Originally I was going to write a one-shot with the human survivor premise. The first version was, weirdly enough, aviation themed, and the second version was from Eight's perspective and took place in the Metro.
And then I scrapped both and decided to write something entirely different.
I do regret missing the chance to use the words "Whiskey Tango Delta" unironically in a story though. Another time, hopefully.
Fair warning, this fic is a bit of a rambling mess.
He doesn't pretend to understand Eight. That's not to say he distrusts her; far from it. She is responsible for saving his life after all. But sometimes she says things that come completely out of the Hadal.
"What manner of royalty are you?" She asks as he sets the pot of tuna-casserole down on the table. It's not a fancy sort of tuna-casserole. Just shell noodles, tuna, and cream of avian. It's actually his favorite food, though he'd have a hard time articulating why.
"Royalty?" He echoes, taking a seat. He gestures to Eight to take her serving first. "What makes you think that?"
"You have good food, and a large living space."
If noodles, take-out food, and the occasional restaurant visit counts as 'good food' and a basic one room apartment count as a 'large living space', he's very worried about the conditions she was living in before this. "This is nothing special in terms of living quarters. Quite average, in fact."
Eight's eyes go wider than usual. She hands him the serving spoon on request. Her own plate is piled high with the casserole, having taken nearly a quarter of the entire pot at once, and with some vegetables crammed in on the side where there's space.
He used to use a smaller pot until he realized Eight could eat much, much more, but was too polite to ask for it. Even now, when his own portion is barely an eighth of the pot, he knows there won't be leftovers.
"If you are not royalty, why are you allocated so much food? Does it have to do with your position as a Splatoon member?"
"Nope. I buy these myself."
"Buy?"
He stills, staring at Eight, who stares back in confusion. "You know, with money."
"Money?"
Oh. Oh dear. It seems there is more to teach her than expected. "Yes. Those shiny yellow coins you've seen me giving to people?"
"I assumed those were tokens of requisition."
Requisition? "Well they're… similar, I suppose. Think of them more as favor tokens."
"How so?"
"Well… say I want to get a chair. I would go to a carpenter for that, right?"
"Yes."
"And I would need to offer him something for making me a chair, right?"
"Why? If you are a soldier, should he not simply give it to you?"
"I'm not, in this case. I am off the job."
"Then… you would need to trade." Eight ventures. "At least, I assume so. Octarian soldiers are never 'off the job', as you say."
That's worrying for many reasons, but one thing at a time. "Yes, I would need to trade. However, what if the carpenter does not need anything I have to offer?"
"Then you cannot get the chair." Eight says.
"Or…?" Three prompts.
"You would owe him."
"Yes. Precisely." Three says. "And that's where the tokens come in. Instead of needing to keep in mind dozens of favors to different people, I can give them favor tokens so they can obtain something equivalent in value to the chair they gave me from another source."
Eight blinks once, twice. Thoughts visibly race behind her eyes as she tries to wrap her head around this concept. Her grip on her fork is slack.
"That is the simplified version." Three admits. "The true extent of money is complicated."
"And…" Eight says slowly, still obviously baffled. "This food, does it cost much money?"
"It's actually quite cheap."
He can see Eight's brain short-circuiting. She stares wide-eyed at the plate of food in front of her, some sort of revelation written on her face.
"How about we eat now, and we'll find a better way to explain this after?" He offers gently. "Maybe Marina will know."
Eight nods dumbly, and slowly starts to fork food into her mouth. Her confusion is soon forgotten as her attention is consumed with the meal in front of her, and Three subtly types on his phone under the table, sending a message to Pearl and Marina.
Just what was this girl's life like, if she doesn't know what money is? He's wholly out of his depth here, but Eight has been entrusted to his care, and he won't let her down.
###
"We don't tend to have food shortages like you Octarians." Captain Cuttlefish explains, flipping through camera feeds in the cabin to keep tabs on the newly-hacked camera feeds in the Deep Sea Metro. "That's why food is cheap. It doesn't need to be rationed out. You can buy as much as you need, or more."
"I can hardly imagine." Eight murmurs. She can't remember a time in her life, or Octarian history in general, where there hasn't been a shortage of food. Rationing was simply a fact of life. "Inkopolis is so strange."
"That it is, that it is." The Captain chuckles. "You'll get used to it. Plenty o' octolings running about these days, and they seem just fine."
"But if inklings have lots of food, why does Three eat so little?" Eight questions. "I always find myself eating many times as much as he does, if not more."
"Hmm… well part of that is because you're a girl, yeah? Octolings and inklings, the girls are just bigger. Some biological holdover from when we were still sea creatures." The Captain muses.
"I am aware of that. Male octolings are quite small, and while male inklings are slightly larger, they are not much so." Eight nods. "But that does not explain his low food intake."
"Maybe he doesn't feel he needs it." The Captain shrugs. "It's not really a problem. He probably stops when he's full, and he gets full quickly, so he doesn't gorge himself."
Eight can barely imagine feeling safe enough to have such a mindset. No octarian would turn down extra food. They would eat until they were physically sick, because there's no guarantee they'd get to eat like that again, or eat at all for the next few days. The idea that Three feels he can just stop eating whenever he feels like it without any sort of concern for his next meal is alien to her.
"You don't have to do the same yet." The Captain says. "You're still malnourished. Eat whatever doesn't make you feel sick, especially while you're still in efficiency exit, but eventually you'll have to slow down. Can't have our newest agent eating herself to death!"
Eight didn't know it was possible to eat herself to death. How could something so good for you kill you? And if she cuts back, what if this doesn't last? What if Inkopolis discovers octolings exist and she's chased out? She doesn't want to leave on a less than full stomach. If she doesn't eat as much, that might be valuable energy she's missing out on in the case of an emergency! Besides, she can't very well spit in Three's face by turning down his generous meals.
"Don't worry about it yet." The Captain assures again, and pats her shoulder. "You've only been here for a few days! Can't expect to understand everything to make sense so quickly."
"As you say, Captain."
"Are you okay living with Three? I know we pushed in on ya', but there really wasn't anyone else."
"I am content with Three." Eight nods. "He feeds me as much as I want, he instructs me whenever I do not understand something, and he is not as frightening as he first appeared."
"Heh, that's what Agents One and Two told me about their first meetings with 'im too. For me it was the opposite. Meek as a kitten until I put the hero shot in his hands." The Captain recounts. "Little did I know the monster I had made, ho ho. Best agent I could have asked for. Best helper too; I only had to imply something was a problem and he'd deal with it." He pauses, and strokes his beard once. "Uh, maybe don't tell Agents One and Two that. They'd probably lecture me for it. Mighty protective of 'im they are."
"You had him work overtime?"
"I didn't make him do anything, I implied I wanted it done and he decided to do it."
Eight's frowns. "I have part of a mind to lecture you myself. You are taking advantage of his kindness."
The Captain just laughs. "A bit of cooking and he's got all you girls wrapped around his fingers, is it?"
"That is…" Not completely wrong, but… "partially incorrect. He is kind."
"That he is." The Captain agrees, eyes twinkling. "Now, I found something on the cameras earlier that I wanted to show you, mind takin' a gander?"
The rest of the hour is spent looking over camera footage, musing about the strange movement patterns of the remaining sanitized 'employees'.
###
He would say Eight stands out, but that's only to his eyes. He's used to spotting those outside-facing octoling suckers from a mile away. He did so all the time in Octo Valley; it was imperative. Octolings were the most frustrating of his foes. However, other inklings treat it as no more than a strange hairstyle fad, nevermind the impossibility of it for an inkling.
Even beyond that though, Eight should stand out. She's tall (a head and a few inches over him), with a terra-cotta skin tone that is unusual in Inkopolis and its suburbs and feeder towns, and holds herself with a professional air that the youth of the square simply can't and wouldn't bother to match.
(It's strange to use the word 'professional' when describing Eight because despite being a soldier, she's characterized in Three's mind by a ravenous appetite, wide-eyed curiosity, and near blind trust in everything he says. Her trust is endearing, if anxiety-inducing. He's all too worried about steering her wrong, even by accident.)
