"The most fashionable gear is crafted with the latest in textile technology. Heating materials to produce smooth curves or distressing stiff fabrics to increase suppleness and change their look are common techniques."
—Sunken Scrolls 2:13 (3.4)
Thursday, 9:30 a.m.
Teuthida General Hospital
Natalie pecked at the bagel in front of her. Breakfast in bed was fun for about all of ten seconds until she realized that raising either hand to her mouth hurt. A lot. Suddenly, eating a bagel became incredibly challenging. Stitches sucked. Gah, this was so frustrating! Why couldn't she do anything right?
Man, staying in a hospital was so boring. At least she only had to stay for a few days this time, and not two whole weeks—no broken ribs or deflated lungs this time, no sirree! It would still be pure torture, though. There was never anything good on TV, and there was nobody to talk to. Natalie had lost her phone, too, so she couldn't even bother Cole. Dang it all.
Natalie forgot how much she enjoyed talking to him face-to-face. She fondly recalled yesterday's reunion and resolved to sign up for League tryouts next season. She had so immersed herself with work that she had abandoned her lifelong dream of playing Turf War. And for what? So she could kill unarmed civilians? So she could lie to everyone? No more of that, Natalie decided. She was going to live life for herself and rekindle that dream of hers.
For now, she had to wait until evening. Then she could see Cole again. They had a lot to catch up on, and Natalie was really looking forward to another chat with him. She was also really looking forward to that Super Seanwich.
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Thursday, 10:57 a.m.
Marie's apartment
Callie awoke with a start. The first thing on her mind was Octavio's stupid, stupid operation. So many people were in danger. She had to stop him. What time was it? Was she too late?
Why was she at home?
She tried to push herself up, but she found that her wrists were tied behind her back. She rolled off the couch and landed in a kneel. Then she rose to her feet. Her eyes scanned the room—coffee table, bookshelves, floor—for something to cut her binds with.
"You're awake," came a voice from behind. Callie immediately recognized it as Marie's.
"We don't have time for this," Callie shot back, not even bothering to look her cousin in the eye. She continued searching for something, anything sharp enough to cut through a plastic cable tie. "Is it noon yet?" she asked.
Marie said nothing, but Callie heard her cock a gun.
"Seriously?" Callie fumed, straightening herself and slowly turning around. Behind the couch and around the dinner table sat Marie, Sheldon, and the young man from the police station. Sheldon paid no heed to the proceedings and read something on his phone. The big guy sat with his arms crossed, a pistol on the table and his eyes on Callie. Marie pointed a gun of her own at Callie's legs.
Callie looked behind them and caught a glimpse of the stovetop clock display. It read 11 a.m. She breathed a sigh of relief. She wasn't too late, but she only had an hour left.
"Why are you here?" Marie asked in an even tone, devoid of emotion. Her voice sounded fake. That was the sort of voice Marie usually saved for interrogations or when somebody needed to die. The realization sent chills down Callie's spine—they were enemies now, after all.
"Inkopolis Plaza at noon, Octavio is taking hostages to publicly exchange for Agent 3's life. I'm here to warn you. There are also two Octolings cells taking Zapfish from Moray Towers and Musselforge Fitness during the chaos, but we don't really have the manpower to stop them."
Marie narrowed her eyes. The young man at the table scratched his scabbing forehead.
"Call Cap'n and have him run a scan of the city if you don't believe me," Callie continued. "Octavio is here, and he's going to start executing people real soon, so we need to get moving now."
"Why should we trust your trap?" challenged Marie.
"How could this possibly be a trap?" Callie shouted. "You knocked me out for an entire morning! Listen to yourself! Innocent lives are at stake! Tie my legs up and leave me here to rot for all I care, you needed to be in the Plaza ten minutes ago!"
The large, quiet kid at the table shot Marie a look, and Marie's free hand went to her ear. "Come in, Captain. Activate an Echolocator on the Plaza and scan for hostiles," she spoke. She then turned her attention to Callie. "We're going now. But I know better than to leave you alone, so you're coming with us."
The big guy scoffed, picking up his pistol. Sheldon put his phone away and stood up.
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Thursday, 11:15 a.m.
Flounder Heights
At the bottom of the apartment building, Sheldon opened the back of his truck and handed the agents their equipment with a smile. He was always excited to gear them up for work. As they slipped on their face masks and put bulletproof jackets over their street clothes, he also produced two black suitcases. It was now time for Sheldon to unveil their weapons, the tools of the trade, the main attractions. This was the best part of his job.
"So I figured we would run into some action today," he started. "I packed just the thing—"
"Not in the mood, Sheldon," Marie cut in. "Give us something that works."
He smiled, waiting for the senior agent to finish speaking. "...I knew you would say that, Agent 2. You don't trust prototypes. You don't trust frills. You don't even trust scopes." He popped the first suitcase open on the ground using his foot. "So this should be perfect."
Inside the suitcase was a silencer, two spare 30-round magazines, and an older model rifle. The black and yellow, long-barreled firearm came equipped with a sling, a rounded stock, and iron sights—just the way Marie liked it. Sheldon knew that the older gun had been Marie's favorite for years; she had never been one for experimenting, especially not with her rifles. So, he packed trusty Old Reliable for her. With civilian lives on the line, there was no room for error.
