirror where Jack’s scalp was disappearing under the spreading web. The design wasn’t just on him—it was consuming him, each line a shackle. The Boss worked methodically, pausing only to wipe away excess ink with a rag that reeked of antiseptic. The web’s center began at the crown of Jack’s head, its threads radiating outward like cracks in ice, descending toward his neck.

Jack squeezed his eyes shut, but Spiderweb’s fingers pried them open again. "Nah, nah. You gotta see this part," he insisted, voice dripping with mock enthusiasm. The mirror reflected the Boss’s face—impassive, focused—as he switched needles for the shading. The gun’s pitch changed, a higher, angrier whine as it bit into Jack’s skin.

The pain was different this time—not just surface-level fire, but a deep, pulsing throb that seemed to vibrate through his skull. Jack’s vision blurred with involuntary tears. "Please," he choked out, the word barely audible over the gun’s buzz. The Boss exhaled through his nose, unimpressed. Spiderweb tightened his grip in Jack’s hair, yanking his head back further.

"Funny thing about webs," the kid mused, tracing a dirty fingernail along the fresh ink. "Once you’re stuck, you don’t get to decide when you leave." He leaned in, breath hot against Jack’s ear. "You ever see a fly try to chew its own leg off to escape? That’s gonna be you in a week."

The Boss finished the last thread, the needle lifting with a final, contemptuous flick. Jack’s entire scalp burned, the skin swollen and tight. Spiderweb released his grip, shoving Jack’s head forward. A Polaroid flashed—another trophy for the Boss’s collection. Jack’s reflection stared back at him, a grotesque parody of himself: shaved skull now a canvas of black ink, the web’s threads so precise they looked like they’d been burned into his skin.

The kid tossed a handful of ice into a stained towel and slapped it against Jack’s head. The cold was a shock, the pain flaring before dulling to a persistent ache. "Keep that there ‘til the bleeding stops," he ordered, though it sounded more like an afterthought. Someone kicked the chair legs, sending Jack lurching forward. The towel slid off, landing in a wet heap on the floor.

A pair of boots entered his line of sight—scuffed leather, the toes crusted with what might’ve been dried blood. Jack followed them up to denim-clad legs, a belt with a buckle shaped like a snarling dog, and finally, the Boss’s face. He held a switchblade, flipping it open with a practiced snap. The blade caught the light, glinting dangerously close to Jack’s eye.

"Rules are simple," the Boss said, pressing the flat of the blade against Jack’s cheek. "You don’t speak unless spoken to. You don’t eat until the Pack’s fed. You don’t sleep until the work’s done." He traced the knife down to Jack’s throat, the metal cold against his pulse. "Break any of ‘em, and we start taking fingers."

The blade disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. The Boss turned, tossing a bundle of clothes at Jack’s chest. They smelled like sweat and motor oil—a black wife-beater, cargo pants with frayed hems, and a pair of steel-toed boots that looked two sizes too big. "Dress. Church starts in ten."

Jack’s fingers fumbled with the shirt, his movements sluggish from exhaustion and pain. The kid watched him struggle, grinning when Jack’s shaking hands dropped the pants. "Need help, princess?" he taunted, kicking the fabric toward him. Spiderweb sighed, stepping forward to yank the shirt over Jack’s head himself. The rough fabric scraped against his fresh ink, sending fresh waves of agony through his skull.

The boots were last, laces already broken and retied in hasty knots. Jack stood—or tried to—but his legs buckled, sending him crashing into Spiderweb’s chest. The man shoved him off with a disgusted grunt. "Walk it off," he muttered, turning toward the door. The kid grabbed Jack’s arm, dragging him forward like a disobedient dog.

The hallway beyond the room was narrow, the walls covered in peeling paint and more graffiti—crude symbols, gang tags, a few dates scratched into the plaster. The air smelled like mildew and something sharper, something chemical. Jack’s bare feet stuck to the floor with every step.

At the end of the hall, a set of double doors stood slightly ajar, yellow light spilling through the crack. The sound of voices—low, rhythmic—drifted out, punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter. The kid tightened his grip on Jack’s arm, leaning in to whisper, "First rule of Church? Don’t speak unless the Boss asks you a question. Second rule? Don’t fucking move."

The doors swung open.

The room was larger than Jack expected—a gutted industrial space with exposed pipes dripping condensation onto a concrete floor stained with decades of grease and ink. In the center stood a surgical table, its metal surface polished to a dull sheen under the hanging fluorescents. Straps dangled from the sides, leather worn shiny from use.

"Up," Spiderweb grunted, shoving Jack forward. His knees hit the table's edge, the cold metal biting through the thin cargo pants. Hands clamped onto his shoulders, forcing him onto his back. The straps secured his wrists and ankles before he could even process the movement—thick, industrial-grade restraints that smelled of sweat and old blood. Above him, the Boss adjusted a tattoo gun, its cord snaking to a humming power supply.

