In response, Darcy held out her left hand. She was right-handed. Vincent held out his left hand, and had to consciously keep his arm extended when the girl grasped his wrist and turned his arm to reveal the underside, the skin slightly lighter -- enough to reveal his tattoo in red and black ink on his bicep, just above the cup of his elbow.
Vincent had thought about removing the tattoo for years. The insignia -- a stylized Omega wreathed in flames -- had been designed by someone among the powers-that-be who had tried to program him to be a heartless, cold-blooded killing machine. He had considered it like a brand, proclaiming the ownership someone had tried to take on him, body, mind and soul. The tattoo was marred by a thin line of scar tissue right down the middle, from where he had dug out the subcutaneous transponder that let his trainers/owners track him down no matter where he went in the world.
"Dad has the same tattoo, the same scar," Darcy said. Her hand grasping his wrist started to tremble. Vincent snatched at it when she let go and tried to pull away.
"What'd he tell you?" he asked, keeping his voice soft.
Behind Darcy, Joan waited, watching him, arms spread slightly, as if she thought the girl would try to run and she had to stop her.
"He doesn't know you're here. What do you know about him?" She licked her lips and had to visibly fight to meet his gaze. "Were you telling the truth, that you're a Christian?"
"Only thing keeping me sane, sometimes. What has your dad told you about me -- about us?""Not much." She reached into her sweatpants pocket, pulled out a square envelope, and handed it to him.