Marie gave the weapons designer a silent nod of approval, keeping her pistol trained on Callie.
"And for you, Agent 4," Sheldon announced, popping the second suitcase open in his arms. "The final iteration of my bullpup PDW. No frills, here, either."
Sheldon smiled as the junior agent lifted the submachine gun out of its case. There were a few frills on this finished version, actually. He put an integrated laser sight under the existing reflex sight, and he increased the fully automatic mode's rate of fire—nothing that Cole needed to be explained to him, Sheldon figured. He also ditched the previous color scheme for a more familiar black and yellow coat of paint. Black and yellow better fit Sheldon's style, anyway.
Cole weighed the gun, first in his right hand, then in his left, before putting the shoulder strap on. "It's beautiful," he said.
Sheldon chuckled. "You bet."
Owning a weapon store rocked, but supporting the NSS from behind the scenes was even cooler. Sheldon had lost a few good days of business this week helping the agents, but whatever. He didn't mind driving them places or taking care of their equipment. It was fun, fulfilling work. Even if he was too afraid to directly contribute on the frontlines—that kind of work had claimed both his Pappy and Grandpappy—Sheldon knew that his comrades valued him. Silently, he prayed for their safety. Good luck, agents.
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Thursday, 11:45 a.m.
On a rooftop
Marie sat behind a turbine vent, hand to her ear. As the captain relayed information to her via radio, she formulated a plan of attack.
"...Six-hundred feet north, and a second sniper two-hundred feet northeast of your position on top of the old Battle Dojo. They're watching the Plaza entrances. Got it?"
"Yes, Captain. Agent 4, I'll get the two on the roofs, but you need to move in as soon as I do. There's five surrounding the hostages and I can't get a visual from here. Let me know when you're in position."
Marie took a deep breath, then screwed the silencer onto the barrel of the unscoped rifle, her favorite model. Taking to the rooftops was her thing. Marie had always felt like a hero with her rifle in hand. She had the best aim in the business and the fastest reflexes around. But a single sniper could never handle everything by herself. She needed somebody to take point for her, to risk their life doing the heavy lifting. In situations like this one, the real heroes were the people on the ground.
"Will do," came Cole's voice.
She poked her head around the turbine vent and scanned the horizon for enemies. "Be careful with the hostages," she spoke. "Don't let them get hurt. And don't hit them." Sure enough, she saw two Octosnipers exactly where the captain said they'd be. They wouldn't be able to see her from this angle.
"I won't."
"And Cole?" said Marie, faltering. "Don't die on me."
"I won't."
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Thursday, 11:52 a.m.
NSS Headquarters
Captain Cuttlefish leaned back in his chair and doubled-checked the Echolocator readings. Yes, he had gotten their locations right. No, he had not missed anything. He popped a delicious crabby cake into his mouth.
For Senior Officer Craig A. Cuttlefish, today was just another day at work. A long time ago—one-hundred and three years to this very day, in fact—he swore an oath to serve and protect, and he had no plans to break that oath. Not yet. He would defend Inkopolis for as long as he drew breath, just as his old comrades had. The members of the original Squidbeak Splatoon—may they rest in peace—went down fighting. They had denied their captain his chance to die in glorious battle. They gave up their own lives to save his. So, in honor of his brothers and sisters in arms, Captain Cuttlefish would sit on his rumpus and keep watch over the city until the day he saw them all again. He owed them that much, at least.
He popped another crabby cake into his mouth and checked on the agents. Those darned kids were pretty good, he had to admit. But they had better not let Octavio get away this time.
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Thursday, 11:54 a.m.
Inkopolis Plaza
"...Who are you looking for, again?"
"Agent 3!" Octavio screamed into the phone. "The slimy little hipster who defeated me two years ago!"
"Okay, and you are… your name is Octavio?" the other end of the line asked, doubtfully.
He seethed with anger. Apparently, even the news stations here were run by ignoramuses. "Tell the entire city that she has one hour to get here," Octavio said, for the last time. "I will take Agent 3 in exchange for the two dozen hostages in the Plaza. If I don't see Agent 3 in one hour, then her cowardice will cost them. Do your job and spread the word." Then he hung up.
It took Octavio all of his restraint not to throw the phone onto the pavement. In front of him, three members of his honor guard held a crowd of huddled-up Inklings at gunpoint. Two Octosnipers had positioned themselves on nearby rooftops, ready to stop anybody who wasn't Agent 3 from entering the Plaza.
The last member of the honor guard, an armored, black-haired Octoling with seaweed braided into her hair, approached him. "Sir," she greeted with a salute. "I have concerns about Callie's sudden disappearance. This could—"
But Octavio was barely listening. How did nobody know who Agent 3 was? How did nobody know who he was? Had those dastardly Inklings written him out of their history? He vaguely remembered Callie saying something about this, about nobody knowing who he was. He hadn't realized that Callie was serious.
Speaking of whom, where in the blazes was that woman? She had disappeared early in the morning to "set something up" or "find Agent 3," Octavio couldn't remember which. Perhaps it had been both. But she hadn't answered her phone for several hours, and the show was about to start. He couldn't have her missing today's main event, now.
"—something's up. If she—"
"Child." Octavio snapped.
"...Y-yes, sir?"
"Stop talking. Put in Callie's phone number for me and call her again."
"Yes, sir."
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