The kid leaned over Jack's face, holding up a stencil sheet. "Twenty-inch boots, just like mine," he said, tapping his own cheeks where the inked laces curled like grotesque sideburns. "Tops hook right into the web. Looks fucking mean." He pressed the stencil against Jack's skin, the adhesive tacky and warm. Jack turned his head away, but Spiderweb grabbed his jaw, forcing him still.

"I don't want this," Jack rasped, the words tearing at his raw throat. "I'm not—"

A chorus of laughter cut him off. The Boss exhaled smoke from a cheap cigar, the tip glowing red in the dim light. "No one gives a shit what you want," he said, flicking ashes onto Jack's chest. The stench of burning tobacco filled the air as the rest of the gang lit up—hand-rolled cigarettes, fat cigars, a few vaping pens hissing like angry snakes. The kid took a deep drag off his, exhaling a cloud of synthetic blueberry smoke directly into Jack's face.

"You're already ours," Spiderweb said, tightening the strap across Jack's forehead. "This? Just paperwork." The Boss thumbed the tattoo gun's power switch, the buzz drowning out Jack's ragged breathing. The needle touched his cheekbone—not tentative, not testing—just straight to the bone-deep burn of ink forced into flesh.

Jack bucked against the restraints, his scream lost in the cacophony of laughter and coughing. The needle dragged downward, etching the first curve of a steel-toe cap. Blood welled along the fresh line, mixing with the sweat streaming down his temples. Someone wiped it away with a rag that smelled of bleach and motor oil.

The kid leaned in, tapping his vape against his teeth. "Hurts, huh?" he mused, watching Jack's face contort. "Wait 'til the shading hits cartilage." The Boss worked in silence, his gloved hands steady as he carved the boot's intricate tread pattern into Jack's skin. The needle buzzed louder as it hit denser tissue near his jawline, the vibration traveling up into his molars.

"I'm not one of you," Jack gasped, his voice cracking. He turned his head—a useless gesture—and caught his reflection in the polished metal of a tool tray: a stranger with a shaved skull blackened by ink, nostrils ringed with crusted blood, eyes hollow with exhaustion. The half-finished boot on his cheek looked less like art and more like a brand. "Please. I'll disappear. No one has to—"

A lit cigar pressed against his collarbone. Jack's body arched off the table, the smell of burning flesh acrid in his nostrils. The Boss exhaled smoke through his nose, unmoved by Jack's convulsions. "Talking's a privilege," he said, tapping ashes onto the fresh burn. "You ain't earned it."

The tattoo gun resumed its work, the needle digging into the soft tissue beneath Jack's eye. Tears streamed down his face, mingling with blood and sweat. The gang members took turns exhaling smoke into his face—cigars, cigarettes, the sickly-sweet vapor from the kid's pen—until the air thickened into a suffocating haze.

Spiderweb leaned over Jack's restrained form, his spiderweb throat tattoo flexing as he spoke. "Funny thing about ink," he said, tracing a calloused finger along Jack's weeping cheek. "Once it's in you, it's part of you. Like it or not." The Boss switched needles, the new one thicker, designed for packing color. The first pass of black ink felt like molten lead being poured directly into Jack's facial muscles.

Jack twisted his head, catching his reflection in a discarded scalpel's blade—a grotesque caricature of himself, half his face already transformed into a steel-toed boot with intricate tread patterns carved into his skin. The laces twisted upward, merging seamlessly with the spiderweb tattoo sprawling across his scalp. His nostrils flared around the fresh septum ring, each breath pulling at the inflamed piercing.

"Please," Jack gasped, tasting blood from where he'd bitten through his lip. "I'll disappear. No one has to know—"

The kid slammed Jack's head back onto the table with a wet smack. "That's the problem," he sneered, flipping open a switchblade. He pressed the flat of the blade against Jack's trembling bottom lip. "You still think this is about what you want." The blade scraped downward, leaving a thin red line on Jack's chin. "It's about what's owed."

The Boss wiped fresh blood from Jack's cheek with a grease-stained rag. "Twenty years ago, your old man skipped town with Pack property," he said, adjusting the tattoo gun's voltage. The needle buzzed hungrily. "Tonight, we balance the books." He leaned in, the smell of whiskey and gun oil thick on his breath. "Congratulations, kid. You're a down payment."

Jack's vision blurred as the needle touched his cheekbone again. The pain was different now—deeper, like the ink was etching itself into his soul. The gang members passed around a bottle of cheap whiskey, each taking a swig before exhaling smoke into Jack's face. The kid blew a perfect smoke ring that drifted lazily toward the ceiling. "Shoulda seen your dad's face when we caught him in Reno," he mused, tapping ashes onto Jack's chest. "Pissed himself when the Boss showed him the Polaroids of you buying those roses." He grinned. "Funny how love makes you stupid."