That's not even touching on her preferred outfit. Despite having new clothes courtesy of her 'aunties', Eight still dons her synth-leather Octarian military outfit whenever venturing out into public. It's for comfort, Three suspects, and there are enough strange fashion choices in Inkopolis Square that it doesn't raise many eyebrows.
(Besides, he's one to talk. His neat, buttoned, plain grey shirt, black dress pants, and solid but sleek black boots probably stand out even more because of how incredibly basic and intentionally subdued they are.)
This is a roundabout way of him saying that he's hyper-aware of everyone who shoots so much as a glance at Eight. He keeps his own head mostly down as they move through the square, weaving through the crowd towards Ammo Knights, but his eyes dart from side to side constantly, watching the crowd and any slightly shifty individual.
Nothing comes of it of course. No one tries so much as to talk to Eight, though that might have something to do with her staring at the back of his head the entire time and not making eye contact with anyone else.
Ammo Knights, despite its importance to the turfing scene, is rarely a store packed with customers unless there has been a recent weapon launch or kit changes, and that's precisely why Three chose today to bring Eight. When they step inside, Sheldon is behind the counter, and there is no one else browsing the store.
(It might also have to do with this taking place at eight in the morning, when most squid kids are late sleepers.)
Three didn't tell Eight where they were going, but he knows he's made the right choice when her expression brightens and she rushes to the first display case, eagerly reading the weapon's specs and watching the demo video next to it.
Most octolings in Inkopolis are military defectors, and the chance to actually choose their weapons and kits rather than being assigned one is consistently a source of excitement for them even if they don't plan to turf at all. Besides, having a weapon for self-defense is a fine idea. They can't take their Splatoon weapons with them back home (legal reasons, as well as protecting their identities), so a turf weapon is the next best thing.
"I recognize many of these." Eight says, not taking her eyes off the Kenza Splattershot's demo video. "I used them in the Metro."
"Did you have a favorite?"
"No. I used each weapon rarely enough that I could not get a good feel for most of them." Eight admits. "I more remember the ones I disliked: chargers, the Squeezer, splatlings."
"Well there are plenty more options than those, thankfully." Three smiles.
"What do you use?" Eight asks.
"I'm partial to the H-3 Nozzelnose. The base kit." Three says.
"That is one of the burst-fire weapons." Eight remembers. "What is its 'kit', as you phrase it?"
"Point sensor and tenta missiles." Three says. "More of a supportive set if I'm honest, but I appreciate all the tracking."
"I see." Eight says, her eyes oddly wide as she finally turns to look at him.
"...did I say something strange?"
"No. I expected something else, but no."
"Did you expect something more combat-focused?" Three guesses, smiling softly. "Something with bombs, perhaps?"
"Yes." Eight admits sheepishly. "I expected something similar to your Splatoon equipment."
"I considered it, but I see turfing as a chance to improve on supplementary skills." Three explains. "Hence a weapon focused entirely on support and pinpoint accuracy."
"I see." Eight nods. "Should I do the same?"
"Do whatever you want. This isn't Splatoon business." Three says gently. "I go the extra mile by choice, you are under no obligation to do so."
Eight nods, eyes drifting back to the weapon display. "What is this weapon supposed to do in turf?"
"The Kenza Splattershot…" Three says, pulling up his basic knowledge. "Incredibly widely used, incredibly versatile, it's solid for nearly any mode and any composition. That goes for all Splattershot kits admittedly, but Kenza is the most popular. Their medium range can sometimes be an issue, but that's what their suctions and missiles are for."
Eight nods again, and moves to the next display. "And this?"
And so the same process repeats. Eight points to a new weapon, and Three gives her a brief idea of what the weapon is about, sometimes throwing in a personal anecdote.
"Luna blasters are frustrating. My burst fire can't push their ballers back. If I don't strike true with my first round after they detonate, I will die."
"Chargers in general can be a hassle. Even if I can get in range, my shots take a while to travel so I can rarely kill in the first burst, and getting into close-quarters is not usually an option."
"Brellas are the bane of an H-3, but the Tenta Brella is particularly frustrating. I have no bombs to pop their shield, low object damage, a meidocre rate of fire, and they have the best shield out there… they always push me against a wall and there's nothing I can do about it."
"I'll take it." Eight says instantly.
"Uh- the Tenta?" Three clarifies, caught off guard by her sudden enthusiasm.
"Yes." Eight nods rapidly, eyes bright and excited.
"You don't want to look at anything else?"
"No. I want the Tenta."
"Okay then."
So they buy the Tenta.
###
"Still empty." Four mutters, poking around an empty barracks. Her yellow mantle stands in sharp contrast to the dull grays of the octarian base. "It's like they scurry off as soon as we arrive."
"That is not necessarily true." Eight says. "Scavengers are specially trained, and know how to work fast. It is more likely they finished their task before we arrived."
"That's a pain. It's not like we have the space, time, or manpower to take all this Octarian tech out of the Canyon." Four complains. "Not to mention half of it is underground. How did you guys even get all this stuff there in the first place!?"
"Inkforming. Most of the furniture and basic tech can be compressed into ink and stored in small containers." Eight says. "I don't know the logistics of getting it all here though. Even inkformed, the supplies still have the same weight, they're just smaller, so it couldn't be carried on someone's person. Also, I was a frontline soldier. I only entered forward bases or domes after they were constructed and furnished."
"I didn't know you could inkform furniture. I thought it was just plastics and metals." Four says in surprise.
"That's right."
"But you said-"
"Our furniture has synthetic cloth, plastic cloth, where applicable. Just like my military outfit." Eight says. "And the frames are not wood, they're usually metal. They abide by all normal inkforming rules."
"Ohh…"
"The same goes for inkling turfing clothes, right? Synthetic? So it can be turned into squid form alongside you."
"Uh, not quite." Four coughs. "If we've infused something with enough of our own ink, active ink, so not just shooting it at something, we can bring it with us into squid form. So when we go squid we just push our ink into our clothes for a moment. Inkforming can't do that, just inklings themselves. That goes for all our equipment."
Eight blinks in surprise. "Your equipment does not automatically inkform? You turn it into a squid with you?"
"You don't turn your equipment into ink with you?"
"Of course not. All of a soldier's equipment is linked up to a single inkform trigger, which coats our bodies when we go octo, and a precise ink pulse when we're exiting octo form turns it back to normal."
"Huh." Four says. "Weird. Same end, different method."
"Indeed."
They poke around the abandoned dome a bit more, with Four reminiscing on her first venture through. Eight finds it a bit strange to hear someone so cheerfully describe the defeat of her fellow soldiers; just another reminder that she's no longer in the Octarian Empire.
"Of course, every time I did anything for the first dozen bases, Marie would mostly talk about how Three handled it." Four says in exasperation. "Oh, Three wouldn't go through the front, he would go in through the vents. He wouldn't use a bomb there, he would shark. Three wouldn't go in guns blazing, he would pick them off one-by-one. Stuff like that. She eventually stopped, thank cod, but I learned way more about Three than I cared to in those first few weeks."
"I had heard much of him as well, though only from rumors." Eight says. "I was lucky enough to be stationed somewhere else when he struck his way through the Valley, but I heard many tales of the dark inkling that single-handedly took apart bases. An indistinct shape crawling through the rafters, electricity going offline, lone octolings taken out without any sign of how or when… the rumors would have you think he was some sort of monster."
"Really? I can't imagine him being scary." Four chuckles. "Hope actually meeting him wasn't a letdown."
"How could it be?"
"I dunno. Maybe if you were hoping for some cool, brooding guy…"
"Why would I be hoping for such a thing?"
"Maybe you had a type."
"A type?"
"Yeah."
Eight has no idea what Four is talking about. "A type of what?"
"Boy."
Eight blinks. "How does one 'have' a type of male? Are you referring to slavery? Octarians do not practice such a thing."
Four sputters a laugh. "What? No, no."
"Are you referring to breed then? Blue-ringed versus dumbo and the like?"
