A small grunt escapes me. “Try to stay still please.” the tattoo artist says in his most clinical voice. “We wouldn’t want me to slip.” That’s for certain. Don’t get me wrong, I’m no pansy when it comes to pain; I’ve endured my fair share. There’s just something about get a tattoo on your face that seems to hurt anew on each clone I need to get it done to. You would think with all our advanced technology they could simply clone me with my tattoos intact, but apparently tattoos aren’t considered part of my genetic makeup. They really don’t understand what it means to be a Minmatar. To be without your markings is worse than being naked in the public square of a market hub. They define who we are. They let others know who we are. They are a form of communication within the Tribes. They are warpaint to strike fear into the heart of our enemies. They are a ritual. They are a birthright. They are a part of me forever.

I bite down as the tattoo artist continues his work. Shut out the pain. That is what we are taught when we first get our markings. The mind controls the body, not the other way around. It is an act of self descipline as much as a rite of passage to manhood. Still, it hurts like hell. I don’t think the ancient ancestors thought ahead far enough to cloning technology to realize that some of us would have to endure this ritual numerous times.

Ah well, it is what it is.

I bite down again as another stab of pain sends tendrils of electricity up and down my spine. Either I’m going soft, or this artist isn’t that good.

“There.” he stands back a foot, admiring his work as only an artist can. “We’re done.” He hands me a mirror. Holding it up to see my face, I must admit he’s done a good job. Looks identical to my last one, which was the goal. I hand him the mirror. “Looks good. Thanks.”

I pay him for the fine work, then head off to the food court. I’m hungry …