The needle hit a nerve cluster near Jack's jawline. His body convulsed against the restraints, the leather straps cutting into his wrists. Spiderweb chuckled, tightening the head strap another notch. "Twitch again and I'll bolt your skull to the table," he muttered, wiping fresh ink from Jack's temple. The reflection in his knife showed Jack's face half-transformed—one side still human, the other a grotesque steel-toed boot with laces that vanished into the spiderweb on his scalp.

The Boss paused to reload the ink reservoir. "Your old man begged," he said, squeezing black pigment into the cup. "Offered us his truck, his watch, even his fucking kidney." He snapped the lid shut with a click that echoed in Jack's skull. "Didn't understand—we wanted the interest." The tattoo gun whined back to life, its pitch higher, angrier. "And you, kid? You're compound interest."

Jack's breath came in ragged bursts. He focused on a water stain on the ceiling—a Rorschach blot that looked like a screaming face. The kid noticed and laughed, blowing smoke at it. "See it too, huh? We call that Old Man Jenkins. Died right where you're laying." He tapped the table with his knife. "Bled out through his ears when the Boss—"

"Enough," the Boss cut in. The needle touched Jack's cheekbone, tracing the boot's welt stitching. Blood welled up in perfect dots, like stitches in flesh. Someone handed the Boss a cigar. He took a drag without breaking rhythm, exhaling smoke that curled into Jack's nostrils. The stench of cheap tobacco mixed with the coppery tang of his own blood.

Spiderweb leaned in, his web-throat tattoo pulsing. "Fun fact," he whispered. "Human skin holds ink best when it's terrified." His fingers dug into Jack's fresh scalp tattoo, making the web lines throb. "Right now, you're basically a fucking sponge."

The door creaked open. A new figure entered—bald, with a swastika carved into his forehead—dragging a wheeled cart stacked with Polaroid cameras. "Documentation," he grunted, setting up a tripod. The flash exploded in Jack's face every thirty seconds, freezing his transformation in stark black-and-white. The kid collected each photo, pinning them to a clothesline stretched above the table. Jack watched his humanity drip away frame by frame—the first showing wide eyes, the last nothing but vacant acceptance.

Halfway through the second boot, the Boss switched to a shading needle. The pain quadrupled. Jack's scream came out as a wet gurgle. Someone poured whiskey into his mouth—whether to numb him or mock him, he couldn't tell. It burned worse than the needle. The kid wiped Jack's chin with a dirty sleeve. "Almost there, princess. Just gotta color in the treads." He held up a mirror. The reflection showed Jack's face bisected—one side pleading, the other a polished combat boot gleaming with fresh ink.

The gang's laughter hit a crescendo when the kid produced a can of boot polish. "Gotta seal the deal," he chuckled, smearing the waxy black paste over Jack's cheek tattoo. It stank of chemicals and set the fresh ink on fire. Spiderweb leaned in with a rag, buffing the "leather" to a sickening shine. The Polaroid flashed. The kid waved the developing photo like a winning lottery ticket. "Look alive, soldier! You just got your first uniform."

Jack's tongue felt like lead. "Not…soldier," he slurred. The Boss backhanded him—once, twice—until blood speckled the polished boot tattoo. "Wrong answer." He nodded to Spiderweb, who produced a branding iron from the cart. The tip glowed orange in the dim light, shaped like a snarling wolf's head. "Let's correct that."

The smell hit first—burning hair, then deeper, the pork-scent of searing flesh. Jack's back arched off the table as the brand pressed between his shoulder blades. His scream harmonized with the sizzle. The kid whooped. "Now you're cooking!" The gang passed around another bottle, this one marked with a crude wolf emblem. When the brand lifted, the Boss poured whiskey over the wound. The pain white-lined Jack's vision.

Through the haze, he saw the kid approaching with a razor. "Last step," he singsonged, flicking it open. Jack flinched—but the blade went to the kid's own wrist, slicing deep. Blood welled in the web tattoo. "Drink up, brother," he muttered, pressing the wound to Jack's lips. The blood tasted like copper and energy drinks. Behind him, the gang formed a circle, each cutting their palms in turn. The ritual complete, the kid smeared his bloody handprint across Jack's chest. "Welcome to the Pack."

The kid wiped his bloody palm on Jack's fresh-shaved scalp, smearing crimson into the spiderweb ink. "Look at you," he crowed, tilting Jack's chin toward a grease-smeared mirror propped against a rusted filing cabinet. "Even your mom wouldn't know that face now."

Jack stared at the reflection—the steel-toe boot tattoos distorting his cheeks, the septum ring glinting beneath nostrils crusted with dried blood. His scalp throbbed where the web's threads disappeared under his collar. The kid was right. He looked like one of them. Worse—he smelled like them: sweat, gun oil, and the sour tang of fear baked into skin.

