"Every scar tells a story; only the brave choose to make it beautiful."
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Quinn & Ink buzzed with life.
A quiet melody from an old record player hummed in the corner, mingling with the faint sting of disinfectant and ink.
Posters of blooming roses, skulls, vines and serpents covered the brick walls.
Behind the counter, Harley Quinn adjusted her red-and-black gloves, while Ace swept near the front door, humming softly.
The bell above the entrance jingled.
Starfire ducked through the doorway first, tall and radiant, followed by Raven — hoodie up, eyes half-lidded and finally Tara, clutching a folded drawing.
Harley leaned on the counter.
"Well, look what the cat dragged in! The Teen Titans in my humble establishment. Don't tell me y'all here for piercings. I don't do bellybuttons before breakfast."
Tara unfolded the paper, cheeks pink.
"I… I want this tattoo."
Harley blinked. "Kid, that's your whole back."
The drawing showed sweeping vines winding around blooming orchids, curling around skulls like they were sleeping rather than dead. Across the center, in delicate cursive, one word glowed under the shop lights: MERCY.
Raven looked at it quietly, voice low. "That's beautiful."
Harley's voice softened, too. "Yeah, sugar, it is. But… I can't do it."
Tara frowned. "Why not?"
Ace stepped closer, fidgeting with her mop. "Because you're underage. Seventeen. It's illegal."
Starfire blinked, confused. "But she faces armed men with guns and beings with fire in their eyes. Surely a tattoo cannot..."
Raven cut in dryly. "Human law, Star. Not cosmic logic."
Tara's hands trembled slightly. "It's not about rebellion. I just… I want to remember. I showed mercy when I could have killed. I need that reminder."
Harley sighed, kneeling a bit to meet her eyes. "Honey, I get it. But rules are rules. You'll thank me later."
The bell jingled again.
The Arrival of King
King entered like a change in weather. Quiet, steady, yet immediately grounding the room. His usual coat was dusted with ash from somewhere no one dared ask about.
He handed Harley an envelope. "Your supply bill. And a little extra."
Harley groaned. "King, we talked about this! I ain't takin' your charity. The shop's doin' fine."
"It isn't charity," King said, tone simple, unyielding. "It's appreciation and when sustenance becomes an afterthought while boredom is a constant, money matters little."
He turned, noticing the girls. "What's happened?"
Harley gestured toward Tara's sketch. "Your protégé wants the Sistine Chapel of tattoos but she's a minor. I can't legally do it."
King studied the art, then the girl holding it. "Why this?"
Tara swallowed. "Because mercy's hard. Because it hurts. I want to carry it. To remember it's strength, not weakness."
The shop was silent.
Then King spoke — softly, like recalling a memory buried in fog.
"Once, in New York, I met a soldier back from Vietnam. Seventeen.
He'd seen more death in a month than most men do in a lifetime.
He was honourably discharged on his 17th birthday — was told to go home and have spend some time with his friends and family.
The next day he tried to get re-deployed.
Said he didn't know how to live as a boy anymore.
Couldn't buy a drink because the law called him a child, yet they'd once handed him a rifle and told him to kill."
No one moved. The record hissed quietly in the background.
"The world measures maturity in years," King continued, eyes on Tara. "But experience measures it in weight.
You've fought monsters. Faced death. Stood while tackling betrayal.
If you're old enough to fight horrors most adults flee from…"
He met Harley's gaze.
"Then she's old enough to choose what to etch on her own skin."
Harley stared at him for a long time, biting the inside of her cheek.
Finally, she exhaled a laugh. Rough, resigned.
"Y'know, King, sometimes I hate how damn reasonable you are."
Ace grinned. "So… we're doing it?"
Harley threw her hands up. "Yeah, yeah, get the sterilizer. If Gotham PD busts in, I'm blamin' t' the philosopher."
King smiled. "They won't. They never do."
Six Hours Later
The hum of the tattoo gun filled the shop like rainfall.
Tara laid on her, sweat glistening along her back as Harley worked. Patient, precise, steady.
Ace mixed inks beside her mentor, every motion careful.
Starfire held Tara's hand, green eyes shimmering with admiration, while Raven looked uninterested but worry flickered across her face every time Tara let out grunts of pain.
Finally, Harley sat back and wiped the last trace of excess ink.
The tattoo gleamed under the soft light — sprawling orchids and skulls intertwined in balance, vines weaving through curves of muscle and spine.
Ace added her own flair by extending the tattoo to both upper arms and creating flowery sleeves on Tara's forearms, a addition Tara loved.
And across the center, the single word: MERCY, written in flowing cursive that seemed alive.
[Image]
Harley nodded in quiet pride. "Kid, you just got a masterpiece."
Tara looked at the reflection of her back, eyes wide, almost tearful. "It's perfect."
King stood behind her, expression unreadable but voice warm.
"Now it's permanent. Just like the choice that inspired it."
Raven closed her book softly. "It suits her. Mercy that doesn't fade."
Harley wiped her gloves. "Well, y'all better keep her outta fights for a week or that art's gonna scream."
King chuckled quietly, a rare sound. " Don't worry, they'll make sure she rests."
The record kept playing.
Rain began to fall outside, soft and steady — the kind of rain that washed away wars, sins and memories.
And inside Quinn & Ink, mercy found a new meaning: not as surrender, but as survival written in flesh.
Read 28 chapters ahead on P.A.T.R.E.O.N
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