NEUROWORLD - The Essence Imprint

That loose-limbed boy had come to her door again.

"Runa, can you give me a tattoo?"

"Runa, I’ll drop by tomorrow, maybe you’ll change your mind?"

"Runa, have you thought about it yet? I’ve been ready for ages—look at this biceps, it’s begging for a mark."

He was clearly determined to wear her down.

"Runa Sigila, you’re turning me down again! Is it because I’m too young?"

"It’s because your only feat—at least the only one I’ve heard of—is not something you’d want fixed in place forever."

He’d made a habit of it, throwing out a phrase even when just passing by.

"Runa, I’m begging you, everyone in the brigade is laughing at me. Just give me any kind. Everyone says you formulate the very essence perfectly. You’ll do a drawing for me, won't you?"

"Runa, maybe you’re just not the best tattoo specialist? What, another 'no'?"

"Runa, everyone says you have a tattoo that you never show anyone?"

"Everyone says..." The woman gestured for the restless boy to sit beside her. "Fine. I’ll do it."

Habitually, she checked the unreadable filter on one of her most precious memories. A slight sting; the memory no longer burned as it had during that first year when she began making marks on human skin.

"Tell me about yourself," she said, watching the boy calmly as he scratched himself every other minute, fidgeted, and picked at the chair he sat on.

"About myself? Levek told me about you—said your gift is to see and capture the very essence. Can’t you see it for yourself?"

"I asked why you’re so certain you want a mark on your skin. Levek Morr came to me after he’d carried Garvek on his back for two days to reach the base. And after he fashioned the dome that saved the entire brigade."

"Ah, so that's the meaning behind his..." For a moment, the boy actually went still, recalling the symbol etched onto his senior comrade's wrist. "He told me... But what about your tattoo?" He leaned forward. "Show it to me. Did you save someone’s life, too?"

"Runa, tell me about yourself."

This boy had well and truly pushed her to the limit.

She had grown up moving between Stalkrivers bases and knew well how vital these tattoo symbols were—they marked particularly successful finds or the overcoming of great perils. The cheating of death.

She had never wanted such a thing for herself. The Stalkrivers' environment was harsh, and she had longed for the comfort of the cities rather than a multitude of challenges that would later settle upon the skin as indelible marks—objects of pride.

And yet, this youngster had spared no effort in badgering her just to get a tattoo of his own.

Having fluttered out from under the wings of her Stalkrivers parents, she had expected to embrace urban civilization. In the city, everything was different—daily life was organized, abundance was everywhere, people were numerous, and art flourished.

Yet, after spending a long time in the city, she began to feel a sense of discomfort. She missed the air, the wind, the wild sun, and freedom. What kind of freedom was missing? No one restricted anything, and yet... the soft mattresses, the manicured parks, the regulated climate. It felt as though life itself had been framed.

And so she drifted, searching for her place. Now, past forty, she had settled once again at a Stalkrivers base and begun doing what she knew best. She had stayed in one place too long—it was time to visit her parents; they had just settled down in the city.

Her mark near the heart had been born differently, not like those of the others at the base.

It was the day they were saying goodbye: her passion, an artist from Saptara. A year of a mad whirlwind of love that had consumed them both. A year of tenderness and turmoil—it was clear her beloved would never leave his orderly life, his city, his home. And she could no longer live in the stifling comfort of urban abundance. Not anymore.

They lay beside each other.

Love burned in her heart; tears burned in her eyes. They both knew—it was the last time.

And then, he placed his palm between her breasts, kissed her, and said, "Forgive me for letting you go. I know it must be this way for us both."

Beneath his hand, pain instantly seethed and then subsided. In its place remained a mark that Alisa would carry her whole life—lines forming a female silhouette. She is breaking free from the heart toward freedom, the wind whipping through her hair.

The boy finally fell silent, stunned by the story she had shared through a thoughtform.

He didn’t even notice his own tattoo being born—a finger pressing against sealed lips.

He jumped up, ready to run and blab the story of the mysterious Runa Sigila to everyone. Then, he slowly sat back down. He sprang up again, pacing the cramped room. Simultaneously with the mark, the woman had imprinted a prohibition into his very body against sharing her story. Neither by word, nor thoughtform, nor by any other means would the young Stalkrivers be able to reveal her true name or what she kept held close to her heart.

To no one.

Not ever.

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