"Time for the real work," the Boss said, snapping his fingers. Spiderweb dragged Jack upright and shoved a motorcycle helmet into his hands. The visor was scratched opaque. "Put it on. We're going for a ride."

The helmet smelled like burnt plastic and old sweat. Jack's fingers trembled against the foam lining as Spiderweb tightened the chinstrap, his breath hot against Jack's freshly inked scalp. "Special feature," he murmured, tapping a finger against the visor. It lit up with a sickly green glow—lines of code scrolling past too fast to read. "Boss calls it the Brainwipe 9000." A wet laugh. "You're gonna love it."

Jack twisted his head away, but the helmet locked into place with a hydraulic hiss. The interior padding expanded, molding to his skull like a second skin. Wires—cold, thin—snaked out from the crown, their needle-tips burying into the fresh tattoo on his scalp with a series of microscopic pops. Pain spiderwebbed through his neural pathways, sharp and electric.

"Wait—" Jack's voice cracked. The visor flickered to life, projecting a wolf's head onto his retinas. Its jaws opened. A voice—synthesized, toneless—began counting backward from ten.

Spiderweb lit a cigarette off the Boss's cigar. "Five bucks says he pisses himself," he said, blowing smoke at the helmet's antenna array. The Boss grunted, adjusting a dial on a car battery rigged to the helmet's wiring. "Ten says he forgets his own name before 'six.'"

The visor's countdown hit 'eight.' The wolf's eyes flashed red. Jack's muscles locked as the first current hit—a white-hot fork jammed into his brainstem. His scream bounced around inside the helmet, muffled and metallic. The kid drummed his fingers on the surgical table, humming "Taps."

At 'six,' the hallucinations started. Lisa's face flickered across the visor, her lips moving soundlessly. Jack reached for her—or tried to—but the restraints held fast. The wolf lunged, dissolving her image into static. The voice droned: Primary identity scrubbed. Installing Pack protocols.

Jack's back arched as new memories flooded in—fake ones, slick as oil. Riding shotgun in the Pack's van at fourteen. Spiderweb teaching him to hotwire cars. The Boss pressing a switchblade into his palm after his first kill. Each implanted scene burned brighter than the tattoo needle, searing into his hippocampus.

At 'four,' his old life began crumbling at the edges. High school graduation? Never happened. College applications? A delusion. Lisa? The voice corrected him: No Lisa. Only Pack. He choked on denial, but the helmet rewarded resistance with another volt. His limbs spasmed, knocking the surgical table against the wall. The kid whooped. "Look at him dance!"

The wolf's jaws yawned wider at 'three,' vomiting a torrent of gang doctrine into Jack's visual cortex. Blood is currency. Weakness is betrayal. The web always collects. The words branded themselves behind his eyelids. He tried to scream—to protest—but his tongue felt swollen, his throat packed with cotton. The helmet's internal speakers hissed: Vocal resistance unacceptable. Administering corrective stimulus.

Current ripped through his larynx. For three agonizing seconds, Jack couldn't even whimper. The kid leaned in, tapping the helmet's smoked visor. "Bet he's reevaluating life choices right about now." Spiderweb snorted, lighting a fresh cigarette off the Boss's cigar.

'Two.' The wolf dissolved into a strobe of violent imagery—beatings, robberies, a hazy memory of setting some faceless enemy's car ablaze. The voice insisted: Your first arson. Age sixteen. Jack's stomach lurched. That never happened. Except now, viscerally, he remembered the gasoline smell, the way the flames licked the license plate—his hands holding the Zippo. The memory anchored itself with terrifying solidity.

The helmet beeped—a cheerful sound, like a microwave finishing its cycle. The wolf reappeared at 'one,' its eyes pulsing red. Finalizing induction. Jack's muscles locked as the crown wires superheated, branding the web tattoo's threads directly into his skull. The pain had texture now—like molten lead poured into every sulcus of his brain. Somewhere beyond the agony, he felt his old self dissolving, the last of his protests guttering out like a candle in a storm.

Silence. Then static. Then—

"Rise and shine, brother." The helmet's latches popped with a hydraulic hiss. Cool air hit Jack's sweat-slicked face as Spiderweb yanked the headgear off. The kid was already there with a mirror, grinning at Jack's dilated pupils. "Check out our newest recruit."

Jack blinked. The reflection showed the same tattooed stranger from before, but now the face felt…right. Familiar. His fingers—his fingers, calloused and nicotine-stained—rose to touch the steel-toe tattoo. Of course it was there. He'd earned that in the yard fight of '09. The spiderweb on his scalp? Initiation night, when he'd taken the branding without screaming. The memories surfaced effortlessly, overwriting everything that came before.

Master is always a practical thinker, and so prefers his boys to mostly have shaved or very short hair.