Enlarged with AI from a smaller original
Cyborg face portrait on upper arm
Realism · Upper arm · Colour · Photo
A realistic portrait of a male face in dark sunglasses, with a metallic cyborg plate and mechanical detail over the temple and a glowing red lens over one eye. The shading is smooth and detailed, with soft skin tones, dark greys and a vivid red highlight. The portrait fills the upper arm, with the head angled slightly and the image cropped close around the design.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
You find it in the bilge on the fourth night out of Tilbury, wedged behind a pump housing where the salt has crusted white. It is a face, or most of one: a jaw of dull grey alloy, a plate riveted over the left temple, and a single lens that still glows red when you thumb the switch. Dunstan, the second engineer, says it came aboard in a crate of spares nobody ordered, and the bosun wanted it over the side before the first watch was out. You tell him to leave it with you.
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In the workshop you clean it with paraffin and a stiff brush, working the grit from the eye socket with a dental pick. The lens brightens when the generator hums and dims when the sea gets heavy, and by the second week you have stopped pretending that is coincidence. Captain Halloran calls it a mascot and forbids it on the bridge. So at four bells you carry it up in a canvas bag, set it on the chart table, and watch it sweep the Bay of Biscay like a lighthouse with a grudge.
The crossing is slow. Fog swallows the Lizard light, then the Scillies, then the coast of Galicia, and the red eye keeps its own patient count. You start to read the sea through it: a trawler's lamps, a tanker's wake, a gull tangled in the rigging that the lens turns towards until someone climbs up and frees it. Dunstan says it is just a prop from some film his nephew watched. You do not argue. You have seen what it chooses to look at.
On the morning the ship makes Cork, the fog lifts all at once and the harbour lies flat and bright. You find the lens lit on the empty chart table, angled not at the quay but at the wheelhouse door, where Halloran stands with his coffee. Nobody has switched it on. You unplug it, wrap it in its bag and carry it down the gangway under your arm, and you do not look back to see whether it is still watching.
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