Inkantation

There is no magic formula for success.
There are no shortcuts; there will be no mercy.
The only way we reach the surface is through force.
Doing the best you can do is expected.
Doing less is punishable.
Praise has no purpose.

"That thing you did, with the tenta brella and the steel head?" Pearl hops from foot to foot. "Super fresh!"

Marina laughs and tugs her lifesaver over her head. "Didn't wind up helping us any. We still had a crew wipe."

"So? It was the third wave." One of their coworkers leans against the side of the ship, putting his hands behind his head and crossing his legs at the ankle. "I keep doing this well, get coworkers like you two every time, I'll be profreshional in no time."

Pearl laughs. "Yeah! You did great, too! And you-" Pearl turns to their last teammate, a younger inkling, just old enough to start at Grizzco, who hasn't said much the whole time, "you're amazing with blasters, has anyone told you that yet?"

The girl shakes her head so hard her tentacles flap. "You really think so? You do? You-"

"Yeah, I do. We're amazing." Pearl steps out of her own lifesaver and kicks it to the side. "Have you tried ranked yet?"

The girl blushes and pulls her shirt up over her mouth. "I, uh, Mr. Grizz didn't check my age before hiring me. I'm not old enough for ranked for another two months."

Marina bites back a grin as Pearl reaches under her uniform and pulls out a business card. "When you are, hit me up, and I'll buy you a couple weapons for it. I know they're expensive, and with some nice gear, I bet you'd hit A+ or S rank in a year. You can pay me back then."

Marina turns her back as the girl splutters on a combination of thanks and attempted refusals. That's Pearl all over—seeing a chance to give someone something, taking it with both hands, and it makes Marina want to wrap Pearl in her arms and—and—and not with an Inkling. The Marina of two years ago would never, could never have imagined anyone like this, much less an Inkling, and she still can't believe she's lucky enough to know—well. A year ago she couldn't imagine herself turning to the inkling boy and asking, "Your goal's profreshional? Is this a career goal?"

For the first time all day, the boy's smile reaches his eyes. "I, uh, I'm an artist. But I can't make money that way yet. Would... would, uh, would you like to see? It's not very good." The boy digs in one massive Grizzco overalls pocket and pulls out a small sketchbook.

"I'd love to."

The boy opens to the first page. Marina leans on the wall next to him and peers over his head. Drawings—detailed, and incredibly good—drawings of chum and flyfish and steelheads cover page after page, including details she'd never noticed before. "You've got a good eye. You should ask Mr. Grizz if you can illustrate the training manual in exchange for a small raise and publicity; that'd get you noticed faster."

"I'm not good enough for that."

"Are so."

"Let me see," Pearl says, coming on his other side and standing on her toes.

The boy bends to show Pearl the sketchbook as the ship's loudspeaker comes on. "All right, crew, we're coming in to dock. Get changed and leave your uniforms for the cleaners. Pick up your bonuses at the usual place. Worker Marina, if you'd take a moment to see if those fools at supply actually sent me the RIGHT SIZE of coveralls this time, you can come to Meeting Room C for an extra hundred shells."

That's... a tiny bit unusual. Marina gets to her feet, but Pearl grabs for her hand. "Do not go alone."

Marina rolls her eyes. "Pearl, I won't leave the building. There's a few dozen grizzco employees on this ship alone, and probably a few dozen more about to start their shift. There are weapons in every room. I'll be fine."

Pearl bites her lip. "But-"

"And our bodyguards were waiting in the lobby," Marina adds, even though she saw them on another grizzco crew three cabins down. "The odds of someone coming to rough us up are almost nonexistent. You look at the superfresh art; I'll see you in the lobby."

Pearl nods at last, but they all walk off the boat together before splitting up. Pearl plops herself down at a breakroom table with the rest of their crew to keep talking, but Marina makes her way down two flights of stairs (underground, it makes her sweat but there are lights everywhere and none of it is red) to Meeting Room C.

The room is empty, of course, but another bear statue (on its hind legs, arms upraised, rearing, snarling at the sky) stands at the head of the meeting room table. This is a small one, designed for only eight people or so; Marina glances at the table, but there are no uniforms on it, no nothing. "You wished to see me, sir?"

"Marina Ida," Mr. Grizz says.

Marina tenses, twisting her hands together. He hasn't called her that since she gave him the scrapper blueprints. "That's me," she says, her stomach in knots.

One of the bear's arms comes down, until it's extended forwards, as though to shake hands; with a grinding mechanical noise, a thick envelope spits from inside its arm into its hand. "Look through these, and give me your opinion."

Marina swallows hard and moves around the side of the table until she's close enough, then sits. She cracks the seal and pulls out, not a letter or papers as she expected, but a pile of photographs.

The first is of a boy of about sixteen, eighteen years old in the perennial uniform of new turfers: t-shirt, headband, shorts. He's caught just turning towards, or away, the camera; ¾ profile, face just barely visible, heading either towards or away from one of the superjump pads. His tentacles are pressed tight against his head, leaving what look almost like ripples on the back with one, just one, arching over the top of his head to dangle between his eyes, the suction cups visible. His ears, wide and round, don't stick out anywhere near as far as most people's.

This is a picture of an octoling, like her, on the surface.

And Marina's stomach twists and she stares at the picture, gripping it in both hands with a hunger she didn't realize. "Who is this?"

"While I claim to know no identities, agents Two and Four have been busy for the past few months," says the voice behind the bear, and Marina's eyes widen. She wants to look at him, but all her tentacles are tensed, gripping the chair arms and the table and anything they can reach, and she can't make them relax as she flips to the next picture: a girl in a skirt and t-shirt, two tentacles framing her face while the other two are pulled in a ponytail high on her head, shells clutched in hand, looking lost as she stares at the menu for Crusty Sean's. "DJ Octavio, your king, has been recaptured. I've been told he's spent the past week being subjected to your newest single, Nasty Majesty, on repeat as part of his punishment."

Marina grins. Pearl loved the title, came out with some spitfire lyrics, but still has no idea Marina was singing about a specific ruler in her lyrics, rather than Pearl's descriptions of terrible things people do with power, and she turns to the third picture, another octoling who—wait. Nasty Majesty? "That hasn't been out a full week yet."

"It has not," he confirms. "In possibly unrelated news, literal news, I believe tomorrow you'll get to announce that the Great Zapfish has returned. As well as one Callie Cuttlefish."

Marina stands up so fast her tentacles snap when they release the table. "Callie's been found?" She twists her hands together, relief and wonder and—and suspicion, because "Possibly unrelated?"

"My sources tell me the song Calamari Inkantation was performed during the confrontation against DJ Octavio." The voice coming from the bear is calm, cool, collected. "Live."

Marina wants nothing more than to turn Octo and dive down a drain, anything to get away, but this is knowledge. It can't be run away from.

If none of this is real, why would they be telling her this? Why would—no. No, no, this can't be real, it can't it can't it can't, she's been on the surface for almost three years now and none of it's been real this whole time, none of it, because if it has—because if these years have been real—because if this actually happened, if she really did escape and reach the surface and fall into a life beyond her dreams because she didn't even have dreams before—it can't, it can't be real, not after all this time of knowing it's fake.

"I promised you a warning, if you assisted me and I learned anything of below," says the bear. "Consider yourself warned. Something is happening." The speaker crackles. "Dismissed."