He laid his right arm across the desk, palm up, and used his opposite fingers to measure how long he would make the cylinder. Three inches, maybe four, midway between his wrist and elbow. At one end he would include a scope symbol, for targeting. Clean, simple, effective.
It was all in the intention, anyway. He had gotten the zipper to work, so this one should be easy. He had been extremely intentional with the zipper, making sure that he had sketched out the exact armored suit he wanted, down to every tiny detail, never allowing his focus to waver as he inked the tattoo into his skin.
Intention. He’d learned at a young age that it mattered far more than anything else where his ability was concerned. Not skill. Not execution. Intention.
If the zipper could hide away an entire armored bodysuit, then surely this cylinder could produce a steady stream of percussive energy beams.
Easy.
Adrian dipped a cotton ball in the rubbing alcohol and cleansed the skin over his forearm. After it had dried, he drew the symbol with a blue ink pen. It was a slower process than the first tattoos had been, having to sketch it out with his nondominant hand this time; but once he was finished, it still looked precisely how he wanted it to.
He had been so nervous that first time, that first tattoo. His brain had constantly supplied him with any number of practical warnings about needle-transmitted diseases, not to mention the pain that he knew would come with self-tattooing. Despite all the wounds and injuries that came as a result of being a Renegade, he still wasn’t on board for pain when it was, strictly speaking, unnecessary.
But he’d worked up the courage, first testing out his tattooing skills on the skin of a grapefruit before working up the nerve to do it on himself.
The flame had been first. Though it was small, it had taken more than an hour to complete.
Next had been the springs on the soles of his feet, and those had hurt. But he gritted his teeth and bore it, and the first time he’d launched himself two stories into the air, he knew it had been worthwhile.
It wasn’t until after the success of the springs that he’d had the idea for the Sentinel. It was inspired by a fictional character he’d created when he was eleven, back when he’d had the dream of someday drawing comics for a living, which at the time was somehow more interesting to him than being a Renegade. He’d completed three full issues of a comic that he titled Rebel Z, one he’d never shown to anyone else. In the story, twenty-six homeless street kids were kidnapped and forced to become science experiments for a madman. The first twenty-five all died as a result of the experiments, but the last boy, known only as Z, became a superhero newly imbued with a number of awe-inspiring superpowers. In the second issue, he obtained an armored suit. In the third issue, he started calling himself the Sentinel, and he became a vigilante set on destroying the madman and anyone who had helped him take advantage of so many innocent kids.
After that, Adrian got bored with the story and stopped making the comics. He never did get to watch Z exact his revenge, but he did find himself thinking about the character again and again, even as the years passed. A vigilante with a mission, an alter ego, and unstoppable power. A superhero in every sense of the word.
When he’d had the idea for the zipper tattoo, the temptation had been impossible to resist. He hadn’t considered straying from the Renegades’ codes at the time. If anything, he’d been excited to tell his dads and his friends about the Sentinel, once he knew it worked. He had intended to reveal himself after the parade.
But then the parade happened. Danna got hurt. Nightmare got away. And suddenly he could see the appeal of keeping a secret identity, well … secret.
It wouldn’t be forever. Once he was sure he could control all the Sentinel’s powers, then he would reveal himself. Or, perhaps he would wait until after he’d found and arrested Nightmare. Or until he uncovered her connection to his mother’s killer and brought them to justice too.
Just like Rebel Z—once his mission was complete, he would reveal himself. Until then, the Sentinel had work to do.
Adrian laid out his tools, filling a shallow dish with black ink and lighting a candle. He swiped a new alcohol-dipped cotton ball over his skin one more time, fading the blue ink slightly, then dabbed it dry with a clean towel.
Finally he sterilized the needle—an everyday needle he’d found in a forgotten sewing box in a cabinet in the laundry room—running the point back and forth through the flame.
Adrian flexed his forearm, dipped the needle into the ink, and set to work.
The first stick was always the worst. That moment when he wondered, yet again, if it was a really bad idea to be doing this.
But the doubts faded faster every time.
He soon fell into a steady rhythm. Hunkered over the desk, watching his fingers progress along the blue lines. Needle in, needle out. Pausing only occasionally to wipe away tiny beads of blood with a clean rag. A thousand tiny punctures into his flesh as seconds and minutes ticked into hours. At one point he heard the telltale creaks of the overhead floorboards announcing that someone was moving around the kitchen upstairs, but he ignored it. His dads always left him alone when he was down in his room and, besides, they probably thought he was still sleeping.
When he was done, Adrian set down the needle, stretched out his neck with a few satisfying pops, then held out his arm to admire his work. Sore and shining and permanent.
He stashed the implements back in the drawer, then headed up to the bathroom on the main floor to wash and bandage the skin. He had just finished the wrapping and pulled on a long-sleeve shirt when he heard Simon calling him.
“Yeah?” he asked, walking into the kitchen.
Simon was standing over a skillet that hissed with bacon, while Hugh leaned over the bar sorting through a large stack of mail.
“I thought I heard you awake,” said Simon, nodding toward a plate overflowing with cantaloupe, strawberries, and scones. “Have some breakfast.”