War. War never changes.

Despite how predictable the end was, no one saw it coming. At first, there was peace between the Octarians and the Inklings. When space was plentiful, they lived side by side, tentatively looking towards a brighter future for all. But when the ocean rose, peace fell. Inklings and Octarians alike reached for weapons to strike down those they once called friends. They called it the Great Turf War, and what they had once done for sport, they did to secure a place for future generations.

Their war raged for decades. The Inklings, a single species unified against the ragtag group under the banner of the Octarians, pushed their foes below ground, and eventually, it seemed that they had finally extinguished the fire that drove the Octarians onward. But it still burned, deep underground. Hate festered like an open wound, and the Octarians sharpened their hate. It was their strongest weapon. As the years passed, they ground it into a deadly point.

They finally struck, in the dead of night. They took from the Inklings their security; they took their zapfish. Without power, the Inklings were scared and vulnerable. They struck back, sending a single Agent to take back what was stolen. Agent 3 reclaimed the stolen Zapfish and helped imprison the Octarian's leader, Octavio.

And thus started the Second Great Turf War. No records remain of this war, but it was told to be twice as brutal as its predecessor. It ended when the great splat bombs dropped. Inkopolis was the first place hit. It was utterly annihilated. Several more struck the countryside, and with their dying breath, the Inklings launched a single missile. It landed in the heart of Octo-Valley, burrowed deep into the ground, and burst. Toxic ink flooded the much of the underground cave system in Octo-Valley, but many Octarians survived in those caves left untouched.

Those deemed important to Inkling society were ushered away, herded beneath the earth. Kept in high-tech Ink-Tanks, the wealthy and the important were sheltered from the storm. These shelters carried with them not only those lucky few who were considered the last living beings on earth, but also the hope that tomorrow might be a brighter day.

Generations passed. Two hundred and fifty-six years after the bombs dropped, the first of many Ink-Tanks opened, and those who were sheltered within them saw daylight for the first time.

A bleak wasteland greeted them. The weaponized ink used in the great bombs poisoned the land, making it unlivable for all but the most hardy creatures. The survivors, though disheartened, would not be deterred, and with technology from their Ink-Tanks, set about trying to rebuild what was lost. They eked out a living from the cruel wasteland.

But not all of the Ink-Tanks are abandoned. Not all were filled with bodies. The original, Ink-Tank 000, remains untouched by the wasteland. It lies dormant, the same as it was when it was first sealed off, built not to sustain life, but to create it. Massive vats of ink, large supplies of genetic and biological material were prepared, but never used. W00lkith the last of its power, Ink-Tank 000 stirs. From it, artificial life bursts forth. Pure life.

But the surface is in constant conflict. Tribes of Octarians rule over Octo-Valley, attacking any who dare approach. Raiders kill or enslave those who wander alone. Ambitious men build armies to gather what precious resources are left. They wage war to reclaim old-world technology, and then use that technology to kill their enemies more efficiently.

Because war is part of culture, whether it's for sport, or a matter of life and death. And war never changes.

Disconnected from Splat-Tech servers… Running Ink-Tank system diagnostic…

Generator life: 10%

Critical system shutdown imminent

Tank status: Sealed

Seeking directive… Found.

Enacting emergency protocol Omega

Directing power to emergency systems

The lights flickered. They eventually shut off completely as valuable energy was directed to other, more important parts of the process. Rows of glass tubes, jutting several feet into the air, lined the metal-walled chasm that made up the inside of Ink-Tank 000. A single tube filled with fluid, as well as a slurry of organic material. Electricity pulsed through the tube, over time forming a single, coherent arc of contained lightning, going from the top of the tube to the very base.

The slurry of organic materials pulled together, forming into a large lump, floating in the very center.

And days passed.

Darkness. Cool wetness. The entire world was floating, weightless in liquid, for there was nothing else. And suddenly, it was all torn away. The world grew heavy.

And then he was aware. Of his sudden lack of weightlessness. Of the cold, against his back, and his feet. Of the fact that he couldn't see, and that there was something wet and slimy covering his entire body. It covered his nose and mouth, and he struggled to breath. A pneumatic hiss sounded from somewhere in front of him, and he felt the urge to move. The film over his entire body restricted him for the briefest moment, before it tore. His arms broke away from his body, and the cool air bit into his skin even more than the cold against his bare back. With his arms free, his hands immediately reached for his face, and groped blindly around his mouth. It took a moment to orient his fingers, but it took little effort to tear the membrane from his mouth. He sucked in a breath, and continued to tear until his entire head was free.

