The tat machine worked on her for sixteen hours; they dripped Valium into 
her arm so she wouldn't whine. Most tats nowadays went on like a slap on the 
back. "You sure you want the skull?" "Yeah, I'm sure." "Positive?" 
"Positive." "Okay—" and SPLAT there was the skull, dripping 
blood and lymph, blasted through your epidermis with a wave of pressure that 
nearly knocked you out of the chair. But a dermal grid was a whole different 
thing, and a Jodie was top of the line, it had a hundred times as many 'sites 
as the lo-res grid sported by many a porn starlet, something like ten thousand 
of them in the face alone. The grossest part was when the machine reached down 
her throat to plant a trail of nanophones from her vocal cords all the way up 
to her gums. She closed her eyes for that one.