"Not quite."
Eight frowns, thinking. "Status perhaps? Servant boys or scouts or commanders?"
"Uh… that might be a part of it I guess." Four says, scratching her mantle. "I meant more personality and appearance."
"I see." Eight says. "But what does that have to do with me 'having' those traits, but for a boy?"
"Like, romantically."
Eight is even more lost. "I do not understand."
"Ah, you'll understand when you're older then."
"I'm twenty."
Four chokes. "You- I- what?"
"I'm twenty." She repeats, in case she wasn't clear before.
"Twenty. Twenty." Four repeats, staring at her. "And here I thought I had a coworker my age…"
Eight tilts her head. "How old are you then?"
"...teen." Four grumbles, too quiet to hear.
"Louder please."
"Fourteen!" Four barks, annoyed. "I'm fourteen okay!? Don't tell Marie."
"Why not?"
Now Four just looks embarrassed. "Just don't. Please."
"Is it because she's older than you too?"
Four doesn't say anything. She stomps deeper into the base.
"Does she not know you're so young? Is it a problem somehow?"
"Not talking about this!" Four shouts, vaguely waving an arm back at Eight. "Nuh-uh! Not happening!"
"Why? Are you in trouble?"
"Nope! Totally fine! All good here! No need to ask more! Forget I said anything!"
Their conversation is effectively done after that. Four won't meet Eight's eye for the rest of the patrol.
###
"Eight!" Auntie Marina calls, greeting her 'niece' with a hug. There's no special occasion. Eight saw her two days ago and talked to her only a few hours ago. Auntie Marina is just cuddly.
(Most octolings are. Eight would be much more so if she didn't live with someone who is the model of politeness and restraint, and since her job is no place to be touchy, she can only really be so around her aunties.)
"Hey Auntie." Eight says, trying to match Auntie Marina's force and making sure their tentacles don't get too tangled.
"You're late!" Auntie Pearl shouts from somewhere deeper in the mansion. "I've had the game set up for minutes!"
"Sorry Auntie!"
"Fuck you, I'm not that old!"
"Sorry Little Auntie!"
"That's even worse!"
"Sorry… Princess Auntie?"
"Do I have to be an Auntie?"
"Yes." Both Eight and Marina say at the same time. Marina continues. "Being named an aunt is a very high honor in Octarian society."
"Fine, whatever. Just get over here so we can play."
Auntie Marina untangles herself from Eight so they can actually walk, and they join the impatient inkling a few rooms over.
Eight already considers Three's apartment incredible, but Auntie Pearl's home is fit for Octavio himself. There's so much space, so many rooms, and everything is bright and shiny like the sun itself has come down to bless the building.
(Auntie Pearl doesn't seem to find it all that fascinating. Actually, she calls it 'pretentious and annoying' when asked.)
As soon as Eight sees Auntie Pearl, she acts just as any good Octarian child would towards a parental figure and hugs her until she complains about being strangled.
"I swear to cod, you and Marina are going to choke me out one of these days." Auntie Pearl grumbles as Eight puts her back down on the couch. "You Octarians and your hugging. Sheesh."
"I am simply being a good niece."
"Yeah, well, be less good then."
"I cannot."
"Figures."
"You like being hugged Pearlie." Auntie Marina says, sitting next to Auntie Pearl.
"Not when I'm trying to kick ass at Squid Bros." Auntie Pearl huffs, batting aside some of Auntie Marina's tentacles that teasingly grab her (much less flexible) tentacles. Eight also spies some embarrassed color flickering across Auntie Pearl's mantle.
Auntie Marina winks at Eight over Auntie Pearl's head and whispers "I'm working on her." in Octarian. Eight smiles and tries not to giggle.
"I know Octarian you dicks."
This time Eight giggles out loud.
After they all choose their characters (and Auntie Marina stops trying to sneak a tentacle onto Auntie Pearl), the three of them settle into silence for a minute as Eight and Auntie Marina try not to instantly lose to Auntie Pearl's superior experience. Once it has been thoroughly established that they're going to lose anyways, Auntie Marina speaks again.
"So, Three told us that he took you to Ammo Knights. Did you end up getting a weapon?"
"I did." Eight confirms. "The Tenta Sorella Brella."
"Why am I even your 'Auntie' if you only take after Marina?" Auntie Pearl huffs. "So why that one in particular?"
"Three."
"What about him?"
"I want to push him into a wall." Eight says simply.
Auntie Marina snorts and starts laughing softly. Auntie Pearl just sounds confused. "Is this another Octarian thing?"
"I don't know." Eight says.
"Yes. Yes it is." Auntie Marina laughs. "So what was it about the Tenta Sorella in particular? Why not some other brella?"
"Three claimed to have a particular issue with the Tenta, and stated that they always push him against walls because he cannot break the canopy." Eight says. "I wish to replicate this. The Sorella variant had a splash wall, which seemed fitting for my goal."
"So you chose your weapon entirely to push Three into a wall? Like, in a literal sense?" Auntie Pearl questions, still not quite understanding the context.
"Yes…?" It's a bit more than that, but Eight doesn't know how to explain.
"It's literal, but also a euphemism." Auntie Marina says, apparently taking the duty of explaining onto herself. "Eight was a foot soldier, Pearlie."
"Yeah, your point?"
"Remember what I've told you about foot soldiers and servant boys?"
"What? That they both don't get enough food?" Auntie Pearl asks. She soundly takes Eight's last stock, despite her distraction. "Foot soldiers are all girls and they bully the servants 'cuz they're weak as squit? Hierarchy abuse?"
"Think stock tropes." Auntie Marina prompts. "Why wall pushing happens."
Auntie Pearl squints, thinking. "That was… the messed-up romance thing, right? Everyone is tired and frustrated and hungry, feelings are icky, it's impossible to tell teasing, mocking, flirting, and bullying apart, so pushing your boy against a secluded wall and kissing the shell outta him is the best way any girl can think of to actually get their intent across?"
Auntie Marina nods. "Yep."
"Huh." Auntie Pearl turns an appraising eye on her niece. "Well, go get 'em girl. Just try not to be an ass about it. No niece of mine is going to be a bully."
"Yes Auntie."
"Consent and all that. People are equals here."
"Yes Auntie."
"Cool. Now pick your coddamn character already. It's been ten minutes and we've played one match." She says impatiently, gesturing to Eight's controller. "Stop making me be a responsible parent."
Eight smiles. "Sorry Auntie."
###
She's never seen Three sleep.
Actually, there are several things she's never seen Three do, but sleep is the most important of them. He always goes to bed after her, but still wakes up before her. He claims to have 'other accommodations' that he uses (because he gave her the bed), but he must put whatever it is away before she wakes up because she's never actually seen it. She can't find it anywhere in the apartment either. He must hide it very well. A fold-up mattress with a hidden deploy switch, maybe?
She's also never seen Three do any sort of hobby, or even play a game or something. She knows her Aunties sing and make music and do the news as a job, but they also play games, Auntie Marina messes around with her bike and other tech and machines, and Auntie Pearl keeps a sharp eye on the indie music and movie scenes.
Three does none of that. He works at the Splatoon, and when he's not working, he's with her. His apartment has a few single-player board games, a last-gen game console with five games, and a small TV, but is otherwise quite barren. It's not cheap or worn or anything, and Three doesn't seem to have money issues, he simply hasn't bothered to put much in his apartment.
Eight didn't give much thought to what life Three had before her or the Splatoon. She's never asked, and Three has never offered, and the lack of personal effects has made it easy to not consider the question, but it's been nagging at the back of Eight's mind the last few days. She knows he does turf wars sometimes, but is that a hobby? Training? Actually, what does he like? Aside from the mention of turf war, he's said precisely nothing about himself. He actively deflects attention, if anything.
She knows only what she's seen. He's short, pale, has a naturally grey to black color gradient on his mantle, gentle blue eyes, soft but well-maintained facial features, an acid burn stretching from around his right eye to his ear (courtesy of Tartar), and clothing with just enough give that his lithe muscle is entirely invisible beneath it. With a straight back but perpetually down-cast eyes, he looks like some sort of timid, frail, upper-class boy by Eight's estimation. That's pretty much the extent of her knowledge on Three. His physical appearance, his job, his general mannerisms, and 'maybe he likes turf wars'.