And he could open his eyes. It was dark - except for a single square of dim light, far ahead of him. He stumbled forward, dropped several inches and dropping to all fours. He gasped. The membrane covering his body was suddenly very uncomfortable, and he spent several minutes peeling it away. Once it lay in a heap at his feet, he stumbled forward on wobbly legs, moving towards the only source of light.

The lighting, though dim, still hurt his eyes, and so he shielded them until he adjusted. The room was small, and barren. The only thing within it was a trio of metal chairs, strangely designed. There were cuffs on the arm rests, a set of insect-like mandibles on the back, as well as a rounded cap jutting above it. In the far corner, there was the outline of a door, with no visible means to open it. He approached the door, and pressed against it, to no avail. He cast a suspicious glance at the chairs, and with nothing else to go on, sat in the one nearest the door.

The metal was cold, so cold that merely sitting down made him flinch. Strangely, the entire seat gave slightly under his weight. He tentatively set his arms on the rests, and after a moment, the cuffs snapped around his wrists, binding them tightly. There was a loud click, and suddenly the mandibles closed around his torso, holding him against the back of the chair. He squirmed for a moment, until the cap hovering above his head lowered. There was a faint electric buzz. He braced himself.

His mind was overwhelmed. Information poured into his brain, along with the buzzing sensation that grew to an excruciating intensity. His mouth hung open, and he tried to scream. He wanted to scream, but his voice would not come forth. A drop of blood rolled down his nose and onto his lip. His eyes rolled into the back of their sockets, and he jerked violently against his restraints. Finally, the fight drained out of him, and he went limp in the seat.

Sparks flew from the cap, and it jerked away from his head. He gasped sharply as his restraints freed him. He slumped forward and fell to all fours, sobbing wordlessly. He would have stayed like that for hours, if he didn't notice something. The door beside the chairs was open, now. He took a final, shuddering breath, and rose shakily to his feet. As he trudged towards the door, his head was spinning with all the information he had to process. But there were missing pieces that he couldn't put together. He knew he was an inkling. He knew something had happened to the world. He knew there was supposed to be more like him. More with him. But the blurs seemed to be bigger than the clear pictures.

He wiped the blood from his lip as he stumbled through the dark. The door slammed shut behind him, and the lights flickered on with a hum. This room was bigger. Jutting from the wall directly to his right was a set of shower-heads, with simple knobs below them and a grated floor. He shuffled over to the showers and cranked one of the knobs as far as it would go. The nozzle on the wall sputtered and shook for a moment, before a jet of water sprayed over him. It was ice-cold, and he sucked in a breath, but bore it. He felt very unclean, as if it wasn't right to let whatever residue covered him remain. The water warmed eventually, and at a length, he felt better. Shutting the water off, he turned and examined the rest of the room. In the far corner sat a row of tall metal lockers. Across the room from where he had entered, there was another door outline. On the wall between the doors, there were two large tables, as well as several chutes above the tables. Beside the furthest door was a console, sticking out of the wall. It's screen was dark.

He went over to the console, and pressed a red button near the bottom of the screen. The keyboard beneath it folded out, and the screen lit up, though it was far dimmer than he would have expected. Error: Squidboy not detected. Please retrieve Squidboy before accessing terminal. He frowned, and sent a glance towards the lockers in the corner. He strode over to them, and tugged on the door. It stuck for a moment, before coming open. Inside, sitting carefully on racks that were clearly designed for their purpose, nearly three dozen strange devices sat. They featured large screens, dials and knobs, as well as appearing to be some kind of bracelet. He took one, and the bottom half of it hung open. Pressing it around his left wrist, he snapped the bottom part of the wrist-guard closed, and a light hum filled the air. The rubberized inside of the wrist-guard inflated, until it fit snug against his arm. The screen lit up, and he spent a moment exploring it, fiddling with the dials and buttons beside the screen.

With that done, he went back to the console, and pressed the power button again. A list of commands greeted him, with the cursor blinking. Ink-Tank status report… Activate supply chutes… Open door to outer entrance… Warning! Protocol Omega active… He selected the status report. Disconnected from Splat-Tech servers… Generator life: 3%... Total system shutdown imminent… Water stores: 100%... Genetic stores: 97%... Warning! Protocol Omega active… Protocol Omega caught his attention, and he punched it into the keyboard.

Emergency override active… Accessing file.

