Neo-traditional tattoo of an anthropomorphic cat in a leather jacket and star badges, holding a blade, with orange and blue washes behind, on the forearm.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Cat in leather jacket with a blade

Neo-trad · Forearm · Mixed · Photo

A cat-headed figure in a black leather jacket, belt and knee pads stands on a sandy ridge, holding a blade in one hand and a holstered weapon at the hip. Bold black outlines with smooth colour shading in orange, yellow, blue and tan, and a small dark bird flies at upper right. Orange and blue washes form a smoky backdrop behind the figure.

Neo-trad Forearm Cat Knife Bird Desert Smoke

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The crow had followed the convoy since the salt flats, and by the third day Tom Haskett had decided it was a bad omen. Mags told him omens were just birds with time on their hands. She sat on the tailgate of the tanker with her cap pulled low over her ears, turning a bread knife over in her paw as though it might tell her something the dunes had not.

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Smoke from the refinery at Calder Ridge hung orange across the sky behind them, the colour of a bruise going yellow. Ahead, the road dropped toward the old reservoir, where Hollis Vane's riders had camped for a week, waiting for anyone with water to come down the slope. "Five of them," Tom said, squinting through the scope. "Maybe six." Mags slid off the tailgate, buckled on her holstered pistol and walked down the sandy ridge without hurrying. Her jacket creaked. Her badge, a tarnished star taken from a sheriff who no longer needed it, caught the last of the light.

At the reservoir she found Vane on an upturned oil drum, feeding crusts to the crow that had followed them all the way. "Your bird has been counting your men for me," she said, and laid the knife on the drum between them. Then she lifted the water bottles off the tanker's rack, one by one, and set them down in the dust. Vane watched the bottles, then the knife, then her. "Why would you give us water?"

"Because your crow is hungry, and so are your children," Mags said. "And because I would rather not shoot anyone before supper." By dusk the riders had climbed the far slope, the crow last of all, circling once over the tanker before settling on its bumper to wait for scraps.