Either way, Eight isn't going to let her one lead go to waste. If Three (maybe) likes turf wars, then by cod she's going to play turf wars with him. At the very least it should be a casual enough situation to ask more questions.
"You went through the tutorial alley, right?"
"Yes, though I doubt its effectiveness in training soldiers…" A few balloons and crates seem woefully insufficient.
"It's meant to make sure kids that have never touched a Splattershot before know which end is which. It does what it has to." Three hum as he punches in his password into the terminal next to Eight, accepting a team request and joining Eight in matchmaking. "This is a sport, Eight. Not a training exercise."
"But you treat it as one, yes?"
"Yes. But that's a personal choice."
"Why?"
"I may as well make good use of my free time." He says simply. "It is not like I have any other use for it."
Spoken like a good soldier. Eight doesn't like it. "You have nothing else you do in your free time?"
"Not anymore."
"What about those games in your apartment?"
"Remnants of my less focused years."
She really doesn't like the sound of that.
"Ah, we've got a match. Come on."
The ink pad underneath their feet activates, coloring in a bright pink, and they both shift their ink to match and dive in. The rapid transport tubes shoot them down to Arowana Mall, where they reform next to an E-Liter 4K and Inkbrush Nouveau.
"I'm inking left!" The Inkbrush girl says cheerfully before anyone else has a chance to speak.
"Overlooking center from right." The E-liter grunts in return.
"I guess we're center then, Eight." Three hums.
"Yes." Eight eyes the unfamiliar battlefield, hands gripping the trigger of her weapon. "I will defend you."
"It's a game, Eight. No need to sound so serious."
"I will protect you." She repeats, brandishing her brella.
"I- well- thank you?" Three says, blinking in mild confusion.
The Inkbrush seems to find their small conversation interesting, her eyes practically shining with a smile splitting her face, while the E-liter appears frustrated.
"Why do I always get the weirdos on my team?" The E-liter grumbles under his breath, looking away as a screen to our left counts down. "Just once, please cod, can I have a normal game?"
The Inkbrush gives Eight a thumbs up, which she doesn't understand at all.
The start signal blares, and their team splits into action. Three takes point, painting them a narrow path towards a strange hump in the center of the arena.
(Eight thought this was supposed to be a mall. This looks much more like a parkour course than a mall.)
A roller comes leaping over the hump with a loud cry. Both Eight and Three have their weapons on him in an instant, and the inkling is splatted before he hits the ground.
"Are all competitors that predictable?"
"No. Just most of them."
"Kenza incoming!" The E-liter barks, appearing on his sniping perch. "Ballpoint support!"
"Push up or fall back?" Three asks, which throws Eight for a loop. In training for the Splatoon, he always takes charge.
"Push." She answers after only a moment, and fires her brella to force it open before stomping up the ramp while Three lobs a point sensor ahead of her.
Chaos greets her at the top of the ramp. A rapid barrage of shots hit the canopy of her brella from the left while the Kenza strafes right. The E-Liter does his job and picks off the Kenza with a bit of support from Three, but that leaves the Ballpoint still firing on them and a Tri Slosher sneaking out from the right path.
"Wall out." Eight barks, throwing her Ink Wall to temporarily block the Ballpoint and shifting her canopy towards the Tri. Three slips in behind her, laying down fire to force the Ballpoint back.
It's a familiar feeling. Bombs soaring overhead, the wail of a stingray, fighting back-to-back with a fellow soldier… it's like being a soldier again, but with less starvation, mindless marching, and fear of death.
"Ballpoint down. Using Missiles."
"Shielding. Dynamo incoming. Suppressing." Eight replies just as quickly. Her shield snaps up for just a moment to shield Three from a vertical flick, and then she draws forth her Curling Bomb Launcher and sends a dozen of them rushing down the hill to keep the Dynamo at bay.
They weave attacks, reloads, and specials together in a seamless river of ink, completely walling off the center platform from the enemy team. The E-liter gets splatted, the Inkbrush dives in to take out the Ballpoint, but both of them stand unmoved atop that ramp. Only specials can displace them, and even then it's mostly a quick trip out to deliver a brutal reprisal to the offending special user.
Eight is so focused on the paths in front of her that she doesn't notice that someone has made their way around behind until Three shouts "Contact, twelve o'clock!" and she swings her brella around with Three shifting to her side just in time for her canopy to catch the wave of ink the Dynamo throws at their faces. A quick volley from Three finishes him, only to reveal the Kenza behind, but Eight doesn't have time to think about that. They also have a Ballpoint at their back.
She makes the decision without thinking. She drops her Ink Wall in the Ballpoint's line of fire, wraps an arm around Three, and rolls off the side of the platform to avoid the Kenza's attack.
Eight lands hard on her back in their team's ink with Three landing on top of her in turn. Three tries to roll away, but Eight is quicker. Her legs snap around his waist to lock him in place and she opens her brella's canopy to cover both of them, blocking a hail of bullets and a suction bomb courtesty of the Kenza. If Three had rolled away, he would have had no such cover.
"I said I would protect you." Eight huffs as ink starts to wear down her brella. "We have two seconds until my canopy flies."
"Launch at him and shift, I'll cover until you can wall again." Three says. His expression is serious but Eight can see a faint dusting of color on his cheeks, and she suddenly feels very proud of herself.
They don't have time to discuss more (or dwell on their position, as much as Eight might want to). She unlocks her legs, shifts her brella to the side, and lets the canopy fly. As soon as it detaches she shifts into octo form and drops into her ink, and she can hear more than see Three's rhythmic burst-fire as he fights the Kenza taking cover behind the lip of the ramp.
After two agonizing seconds of watching Three weave she finally has enough ink for a wall… and it quickly proves unnecessary as the Inkbrush ambushes the Kenza from behind with a Baller and splats him.
The Inkbrush then winks at Eight, gives her another thumbs-up, and runs off to immediately get splatted by the Ballpoint.
"I don't understand inklings." Eight says after a moment.
"No, that's just Inkbrush mains. They're all like that." Three says. Eight isn't sure if he's making a joke. "Come on, there's twenty seconds left. We need to move."
Those last twenty seconds pass in a blur as the two of them make a blind push into enemy territory to get as much ink spread as possible. By the time the whistle has blown and the two of them superjump back to spawn and dive through the pipes back to Deca Tower.
The Inkbrush girl is practically vibrating in place when they arrive, her face split with a stupid grin, and the E-liter is tapping his foot impatiently.
It's not a surprise when they're declared the victor. Both Eight and Three have no deaths, and the inky path they cut through the enemy's turf in the last twenty seconds is plainly visible on the screen. The E-liter had the most splats surprisingly enough, while Three has the most specials with a staggering ten Tenta Missile launches when no one else has more than five specials used.
"Mmm, good enough." The E-liter grunts, walking away without saying more.
"Yes! We're awesome!" The Inkbrush cheers. She then grabs Eight's hands and shakes them vigorously, saying, "I'm rooting for you!" before rushing off to the nearest terminal to organize another match.
"That was… exciting." Eight says after a second of relative quiet. "I can see why inklings enjoy this."
"I'm glad." Three says, frustratingly neutral with his ever-calm smile. Where is that cute blush from a few minutes ago? Why does he have to be so good at putting on a mask? "Do you want to go again?"
"Do you?" Eight turns the question around.
"That's not important here." Three deflects. But this time, Eight will not be distracted by a gentle smile and a nice voice and soft blue eyes!
"It is. This is supposed to be fun. I want you to have fun."
"Ah." Three blinks, as if this information is somehow surprising to him. Eight would be offended if she wasn't starting to worry that maybe Three has some issues she's not aware of. Based on what he said before they started turfing, he apparently has zero hobbies and considers his games a reminder of being 'less focused', and now her simple declaration of wanting him to have fun is surprising? That's concerning. This feels like how Eight would have acted back when she was in the army. "I… I suppose I would like to play again."