Protocol Omega is only to be activated in anticipation of a complete system shutdown. Omega will drain whatever resources remain in the Ink-Tank, and use them to complete one final directive; the construction of a single subject. The Ink-Tank will shut down completely shortly after the completion of the subject. Like all subjects of Tank 000, subject Omega is to be oriented and outfitted with standard gear, if at all possible. An aptitude test is to be administered to subject Omega as quickly as possible, to best determine the subject's skills and faults. Subject Omega is to be sent into the surface, as all other subjects, with the goal of scouting and determining the prime location to begin reconstruction of society.

Note from Splat-Tech Executive: Protocol Omega, is, of course, the last resort for this complex. Protocol Omega should never have to be activated. Ink-Tank 003 has been directed to come immediately to Ink-Tank 000 when it is opened, to begin Protocol Alpha. Tanks 000 and 003 have far more longevity than any other complex we've constructed, so, as long as 003 remains, there is hope for this complex.

Omega… He paused for a moment, and Omar floated forth from the back of his mind. He would need a name, and Omar was a name. With that settled, he backed out of the file. Activate supply chutes. After a moment, something behind the wall groaned. Each chute produced a loud banging noise as something dropped down each. Omar left the console, and opened the nearest chute. Out of it fell several things. The first thing Omar noticed was the satchel, the same muted gray as everything else around him. It appeared to be heavy-duty, being covered in thick stitches and made of solid canvas. Beside that was a dull blue jumpsuit, with 000 printed in bold yellow letters on the back. There was a knife, its entire length almost as long as Omar's forearm. Its grip was rubber, and the entire knife seemed to be a single, solid piece of metal. There were three tubes of clear plastic, filled with a brown paste, and beside those, three plastic bottles of water. Finally, there was a pair of thick wool socks, and a pair of heavy leather boots.

Omar threw on the jumpsuit, suddenly aware of the fact that he was entirely naked. The socks and boots followed. Then he picked up one of the tubes, and eyed it suspiciously. When he squeezed it, it gave under his fingers. It was capped by a white piece of plastic, and Omar bit the cap off, spitting it away. He gave the paste within a curious sniff, and squeezed a small amount onto onto his fingertip. It smelled vaguely of fish, though Omar wasn't quite sure how he knew that. He stuck his finger into his mouth, and confirmed that this paste had fish in it. Without a second thought, Omar squeezed the rest of the tube into his mouth and finished it off quickly. Casting the plastic aside with a belch, Omar couldn't deny that he almost immediately felt full. With that settled, he stuffed the other two tubes, as well as the bottles of water, into the satchel, and threw it over his shoulder. And he went to the next chute. It had the exact same set of items as the first chute. Omar considered this for a moment, before taking the socks, the fish-paste, and the water.

He checked each chute, and realized they all had the same contents. When he finished checking all the chutes, Omar had three spare pairs of socks, six tubes of fish-paste, and eight bottles of water, as well as a spare jumpsuit. With his satchel full, Omar went back to the terminal. With a flick, he powered it up again, and selected open door to outer entrance. The door beside the terminal slid open suddenly, and Omar left the computer alone, instead going through the open door. Once more, the door slammed shut behind him, and the lights flickered on. They were even dimmer than before.

This room was simple, and Omar had the feeling that it was also the final room for him. Across from him was a massive door, shaped like a gear, with Splat-Tech printed in bold across the face of it. A small set of stairs led down to the level of the door. To Omar's right was a control panel, with a variety of buttons, switches, and a single lever. Omar approached the panel, and examined it. He couldn't make heads or tails of the buttons or switches, but there was a plain label stamped above the lever. Seal. He pulled it. An alarm sounded, and the lights suddenly went out. There was a loud hiss, and the ground rumbled beneath Omar's feet.

A sliver of light formed, and grew as the massive door was shifted away. The light was distant, but it was there. It was natural light, Omar realized. He instinctively walked towards. Past the massive blast-door was a cave, filled with dust. Something crunched beneath his foot, and he looked, only to discover a set of teeth, broken beneath his heel. He shuddered in disgust, but turned back to the light. He continued, and came to a wooden door, on the verge of falling apart. Bright beams of light stabbed through the ancient boards. Omar tentatively reached out, and pushed it open.

The light was brilliantly blinding. The air tingled as he breathed it in. Gripping his knife tightly, Omar squared his shoulders and set out into this new world.

What with Fallout 4 being a thing (and a damned good one at that), I thought I'd re-upload this and see where it goes. And I need to apologize for my lack of content. Something productive will happen in the next week, I assure anyone reading that much, at least.