Page 41 of Thawed Gladiator Thrax

Skye’s hand tightens around mine, anchoring me to the present. “Hey,” she says softly, “tell me again about the first time you heard techno music.”

Grateful for the distraction, I launch into my story. “It was in the hospital cafeteria, remember? That day when the kitchen staff was playing music while they worked. The beat was like nothing I’d ever heard before.”

As I speak, the tension in my body eases. Skye nods encouragingly, her thumb tracing soothing circles on the back of my hand. “And what did you think when I told you it was all made with computers?”

A chuckle escapes me, momentarily breaking the spell of discomfort. “I thought you were joking. How could such complicated rhythms come from those metal boxes?”

Elodie pipes up, her tone curious. “Wait, you’d never heard techno before? Where are you from, man? What language are you speaking that’s being translated through your phone?”

My heart races, but Skye jumps in smoothly. “Thrax grew up in an isolated religious community in Italy where they spoke Latin,” she explains. “They didn’t allow any modern music or technology. He’s still adjusting to life outside.”

“Whoa,” Elodie breathes, her eyes wide. “That must be wild, experiencing all this for the first time. No offense, but I can’t imagine living like that. I mean, no smartphone? Nope, not for me.”

Resisting the urge to shrug, I offer a wry smile. “It’s all I knew. But I’m grateful to be learning about the world now.”

Skye squeezes my hand, silent praise for how I’m handling the conversation. “You should see him when he hears a new genre,” she says, her voice warm with affection. “It’s like watching a kid at Christmas.”

Elodie laughs, the sound bright and genuine. “Well, if you ever want a guide to the local music scene, let me know. I play bass in a band, and we know all the best underground spots.”

The offer, though kind, sends a spike of anxiety through me. The thought of venturing into the world beyond the hospital is both thrilling and terrifying. “Perhaps someday,” I say without committing. “For now, I’m still adjusting to… everything.”

“No pressure,” Elodie assures me, returning her focus to the tattoo. “So, tell me about this design. Fortuna, right? You into Roman mythology?”

Another moment of panic, quickly soothed by Skye’s steadying presence. “I’ve always been fascinated by ancient cultures,” I explain carefully. “The idea of fate, of fortune guiding our lives—I connect deeply with it.”

“I can see that,” Elodie nods, her tone thoughtful. “Especially coming from such a restrictive background. Must feel like fate brought you here, huh?”

The observation hits closer to home than she could possibly know. “Something like that,” I murmur.

As Elodie works, Skye keeps up a steady stream of conversation, deftly steering topics away from anything too personal. We chat about her work on translation software, about the latest movies she’s introducing me to, about the simple pleasures of modern life I’m discovering.

Hours pass, marked by the ebb and flow of conversation and the constant hum—and pain—of the tattoo machine. By the time Elodie says our session is over, I’m exhausted but excited.

“Alright. The outline is complete. Ready to take a look?” She sets down the tattoo gun, takes a few pictures of my back, then shows me her phone. “What do you think?”

My breath catches in my throat. The outline of Fortuna is taking shape across my back, her blindfolded face serene amidst the chaos of her wheel. Even in this early stage, I can see how the design incorporates my scars, transforming them into something… beautiful.

“It’s… incredible,” I breathe, unable to tear my gaze away from the screen.

Skye beams, her pride evident. “It’s amazing, Elodie. You’ve really captured the essence of what we talked about. The flowing robes, the wheel. And the placement of the cornucopia, which allows the spilling fruit to cover these scars here. Perfect.”

Elodie grins, clearly pleased by the compliment. “Thanks! I’m excited to add the color next time. The saturated color is going to make this piece really pop.”

Elodie covers my back in a thin see-through bandage that adheres to my skin. As Skye helps me to my feet, I crane my neck to catch another glimpse of my back in the mirror. The man staring back at me is familiar, yet somehow new. The scars are still there, but they no longer define me. Instead, they’re the foundation for something remarkable, something of my own choosing.

“So,” Skye says, her voice teasing as she hands me a shirt, “how does it feel to be a tattooed man?”

Grinning, I pull her close, mindful of my tender back. “Like I’m finally writing my own story,” I reply, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

Elodie busies herself with cleaning up, giving us a moment of privacy. “You two are cute,” she comments, a knowing smile playing on her lips. “How long have you been together?”

“Not long,” Skye admits, a blush coloring her cheeks. “But it feels like we’ve known each other forever.”

The truth of her words strikes me. In the short time since I awoke in this new world, Skye has become my anchor, my guide, and my biggest supporter. What would my life have been like back in Rome if I’d had someone believe in me like this? With Skye at my back, I feel as though I can accomplish anything.

“Well, I’m happy for you,” Elodie says sincerely. “Love like that doesn’t come around often.”

Her use of the word “love” sends a jolt through me. Is that what this is? This overwhelming feeling, this connection that defies time and logic?

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