"You suppose?" Eight squints. "That is not a real answer."
Three's hand fidgets on his gun. It's a slow fidget that might be mistaken for an honest adjustment if he hadn't been holding his gun perfectly fine before. "I do not know what to tell you."
"Your honest opinion. Did you have fun?"
Three mulls the question over for a moment. "...yes. Yes I did. I think."
"You think."
"I think." Three agrees. "Fun isn't something I've focused on in a few… in a while. It's a bit unfamiliar, but I think this is it."
"Then we should play more." Eight says, pushing aside her other concerns for the moment. "And don't try to run from me this time."
"Of course. You have my trust."
They play for nearly three more hours until the after-school rush starts and they're inundated with kids and the two of them decide that's as good a time as any to leave.
###
It's hard not to like Eight. She's cute. That's all the reason Callie needs. The fact that she's a fellow agent and may or may not have something to do with it for Marie.
That doesn't mean they aren't watching her carefully. New agents need to be monitored in general, but this new agent is living alongside their resident pushover workaholic so they're being extra watchful.
"Callie, she can see you."
"Shh! Only if you're loud like that!"
"I'm not being loud. Actually, I'm fairly sure my voice is quieter than your footsteps. Do you even remember your agent training?"
"Well excuse me for not being an expert stalker."
"You're never going to let that go, are you?" Marie sighs. "I did that once. It was a joke. She was fine with it. She thought it was cool."
"She's fourteen!"
"And we only know that because I stalked her. You're welcome."
"I'm not the one who wants-" Callie bites back whatever she was going to say. "Look, are you going to help me, or are you going to snark at me the entire time?"
"We don't need to stalk them, Callie." Marie hums, taking a sip of tea. "Let them go."
"But-"
"We have security cameras, remember? There's no need to follow them around. Just watch them from the shack."
Callie stops and turns to stare at her cousin, a grin creeping across her face. "Marie, you're a genius."
"I know."
"Are you coming?"
"Mmm…" Marie considers it. On one hand, she is curious, but on the other hand, she can go through the footage later. On the other other hand, this isn't necessary at all. "Third option."
"Yeah?"
"Just ask them to lunch."
"What? Why?"
"You're worried about Three and just want to be nosy in general, right?"
"Excuse you!"
Marie raises an eyebrow.
"...okay, yes, fine, I do."
"Well Eight is a sweetheart and Three is a pushover. They're not going to refuse."
"Refuse what?" Eight asks, having walked over as Callie had her back turned. Marie saw her coming, but Callie yelps in surprise. Three stands just behind Eight, ever patient.
"We were considering inviting you to lunch." Marie says smoothly, as her cousin recovers. "I'll pay, of course. Unless you have other plans?"
"I was going to cook, so no." Three says.
"Maybe we should do that instead." Callie says. "Now that Three has a guest he probably won't cook for us anymore Marie!"
Marie rolls her eyes. "Oh no, you'll have to learn to boil water. What a travesty."
"I can still cook for you sometimes." Three offers.
Callie cheers, and Eight frowns. Eight's expression is only there for a moment, but Marie catches it. She sips her tea contemplatively before speaking. "Give us a moment to change into our disguises."
After fussing with Callie to put her beanie on properly, Maria leads the way back through the sewers and exits in an alley near Inkopolis Square. She does not lead them through the square itself, but instead a quaint little bakery nearby.
"I usually get something from here to keep on my desk when doing my show." Marie explains as they step through the door. "I suppose I don't really need set dressing since it's over radio, but it helps get me in the right headspace. Besides, I end up eating what I get over the break."
"Ooh!" Callie says, as if she hasn't been here a dozen times herself. "Marie's special place~!"
"It's not that special." Marie refutes. "They just have good food."
"Have you brought Four here before?" Callie asks.
"I don't see how that's pertinent right now, Callie." Marie says a bit sharply. Honestly, her cousin is too easily distracted sometimes. "But no, I haven't."
"Poor Four, being left out." Callie says, smiling. "You'll just have to bring her here later, alone, right?"
"Anyways." Marie says loudly. Her cousin isn't subtle either. "Get whatever you feel like."
They all purchase some food (muffins mostly) and settle around a table. Marie waits a few minutes to allow Eight and Three to get comfortable, and then a few more to see if Callie is going to initiate questioning.
She's not disappointed. Callie's restraint (or lack thereof) is predictable, especially when it comes to romance.
"So, what have you guys done?" Callie asks, eagerly leaning over the table. "Been enjoying Inkopolis, Eight?"
"I have." Eight says. Her golden eyes nervously meet Callie's, then drop shyly to the table, and Marie is reminded that Eight is a fan of theirs. "We have played Turf Wars, and eaten at restaurants, and gone shopping, though much time has also been spent resting. We are still tired."
Three merely nods his agreement.
"Hey, I get that. Took me a month to fully recover from the hypnoshades." Callie sighs.
Calli still rubs her face whenever she hears or sees something unusual as a subtle check that the shades are indeed off and she hasn't been imagining her freedom, she can't fall asleep if she's alone, and she needs some sort of noise (be that music or conversation) around her at all times or she starts to hallucinate faint Octarian military music.
Marie decides not to comment that Callie has by no means 'fully' recovered. Actually, she should probably check with Three in private to make sure he doesn't have any similar aftereffects. Tartar's mind-control was different from the hypnoshades and not nearly as long lasting, but it was still mind-control.
"But Turf Wars? Joined Three's training, Eight? What weapon do you use?" Callie pesters.
"Yes, Turf Wars. No, it was for fun, not training. Tenta Sorella Brella." Eight answers efficiently. "We won every time."
"Of course you did, Three's an expert." Callie says, throwing a teasing wink at the still-silent Three. The faintest flicker of green appears at the back of his mantle; the only sign that the praise even registered.
Well, it's an improvement over stoic nods, non-reactions, and confusion as to why compliments were being offered at all, as if there has to be some motive like they're giving him a performance review or something.
"He is." Eight agrees. "He is fun to play with."
"Is he now?" Callie asks, the corner of her smile twitching as it threatens to break into an outright grin. The green waves of color dancing at the edge of her tentacles give away her amusement at Eight's phrasing.
Marie pinches her nose and sighs. Three silently nibbles his muffin, eyes fixed on his plate. The bit of pink tinging the edge of his tentacles does make her curious though. Usually he wouldn't react to this sort of teasing.
"Yes." Eight affirms. "He is."
Callie hums happily.
"Have you never played with him?" Eight asks.
"We have." Marie says, speaking up. "Not very often, however. We were and are rather busy, and Three takes little enough time off as-is that we don't like infringing."
"I would not have an issue with it." Three says quietly. It's the first Marie has actually heard him speak today.
"Yeah, and that's the problem." Callie huffs, poking Three in the forehead. "You always 'don't mind'. I'm not sure I've ever seen you refuse a request or even a suggestion of any sort! We can't trust you to say no when you need to, so we gotta play it safe."
Well, that's more blunt than Marie was hoping to be, but Callie isn't wrong. Three, already staring at his muffin, ducks his head even more with his mantle flickering a shamed white.
"Don't do that." Callie groans. "Just… stand up for yourself or something. We worry."
That only seems to embarrass him more. Eight, however, is paying rapt attention to this exchange, and Marie can see her taking mental notes.
Good. It's been stressful not knowing if there's anyone else looking out for Three. Certainly not his family, and she's not sure if he has any actual friends. With Eight around, maybe she and Callie can stop worrying so much.
"Come on, please stop flashing white, you're making me feel like an ass." Callie whines. "You don't need to apologize."
Three forcefully neutralizes his mantle to black, which really isn't much better because it means he's suppressing his expressions to obey Callie.
"No- I- just-" Callie wrings her hands and glances at Marie and Eight for help.
"Stop, Callie, it's fine." Marie sighs.
