"Your daughter pulled out an Inkbrush today without the instruction of a Turf War Class. Any weapon on school grounds outside of Turf War violates our zero tolerance policy."

I was only gonna scare him.

Sis looked at me like I just splatted someone permanently. I bet she had an Inkbrush for me, too. "I got here as soon as I could. I'm so sorry for the hold-up."

The principal nodded like the pseudo-adult she was. "Well, during a class presentation, Marmar charged at another student while using foul language."

Okay. Now Sis looked at me like I splatted a dog and drank up their ink with a reusable straw. "Who…? Why…?"

"I had a good reason."

The principal glared. "And for what reason should we permit a student to act violently on school grounds?"

"He was presenting the InklingXSalmonid project in Lore Class."

"…"

"..."

...Dang, that air vent was really loud.

The principal gave Sis the 'pity eyes' that every Octoling knew. "We understand the distress that the specific subject may've given your daughter."

"Sister," I corrected.

"Yes, sister. But here at The Academy, we just cannot accept-"

Sis grasped my hand tightly.

"-the endangerment of any of our students. And your daughter has done more than simply cross the line today."

"Sister."

Sis squeezed my hand. She nodded promptly at the principal.

"It is still up in the air if this violation will result in expulsion."

Expulsion rang through my ears. I could only guess it did the same for Sis; her hand was trembling.

The principal continued. "But as of now, Marmar is not allowed anywhere near our school grounds. And I should inform you that the Billogue family is currently discussing if they'd like to take action against this… criminal offense."

Sis scratched my palm with her finger. I scratched back twice. She responded with shivering eyes.

"I… I understand, ma'am. I understand and I will make sure my sister-"

She released my hand and reached for her purse under her seat.

"-realizes the consequences of her actions."

"He's your fucking boyfriend."

"I had a good reason."

"You should be used to everyone joking about the IXS by now!"

"But not him. Not Blipby."

"And his parents are loaded as fuck." She pulled hard on my ear. "Do you know how good Flounder Heights' lawyers are; really fucking good I tell you!"

"I told him not to do it."

"He's got six legs, Marmar."

"I thought he was different."

"You can't stay here. We won't survive the Billogue family."

"We're moving again?"

"What the fuck do you think?"

She pulled too hard at the apartment's door handle. It jammed.

"I just can't live like this!" She struggled with the handle. "Do you- know how- much I- do to keep us- afloat?!"

The door flew in, and Sis tumbled forward. I caught her by the arm.

"Drop me," she said.

"What?"

"Let me fall."

"Uh…"

She yanked her arm from my grasp and crashed to the floor. It only seemed to ignite her anger even more, which was probably what she wanted.

She jumped up and hurried to the back room. After some clitter-clattering, she pulled out two small suitcases. She dropped them on the kitchen floor and started dialing a number on her cellphone.

"Who are you calling?"

"Uncle Presto. He's taking you in."

"Dad said he was dead."

"Dad's got six legs, too."

He had eight.

"...Fuck." She redialled and tapped her barefoot angrily, leaving ink on the tile. "...I don't have time for this!" She tossed the phone to me. "Keep calling him. I'll start packing."

I sat on the stove and listened. Sis' phone always felt so warm whenever I held it.

"So you've finally stumbled across my phone number, eh?" The voicemail started playing. "Well, before you go lemme tell you a little bit about myself."

"The voicemail's too long!" Sis yelled. "Just redial!"

I kept listening. "Well, let's start with the juicy shit. I'm single."

He was halfway into his philosophy about exclusive Octoling institutions before Sis walked into the kitchen lugging a giant pile of wrinkled clothes. I hung up and redialled.

...Still no answer.

"Still no answer?"

"Still no answer."

Sis dramatized her sigh. "I… We'll just have to go and hope he's alive."

"And if he's not?" I asked.

"Break in. Now help me pack."

Two suitcases: one with clothes, the other with everything else. Sis made sure to pack everything carefully so the two plates and cups wouldn't get crushed.

"Twenty more minutes," Sis said.

Uncle Presto only lived in the outskirts of Flounder Heights like us, but Flounder Heights was huge. It was practically considered a region on its own. A region of Inks and marble.

It goes without saying that we walked the entire way. Octos don't hitchhike with Inks.

"Uncle Presto should have a car," I said.

"He's probably living in it, too." Sis kept her eyes forward. Exhausted and classy as always. The hair on her low-shaved head was standing straight like always.

The sun was setting but the heat didn't leave. The sky was a red mango and I was going to pass out. Sis said we didn't have time for lunch; I bet her stomach was rumbling, too.

Midnight Motel.

Sis had me by the arm. We passed the Octoling at the front desk. He shouted for us to stop but didn't bother chasing.

Rusted metal pipes lined the hallway ceiling, and everything smelled like markers. The wheels on our suitcases started squeaking in low pitches.

Squanking? Squawking?

1A - 1B - 1C - 1D… The doors of the passing rooms varied in quality. 1F had the most water damage.

