Clean of hair and void of features, the tattooing of my entire body was done without drugs or anaesthesia. Emanating from the naked women who held me to the seat and casually fondled me, the smell was enchanting; sweet as the perfume of sex and overwhelming as the guy who sits next to you in an overcrowded subway. I was immobile, restrained and buckled. They tugged at my chains and coaxed a smile from my tightly parsed lips, gently stroking and touching my genitals in some sadistic ritual as the ink poured into my skin, staining and marking me forever. The tattoos told of my history as an unknown outsider and all the doubts I had, of my future as a warrior of the colony and how I should be treated to cultivate strength and reliability, and of my weaknesses, casually extracted from my mind through the use of thought debilitating drugs. I was unaware of the countless probes that were plugged into my head, arms and torso. Every flinch, every reaction during the tattooing was monitored, built into my master profile and stored in ink and blood. Every woman was there to serve a purpose as far from sexual as it could seem at that time; the touch was a monitor, the response a signal and through this I was reduced to the tattoos that were embedded into my skin, read like a story by everyone else in the colony.