[hr][hr][center][color=a187be][h1]Tatiana Carrington[/h1][/color]
[b]Location:[/b][i] Seraphim Tattoo, The Bronx[/i]
[b]Interacting With: [/b][i]Staff, Customers, Wyatt[/i][hr][hr][/center]

	The inside of Seraphim Tattoo did not look much better than the outside. Cracked black paint peeled from the walls and the tiled checkerboard floor had seen better days. The smell of cigarette and cigar smoke hung heavy in the room and old flash images were hung this way and that on the walls.

	Most of the chairs that lined the walls were filled with people waiting, all who looked like they had either just gotten out of prison or were moments from being taken to prison. An African gentleman with long dreads sat behind the counter flipping through various paper work and books when Wyatt approached.

	"Yeah mon, she be in the back," the man said as he looked up from his work over towards Wyatt. He looked like he was about to continue when he heard a loud crash coming behind the curtained arched doorway behind him. The sound of metal hitting the ground clanged throughout the room.

	Suddenly a large man standing well over six feet in height came stumbling back through the curtain, holding his hands up as he dodged bottles of ink and bagged hypodermic needles that quickly followed him. The man looked like something out of a bad biker movie and here he was with a rather scared expression laced across his face, combined with anger. 

	"Listen, you screwed up my tat bitch!" the man bellowed. 

	The African man just sat there watching and not moving, as a chair came sliding across the tiles and from behind the curtain a woman who couldn't have been more than five foot three inches in height and maybe weighing one hundred pounds soaking wet came storming out from behind the curtain.

	Bright green eyes were as aflame as her crimson hair that was braided like some Valkyerie of old. She wore platform cream colored leather spike heeled shoes, fitted black leather pants and a cream colored silk tank. The woman looked more out of place in the shop than Wyatt had on the plane.

	Slinging the chair over in front of the biker she stepped into the seat of the chair so she could stand eye to eye with him, a single finger poking the man's chest.

	[color=a187be]"No, you sneezed, you fuck up tat,"[/color] she yelled in a thick Russian voice laced with an uppity British highbrow accent. [color=a187be]"You don't blame me for allergy. You vant fix, you come back later. You vant a problem I have you blacklisted by everything artist this side of Mississippi. Jones, throw him out!"[/color]

	From behind the curtain a bald and broad shouldered man came out dressed in classical jeans and t-shirt security clothing. A quick scuffle and the biker was out the front door rather unceremoniously. The clerk at the counter just laughed as the woman stepped down from the chair and flung it back behind the curtain.

	"Yo Tati, you got company," he said as he pointed over towards Wyatt.

	[color=a187be]"Vho are you?"[/color] she asked in a bit of a huff.