"3C, 3C…" Sis mumbled. We ditched the shoddy elevators and heaved the suitcases up the closed-off staircase. I watched Sis' feet closely and only used the steps she used.

We were on the third floor. Sis started walking before I could finish climbing the stairs. I caught up to her while she was staring at '3C'. The door looked better-kept than the others. Not great, but better-kept.

Sis looked at me. I smiled at her because I wanted her to feel better. She exhaled but didn't smile back. She just turned to the door and gave it a quick:

Knock! Knock! Knock!

Someone inside 3C responded immediately with a: "Fuck off, Tenler."

"It ain't me, pulper!" a voice from 3B boomed.

The slur was more surprising than the volume. The voice was as gravelly and old as it was country. Sis grabbed my hand and took two steps back. "Point to the staircase."

I did.

"Good girl."

3C came back with a retaliation. "Then tell Gregory to fuck off!"

"It ain't me, either, Presto!" another equally country voice from 3B said. Their voice was a little shrill and really smooth.

Sis' eyes lit up at 'Presto'. She knocked on the door once again.

Uncle Presto let out a dramatic sigh. I was half-scared that the floor would give out under him with how hard he was stomping, but I stopped holding my breath when I heard a multitude of locks unbuckling.

The door peeped open. "Who are you?" A pair of red eyes glared from the slit of an opening.

"Uncle Presto?" Sis switched completely. She looked all lost and cutesy-like.

They both stared silently until Uncle Presto started laughing wholeheartedly. "Jumpy! Is that you?"

Sis shifted her weight. Yep, totally switched. "Sure's been a while, Uncle-"

Uncle Presto threw the door wide open. He came out and brought Sis in with a big hug. I couldn't see Sis' face but I bet she was really annoyed.

Then Uncle Presto and I made eye contact. I could see him processing me in those eyes. A few seconds passed when he let go of Sis. "Who the fuck is this?"

"Marmar. My sister."

Presto looked back to Sis. His red eyes filled with apprehension. "...How old is she?"

"I'm-"

Sis squeezed my hand. "Uncle Presto, we really need your help."

Uncle Presto shook his head. He looked like Sis just insulted him "I… Just tell me how old she is."

Sis was stupid enough to think the milk trick would work on me. Her exact words were:

"I forgot something back at the apartment. I'll be back as soon as I can; just stay put with Uncle Presto for now."

Haha, she left me just like dad left the both of us. I obviously knew she was ditching, but for her sake, I acted like it worked.

"You play any instruments?"

Uncle Presto's words snapped me back into reality. His couch was a little softer than the ones back at our apartment. His TV was bigger but it looked really old.

"Bass," I told him. The Academy had a jazz band that I was a part of. They screwed up my schedule so I could only attend half the classes.

"Cool, cool…" Uncle Presto nodded and stared at the TV.

He was dressed more traditionally than Grammy. He wore some old eight-armed bathrobe like he needed the extra six. His hair was styled into a messy afro with a lively tentacle flapping at the back. I couldn't remember the last time I saw an Octoling with an active tentacle styled into their hair.

This infomercial had been playing for a good thirty minutes now.

"Words of the Splatted," Uncle Presto said out of nowhere. "That's what I'm calling it."

"What?" I asked.

"I'm trying to start up a band."

"Woah, really?"

"Words of the Splatted. ...It's not gonna be like the others."

"What others?"

"...Doubt you'd be interested."

The infomercial was about some ink-softening medicine. It was probably some illegal Turf War thing.

"Your dad probably talks about them."

"Talks about what?"

"My failed bands and shit."

"You've done other bands?" Why'd dad never mention this stuff?

Uncle Presto's eyes lit up just like Sis' used to. "I, uh… Yeah. Last one was a decade ago."

I started thinking about Blipby, so I tried to keep the conversation going. "What were your bands like?"

"Oh. Well, um… I usually try to take octo-gospel and patriotism. Usually mixed together."

"What was your last band called?"

Uncle Presto chuckled and looked away. "Uh…" He stood up and walked over to the kitchen. He picked up a frame from the counter and handed it to me from behind the couch.

The picture showed three Octos sitting unevenly across a pew. Uncle Presto was sitting in the middle with his trumpet horn in the air.

"We were the 'Bugle Boy Groove'." Uncle Presto said. He started chuckling nervously. "Broke off 'cause I couldn't pay them as much as I promised. We sold about a hundred copies, but that was it.

"A hundred?!" I imagined having one-hundred people in a room, dedicating their ears to my bass guitar only...! "Why'd dad never say you were a celebrity?"

"No one ever talks about the D-List celebrities. ...You'd think they'd at least mention it if… Nevermind." He looked to the frame and then back at me. "What was your name again?"

"Marmar."

"I bet they didn't teach you improv at your old school."

"The theater kids make fun of me."

Uncle Presto started to make his way back to the kitchen. "I mean musical improv," he called back. "Playing random shit and making it sound good, you know?"

Oh. Only the teacher's favorites got to do that. Rest of us just read the sheets. "I never got to try it."

