Crackling quietly, the artist’s tool scorches the design into the hard surface as the client reclines back into the leather chair, sunglasses now worn as a requirement and not as a choice.
“It feels good, the burn…” The sparking intensifies for a moment as tiny orbs of heat flick off onto the cold concrete floor. You get much business this way? Y’know, on METAL?”
The crackling stopped for a moment as the artist flicked his visor up to reply.
“Occasionally-” The artist brushes the surface, flaked material breaking off and falling to the floor silently. “-nothing as impressive as this commission. This has to be the most unique piece of modified METAL I’ve had the pleasure of marking.” The artist reaches for a can of compressed air and jets the surface briefly.
“Why this particular piece?” The artist asks, flipping his visor back down to continue working.
“It’s a beast of elegance. Living only in the coldest remote waters, little is truly known about their behaviour. They prefer the company of their own. While they aren’t known to be violent, they work together to achieve goals of sustaining territory and catching food.”
The artist continues to mark the surface of the METAL. Scraping minuscule ridges in the surface, almost unnoticeable to the naked eye. Taking the modded limb in his gloved hand he rotates the piece slightly to view the overall piece, he readjusts his position and continues once again.
“We all have our own parts we are proud of. Mine is my leg. Someone else’s is their arm. Someone is proud of their modded chest. We all have our personalised mods. Finding a good artist such as yourself is difficult in the current social climate.”
“I’m well aware of the risks involved, modding is punishable by confiscation of the parts and your freedom. Marking is punishable by being marked yourself. Its a tough time to be an artist.”
The tool sends an arc of light bouncing down the shaft of the limb and makes a metalling tinkling sound as it collides with the hardened surface before fading down towards the floor, a shooting star for only a moment.
“That should do it.” With a final jet of compressed air the artist flicks the pen at the bottom of the piece to mark it as his own – an anonymous scrape to anyone else- and stands to appreciate his work.
As the client took his sunglasses off he was amazed at what he saw. Not a dent or a scratch, nothing. The artist placed a gloved hand on the bottom half and slowly angled it to adjust the perspective and the ridges alined to reveal the narwhal insignia on the reshaped limb. As if swimming towards the ground, it was a beautifully detailed imagining of the beast, crested with foaming waves flowing up the clients leg
“They’re some of the oldest creatures in the ocean today. You know why?” The client asked, admiring the work.
“Enlighten me.”
The client swings the leg over the chair, the sharpened ridges singing through the air. From the knee joint the leg had been cut and modded, the foot and calve being removed altogether and a crisp tempered metal prism tapering from the knee down to a fine point at the end had been fitted in replacement. He lowers the leg down to the ground and pierces the tile it makes contact with, sending shards of ceramic outwards in all directions.
“They know how to fight back.”
The Next Chapter 
Great post for N! Thanks for sharing this A-Z. Short stories are hard to pull off, excellent challenge within a challenge.