Eight is frowning outright. One of her tentacles hesitantly pats Three on the shoulder while her hands tightly grip her plate in obvious discomfort at this whole situation. The three girls wait for a few seconds, Marie chewing, Callie fidgeting, and Eight watching, until Three's color settles back to its usual gradient.
He still doesn't look up, but that's to be expected.
"So." Marie says, taking the reins again after that disaster. "Callie has been curious-"
"Hey!"
"-are you alternating turns in the bed or did Eight insist you take it, Three?"
"Neither." Eight responds. "Three has some form of alternate accommodation, so I have used the bed thus far."
"What sort of alternate accommodation?" Marie prods, knowing exactly where this is going.
"I am unsure." Eight admits, glancing at Three. "He did not specify."
"It's the couch, isn't it?" Calli groans.
"I hope he would tell me… if…" Eight trails off when she notices how Three has turned his head away from her slightly. "Three."
"Yes Eight?" Three says, somehow keeping his voice to its usual polite tone.
"Where do you sleep at night?"
"I have other accommodations."
"Which are?"
Three swallows. "...a couch."
Eight is pissed. She is very obviously pissed even if her tentacles don't flush red like an inkling's would when they're mad. Instead, her tentacles writhe and strangle the air in their frustration. "You lied to me."
"I did not." Three refutes instantly.
"A couch is not 'other accommodations'."
"Yes it is. The couch is large enough."
Eight squints. "Is it comfortable?"
"Comfortable enough."
"That's not an answer. You are taking the bed tonight."
"You are my guest." Three says firmly, because of course he can only be firm in the service of someone that isn't himself. "I will not have you sleep on the couch."
"Then we will share." Eight says.
Callie's face lights up like a squidmas light, and Marie presses a finger to her lips to remind Callie not to gasp or otherwise interrupt.
"Eight." Three says, looking up. "I'm not sure if you're aware, but for inklings-"
"I am aware of what it usually means." Eight responds curtly. "Unless you will take it for yourself, we will share."
Three clearly wants to argue, but as always, he crumbles in the face of someone else's desires. "A-Alright…"
Well, at least this time he's being pushed into sleeping in his own damn bed rather than something bad. Marie will have to content herself with that for now.
###
Octolings are… not clingy. Clingy has the wrong connotations. Cuddly maybe? At the very least they- and by they he means Eight- are attracted to heat sources when they sleep.
Three is a heat source.
So that's why the octoling is holding him like a teddy bear. He's lying on his back, her on her side. Her chin rests on the top of his head, arms around his chest (his left is pinned against her, and his right free), and legs gripping his waist. Three can also feel some of her tentacles holding his own, and at least one sucker attached to his cheek.
It's not uncomfortable. Embarrassing maybe, but not uncomfortable. If anything it's comforting. Three had forgotten what a hug feels like. He's not sure how he's supposed to sleep like this though. He should probably try to extract himself to be polite, but waking up Eight would be rude.
What would a good host do here? What would his parents suggest?
(His father would never have let this happen in the first place. His mother would be scandalized. Both would be angry. He remembers why he left.)
So he's left to his own judgment then, unless he can conjure to his mind a good idea that someone else would say.
(Calli would give him a thumbs up. Marie would ask him why this is a problem at all. Four would call him lucky. The Captain would laugh. Pearl and Marina would squint at him, but seeing as Eight insisted on this, they probably wouldn't complain.)
Eight shifts in her sleep, mumbling something under her breath. Her legs clench around his waist, and Three freezes, waiting anxiously. This feels all too familiar.
"I said I would protect you." Eight's voice echoes in the back of his head. Gold eyes bored into him, indignant at his attempt to pull away. Strong legs were wrapped around his waist, keeping him from moving and keeping him on top of her, one hand awkwardly gripping his weapon while the other was planted on the ground, and his head resting on her chest. Their potentially compromising position was not even a consideration to Eight. She neither mentioned it nor seemed to care. Only his worry made it awkward.
Maybe it's the same here. This is not a problem. Everything he's seen from Eight indicates she won't care. His own paranoia is the only issue here. If he's comfortable, that's fine. He doesn't need to think too hard about it. He is not being a bad host, he is allowing his guest to do what she wants.
He doesn't understand why she's so insistent on him having fun, or his comfort, but it's not his place to refute her.
So Three makes a concentrated effort to calm himself. His embarrassment is unnecessary, as there is no one here to see. Eight will only be upset if he leaves or doesn't manage to sleep. He can sleep like this, probably. As long as Eight stops moving her legs, because she has nice thighs and hips and it's very distracting.
It takes maybe a bit too long to actually fall asleep because he's hyper-aware of every little move Eight makes, but eventually his eyes close and he drifts off, leaning into the heat Eight provides.
###
Three isn't awake. That's new.
He looks very small when he sleeps. He's always small of course, but it's especially obvious when he's not moving, not talking, not guiding her, not taking action. He looks… peaceful. Maybe a bit fragile.
Eight doesn't want to move for fear of waking him. She didn't intend to grab at him last night, but that's how she found herself waking up this morning. She spent nearly two minutes carefully peeling her suckers off his face and mantle and was relieved to find they hadn't latched hard enough to leave a mark. That might have been embarrassing to explain, and she feels like she's already going to have a hard time convincing Three to at least share the bed again if he wakes up like this.
Or maybe he won't complain because, as she's recently learned, he is incapable of standing up for himself.
That complicates things for her. How can she go ahead with trying to kiss this boy if she knows he wouldn't say no even if he wanted to?
(No, that's rude. She shouldn't suggest that he has literally no ability to choose what he wants. She used to be an obedient drone until she heard a wonderful song, and even then it took her over a year of small rebellions until she finally took the leap and deserted. Besides, Three will be honest if she asks the right questions.)
She can still go ahead with her plan, she'll just need to be a bit less aggressive about it than she was intending and talk a bit more to make sure they're both on the same page.
But first! Does she move, or… oh who is she kidding? What self-respecting Octarian would pass up a hug? Maybe Octavio, but he's a bitter meanie (probably because he doesn't get enough hugs). She can imagine the disappointment on Auntie Marina's face if she told her she abandoned an opportunity to cuddle just to go sit on the couch or something.
So she waits. She has the sun's warmth on her back and Three's heat to her front, no orders being barked at her, no tests to take, and the promise of food and doing pretty much whatever she feels like today.
(Probably shopping. Her military uniform is getting tight. She doesn't know how she managed to grow so much as to strain it in two weeks when it's fit fine for the last three years, but whatever. Besides, while her Aunties have lent her clothes, she wants some of her own.)
She doesn't notice Three is awake until he taps her on the arm. He somehow maintained his utter stillness even when waking up.
His expression (frustratingly) is neutral, and when he speaks, he doesn't speak about their situation at all. "Are you hungry? I hope you haven't been waiting long."
"I am, and I have not." Eight says. She decides that if Three isn't going to mention it, she will. "I hope I did not make you uncomfortable."
"No, it was not an issue." Three says quickly. Eight is delighted to spot the barest hint of pink dance across his mantle. She doesn't really understand inkling color language, but any sort of reaction is better than nothing. She can always ask Auntie Pearl what it means later. "Shall we eat?"
"Okay."
She reluctantly allows Three to go. He changes in the bathroom and she in the room. She squeezes into her military uniform (she plans to go out today, after all) and sighs at how her skirt digs into her hip. The skirt fit snugly not two weeks ago. How absurd.
Maybe it's because she's eating more. Actually, it's almost certainly because she's eating more. Over three times more in fact. Is it really a surprise she's gaining weight now that she's no longer eating merely two small bowls of soup and a handful of vegetables a day?
This is a good thing, Eight decides. Mildly inconvenient to her old clothes, but a good thing.
When she steps out of the room, still adjusting the waistband of her skirt, Three is already cooking. He doesn't say anything until the food is done, which only takes a few minutes.
"Where are we going today?" Three asks, sitting down with the last plate of food.
How did he know? "Shopping."
"For what?"
"Clothes. My Aunties gave me some, but I want my own. And this is a bit tight." She says, gesturing to her uniform.