"Huh." He reached into the kitchen's cupboards and pulled out… A whole bass guitar. It was more polished than anything in the entire apartment.

Before I could question how he fit it in there, he was setting it up next to an amp that lay right beside the TV. "I'm gonna teach you a quick something." He went back to the kitchen and brought out a chair and a SeaBaby's First Keyboard. "Just some chord progressions. Simple theory shit."

I didn't get suspended for more school…

Uncle Presto laughed at my expression. Sis would've just gotten annoyed. He set the chair down and handed me the bass guitar. "You're the only other Octo in this damned family to give the tiniest shit about good music." He sat down in the chair with his kiddie keyboard. "I'm gonna ink up this opportunity every chance I get."

"Can we play the one that sounds cool?"

He looked up at me with an eyebrow raised. I was never able to do that. "Watch yourself. All of them sound cool." He played a couple of notes. "You know what that is?"

I shook my head. It sounded like the theme song of some old cartoon Sis and I used to watch.

"C Blues Scale. Pick up the bass and... Play a low C for me."

I did. First note I ever learned.

He continued along the scale. "Now go up to E flat… F… F sharp… G..."

And he kept going until we had found ourselves to a high C. I played through the scale in my mind:

C - Eb - F - F# - G - Bb - C

Uncle Presto was frowning, but his eyes looked excited. "You got that?"

"Kinda."

"Alright. I'm gonna play a simple baseline, and you come up with whatever shit you can think of using those six notes."

"...There's seven."

"No talking back."

He took out one finger and played the same note over and over. It was… C?

It was a simple beat: | C- C- C- C- | C- C- C- C- |

And he kept going.

I squinted my eyes. "So I just—"

"Don't talk. Just play."

...I strummed the C. He looked up at me and smiled. "See! You're getting it. Now play it with some zesto!"

And so I did. On top of his:

| C- C- C- C- | C- C- C- C- |

I played:

| C- C- C- | C- C- C- |

Uncle Presto raised an eyebrow; it was the same one as last time. "You call that zesto?"

His question broke the smile I didn't even realize I was holding. "I don't know what that means."

"You're just holding one note longer. ...Give me a bit of spunk."

"What?"

"Mix it up. Do something cool with your bass."

He kept playing:

| C- C- C- C- | C- C- C- C- |

And with some zesto-spunk, I played:

| ABbDGbF#CC#E | GGbAGbBC—

"I-I-I-I-I mean!" He cut me off, "I mean, inside the actual C Blues Scale! And not so fast!"

…

He kept playing:

| C- C- C- C- | C- C- C- C- |

And I played:

| C- C- Eb- Eb- | C- C- Eb— |

"Yeah!" He didn't stop playing, but he was grinning. "Now throw in an F somewhere in there."

| C- C- Eb- F- | C- Eb- F- C- |

"Now double up on some of those. Give me some sweet eighth notes or somefink."

| CC- EbEb- CEb- CC- | CF- FEb- F#C- GBb- |

"Ah! That's the whole-ass scale!" He was jumping in his seat. "Now mix it up. Quarters and eighths!"

| CEb- F- FF#- G- |...

And I kept going. He was jumping and having the time of his life while I just played some random notes he laid out for me. It was easy, but I couldn't believe he was having so much fun. ...It didn't even sound that good.

Then, he told me to hold.

"No no no, I mean, keep going with that same pattern."

It was a quick riff featuring C, Bb, and my very own B. He told me to keep repeating while he placed the SeaBaby's First on the ground. He brushed a finger past his nose and licked his lips.

"Aye… Aye… Aye…! Aye…! AYE—"

He burst into rhyme like it was nothing, keeping tempo with my pattern. His rhythm was so mixed up and complex; it felt like it shouldn't have fit with what I was playing, but it very much did. One hand at his mouth and the other jabbing relentlessly at his imaginary crowd. He was straight out of one of those old music videos!

"PULPER!"

I yelped and dropped the expensive bass. Country and raspy; the old man. Uncle Presto looked surprised too, so I was hoping he didn't—

"Pulper music ain't for overground!"

"I-It sounded really nice, you two!" The shrill country one.

"Stop making friends with them tunnelers, Greg!

"I just think us folk oughta support each other, you know?"

"They ain't folk."

"You fucking degenerate krill!" Uncle Presto screamed to the apartment next to us. "You raised a bagger!"

Shrill stammered. "P-Presto, I…!"

I added a "Yeah!", but then Uncle Presto looked at me and his eyes got all panicky. He pointed to a door in the back. "That's your room. Bathroom on the left. Take your stuff."

"I DID NOT RAISE A BAG!" the old man yelled. I swore that the couch shook. "AND TELL THAT LITTLE GIRL OF YOURS TO—"

"Daddy, no!" Shrill cried. "Calm, now! Calm!"

"To what, Tenler? To what?" Then Uncle Presto looked to me again. Glowering red eyes. "Bitch! What'd I tell you?"

I—

I…

I scrambled all my things together and rushed to the room in the back. I couldn't hear what old man Tenler had shouted back to us.

...

…I really liked Uncle Presto.