"Ah, efficiency exit is kicking in I suppose?" Three says, like she has any idea what that means.
"Efficiency exit?"
"Yes. EES? Efficiency Exit Syndrome?" Three says. "Am I wrong? The Captain was the one who mentioned it to me. He'd theorized about it for a while, but Marina was apparently the one who confirmed it existed."
Eight is drawing a blank. "I do not recognize the term, but I am also of much lower rank than Auntie Marina was. She was privy to much more information than me."
"Ah, well… I better check if the Captain has his information right then." Three frowns. "I took his word for it. Perhaps I should have been more thorough. I would have assumed Marina told you if it was important."
"I trust the Captain." Eight says. "But I would like more information. I can call Auntie Marina."
"They're probably doing the news right now. Maybe a text would be a better idea." Three suggests.
"Yes, that's a good idea. Also, "Can I watch them?"
"Of course." Three says, standing up before Eight has the chance too and grabbing the remote for the television. "You don't need to ask me."
Eight watches her Aunties as she eats, while Three composes a quick message to them to clarify the Captain's words.
It's barely a minute after her Aunties spout their catchphrase and are no longer on the screen that Three receives a reply. He flicks it open and places his phone on the table so she can see.
The reply is long, considering it was probably written in under a minute.
DJ_Hyperfresh: "Yes he's telling the truth. I totally forgot to tell Eight about it! There's a report from back before the Great Turf War that's still pretty accurate today. Go to the Inkling National Scientific History Archive website and type in 'Octarian Starvation Recovery'. Should be the first result. I'll explain more some other time. Busy today."
DJ_Hyperfresh: "Say hi to Eight for me!"
"Well." Three says. "It doesn't sound like anything urgent if she's so casual about it."
"I am still worried." Eight says.
"Well that's… fair." Three coughs. "Shall we look?"
"Yes please."
The paper is rather difficult to parse due to two century old academic phrasing and extremely technical terminology. The fact that Three can barely understand it makes Eight feel a lot better about losing track of what it's trying to say after the first paragraph.
Thankfully, while the paper is a mess of annoying jargon, a quick search on Seanet using the paper's title nets a much more understandable summary by some Octarian history enthusiast.
"So basically you Octarians have this thing called Efficiency Mode in response to starvation conditions, where your body shuts down everything it doesn't need to function at that very moment." Three explains with a frown as he reads. "You heal just enough to keep you going and nothing more, and you might not notice because you won't feel as much pain as you should."
Most of the paper, however, is concerned with the process known as Efficiency Exit Syndrome (EES) and Rapid Onset Efficiency Exit Syndrome (ROEES), which is the process of coming out of efficiency mode after the body confirms a normal level of food intake over the course of a few months.
"So… short version." Three says. "Takes about four months if you're physically active, two if you're not, which is the rapid onset version. First three months are basically your body preparing to enter a healing state. First three months you gain somewhere between thirty to sixty pounds, mostly in the first month because your body is still trying to stockpile energy instead of use it, some sensory sensitivity starts in month two as your senses get switched back to normal functioning, not much for month three, and then in month four you are going to be bedridden for between one week to a full month depending on the severity of your injuries as your body activates long-term systems and kicks your immune system to full blast again and starts purging your illnesses and breaking down temporary repairs to start the long-term stuff."
"I see."
"Oh, and if you were in efficiency mode for puberty, it fixes some of the stunted growth from lack of nutrition too, so you might gain some height and even more weight."
"Ah." Eight blinks. "That is… a lot."
"Yes; and that's the extremely simplified version." Three says, frowning. "I am somewhat concerned that severe starvation was a persistent enough issue over a long enough period of time that your entire species developed a highly specialized response to it."
"Food rationing is a fact of life for Octarians. You are involved in it from the day you turn three years old until the day you die." Eight says. "I am not sure there is a point in our recorded history where we have not had food shortages."
Three is visibly perturbed.
"It would seem I have three months to enjoy myself before I must suffer." Eight says. She's not particularly looking forward to that, but if it must happen, she will endure. A small price to pay for good health.
"Then we better take advantage of those three months." Three says. "And find something for you to do when you're stuck in bed. And get another apartment."
"Why?"
Three twitches, averting his eyes like he's said something wrong. "Sorry, that's presumptuous. Assuming you're not going to move out on your own, we should get another apartment. If you want other arrangements, we can of course figure that out as well."
Eight is suddenly unreasonably happy, but she suppresses any visible reaction for a moment. She needs to confirm something. "Why is it presumptuous?"
"I shouldn't assume you're going to stay with me."
"Why not?"
"You might not want to. You're not stuck with me. This arrangement was to help you get accustomed to Inkopolis and inkling society."
"I want to."
"Oh." Again, she gets to see that lovely blush cross his face before he schools himself into neutrality again.
"Do you want me to? Please be honest."
"I… yes. Yes, I would."
Now Eight allows herself to smile. "Then there is no issue."
She supposes that there is a chance she will learn something in the next few months that will change her mind about Three, but she doubts it.
"But first we will go shopping."
"Of course."
###
He's fairly sure Eight is… mocking him? No, mocking is too malicious, especially for Eight. Three knows what mockery is, and it's not amused smiles while trying on new clothes and seeming delight every time he trips over a word or doesn't restrain his mantle's coloration enough.
Is it teasing? Maybe teasing. He might even dare to call it flirtation, though distinguishing the two has always been difficult.
(And by 'difficult' he means he's never managed to distinguish it at all, so he hopes he isn't misreading this.)
Either way, Eight seems to be enjoying herself. The myriad of shops around Inkopolis Square gives the octoling no shortage of new styles to try, though she seems to gravitate to the more punk styled clothes that resemble her uniform.
(He's fairly sure she tried on that miniskirt just to get a rise out of him. She laughed when he looked away. What else was he supposed to do? It was clearly a size too small. Staring would have been rude.)
At least she's having fun. While Three doesn't quite understand fashion, he understands the joy of shopping for yourself. He hasn't done it in a long while, but he was the one who picked out his own wardrobe. It might seem boring to most people that he wears nothing but grey and black with no logos or decorations or even patterns, but those people weren't forced to wear whatever their parents thought they should wear until they were sixteen and moved out. His parents would never have allowed him to wear something so simple, with not even a brand deal to make it worthwhile, and that's exactly why he wears what he does.
"This one is good!" Eight announces far too loudly. It's a good thing they're not here at peak hours or someone might complain. 'This one', incidentally, is a sleek red crop top with short sleeves that doesn't even drop below her ribs, because Eight is apparently allergic to covering her stomach in any way. The top has a black dragon logo plastered across the front and black hems as well. It fits surprisingly well with her normal synth-leather skirt.
At least, it does in Three's estimation. Again, he doesn't understand fashion. "It is. Do keep in mind, however, that you will likely have to replace it in a few weeks if you get it at that size."
"And then again in a few months, if I grow during healing." Eight says.
"That too, yes."
"Hmm… I should get two then. One size bigger than this, so I don't outgrow it too quickly, and then another for after healing."
"If you want." Three says.
"Will that cost many money tokens?" Eight asks.
"You can just say money. And no, not in itself." Three says. "I have quite a bit of unspent money, the Splatoon pays well. Don't worry about the cost."
Eight pauses, thinking, then squints at him and says "I am a part of the Splatoon, yes?"
"Yes."
"So I get paid too, yes?"
"...yes." Three says reluctantly, a vague idea in his mind where this is going.
"Have you been using my pay or yours for my needs?"
"Mine, of course."
Eight scowls. Three looks away. "You knew I would disapprove of this, did you not?"
"I had a vague idea." Three admits.
"Then why did you do it?"
"Because there's no point in you wasting money when I have plenty to spare."
"So you went behind my back." Eight accuses.
"No. I simply neglected to mention it." Three mumbles. "I want you to enjoy yourself."
Eight makes a noise of irritation while Three continues to look away. He yelps in surprise when she grabs his arm and pulls him into the changing room, and then again when she very firmly grabs him under his shoulders, lifts him off the ground, plants his back against the wall, and then steps in so close that her feet touch the wall below him and her body is pressed against him. Her face is only an inch away, eyes boring into his. "You, Agent Three, frustrate me immensely."
"S-Sorry." Is this intimidation? Was using his own money really that much of an issue? He didn't intend to be manipulative. His motives really are just what he said they are.
"You consistently deflect questions about yourself, have said or implied numerous things that have me greatly concerned for you, and are meek enough to put a silverfish to shame." Eight continues. Three tries to look away again, but Eight's tentacles lightly grab his chin, keeping his head faced towards her.
Not just intimidation then, a full dressing down. The letting loose of bottled annoyance.
"You are also very sweet."
Now Three is just lost. He's aware his mantle is probably a riot of colors because he's not focusing on keeping that restrained at all.
"You have made every attempt to make me feel welcome and cared for, including some steps I would rather you not have taken, or at least told me about." Eight says pointedly. "And I know you had no bad intentions, just annoyingly self-sacrificing ones."
Eight is already close, but she leans in closer, so her nose brushes against Three's.
"I am sorry if this feels like I am pressuring you." Eight says, tone shifting from serious to nervous, obviously aware that she literally has him pinned against a wall right now. "But if you are okay with it, I want to kiss you."
Uhh… okay. Okay. Three has no idea where that came from. Wasn't she berating him not ten seconds ago? Is this a confession? No, that's a stupid question. Of course it's a confession. She is literally asking to kiss him. There's a very small chance this is some Octarian custom that is not romantic at all, but he trusts Eight would actually mention something like that.
"If not, I will put you down, and we do not need to speak about this. Please speak as honestly as possible."
Right. He needs to actually say something rather than stare like an idiot. Is he okay with this? He didn't give much thought to anything beyond friendship with Eight after those games of Turf War because actually having a friend (maybe? Sort of?) was already foreign territory. What is he supposed to do about romance?
Or maybe he's overcomplicating this. There's really only one question he needs to answer right now: does he want to kiss Eight?
"N-No." Three stammers, color flushing his face. "Go ahead."
Eight's eyes widen. "I have permission?"
Three nods mutely, not trusting himself to speak any more. Though really, he shouldn't make such a big deal of this, it's just a chaste peck on the lips.
Eight clearly didn't get that memo, because as soon as she confirms permission she mashes her lips, and just her entire body, against his with surprising force. Her arms wrap around his body and her tentacles around his head and Three blindly grabs her shoulders in response with his legs more or less forced to hook around her waist.
He might consider his behavior awkward if he was at all thinking straight, but Eight is determined to make sure he can't. Everything about her is soft and strong and just forceful enough to annihilate any coherent thoughts he might have with a sharp push against his mouth or a calculated grind of her hips. Anything awkward he could accidentally do is irrelevant when Eight is in total control like this.
(It's a scary thing to lack control. His life is built on control, on restraint, on politeness. Not a girl holding him against a wall while his hands awkwardly scrabble on her back as he marvels at the softness of her lips and the feeling of her hips pressing against him. Everything about this should be wrong, shameful, but somehow it isn't, and that's both terrifying and liberating at the same time.)
When Eight finally pulls back Three knows he's trembling like a leaf. He can see it in his arms and feel it in his legs, and he doesn't even want to think what colors his mantle is showing right now. He grabs onto Eight as soon as his legs touch the ground again for fear he'll collapse. His heart is beating too fast, and his breathing is heavy and erratic.
"Are you okay?" Eight asks, concern and a bit of panic obvious in her voice. "Did I do something wrong?"
"N-No." Three says, his voice coming out cracked and emotional. He does not want to start crying here of all places, or now of all times. That's only going to make Eight feel bad when she absolutely shouldn't. "Sorry, just overwhelmed. Surprised."
"I was too forceful." Eight says matter-of-factly, nudging him to the bench where he promptly collapses. "I am sorry."
"P-Please don't be." He says, brushing one of his eyes with his hand. He internally winces at the wetness that comes off it, and the way his voice breaks as he speaks. "I shouldn't be getting this emotional over it."
"No." Eight says firmly. "You have a right to feel, and I am concerned when you mask yourself to be polite. Please don't hide yourself from me."
He never expected he'd hear this from an octoling who was his enemy not a month ago before his own family. "Then please t-trust I'm being honest when I say you were wonderful. I could not have asked for a better first kiss."
"First kiss?" Eight repeats, her eyes ballooning in size. "First ever?"
"Yes." He says meekly.
"I would have held back much more had I known that. I have heard Four and my Aunties speak about other partners before so I assumed you-" Eight rushes to explain.
"It's fine, Eight." He assures again. His voice is finally starting to stabilize. "It was pleasant. More than pleasant. I can't think of the right words, so… just know it is something I would happily repeat."
That seems to reassure her. Her concerned, anxious expression melts away into relief, then happiness. When her smile comes it's a wide, unshakable thing that makes Three feel happier just by looking at her.
"That said, perhaps not at this very moment, because I would rather not give myself a heart attack or start crying in a changing room." Those words feel mortifying coming out of his mouth, but Eight said she doesn't want him to hide, and he desperately wants to trust her.
"I want to see you cry." Eight says immediately, and Three's heart leaps into his throat. "But not here, and only for good reasons."
With a declaration like that, he might end up crying anyways.
"Should we leave?" Eight suggests. "I can get more clothes later."
"Yes, that might be a good idea." Three says, smoothing out his clothes to try and make it look like he didn't just skirt the line of an emotional breakdown. He makes the mistake of glancing at the mirror, and he can see the multitude of colors still moving across his mantle, the deep blush on his face, and some circular marks on the back of his neck that probably come from Eight's suckers. There's no way he's fixing all of this. He'd need an hour, and makeup. "I look like a mess."
"I think you look cute. Very edible."
"Eight, edible means-"
"I know what I'm saying."
Forget crying, she's trying to make him combust now. Octolings are a menace. "Is this something I'm going to have to get used to? Are those sorts of thoughts going through your head all the time?"
"Yes." Eight says simply. "I was planning on pushing you into a wall since day three."
Oh. Okay then. He's in so much trouble.
"Shall we go?"
There really is no saving his appearance. He smooths his clothes where he can, settles the colors on his mantle to a happy pink (because trying to pretend he's not ecstatic is a pointless endeavor), and squares his shoulders. "Yes, let's."
(Three gets plenty of amused looks on the way back to the apartment. Eight, walking beside him, could not look more proud of herself if she tried.)
###
"I had a good day yesterday." Eight says without preamble when her Aunties open the door. She nuzzles Auntie Marina when she initiates a hug and makes a point of dragging Auntie Pearl into it despite the inkling's protests.
"We guessed." Auntie Pearl says dryly, not really fighting the two Octolings on either side of her. Somehow, despite Eight being the niece, Auntie Pearl always ends up in the middle. Eight blames her size. She's very huggable. "Considering the text we got from Callie."
"A text?" Eight blinks.
Auntie Pearl digs her phone out and uses the excuse of showing Eight to slip out of the hug. Eight grabs the phone and reads.
Agent 1: "WHAT DID YOUR KID DO?"
: "Dunno what you're talking about. Context?"
Agent 1: "Three has suction marks on the back of his neck, is weirdly jumpy, and he BLUSHED and his mantle went pink when I asked him what was up. He NEVER does that. What did Eight do to him!?"
: "No clue, but sounds like they had a fun time lol."
: "I'll ask her tomorrow."
Agent 1: "You better tell me what she says. Because I'm going to have WORDS with her if she's playing with him."
: "Yeah, yeah, I'll keep you posted. Try not to worry. It's Eight. It'll be fine."
Eight looks up at her Auntie, a bit worried. Auntie Pearl shrugs. "I told you they were protective, didn't I?"
"Am I in trouble?"
"Probably not. Depends on what you did."
"Me and Three went clothes shopping. He was being frustrating, and sweet, so I pulled him into the changing room, pushed him against a wall, and kissed him." Eight says simply. "I was sure to obtain permission first."
"Then you're fine." Marina chuckles. "Are you an item now?"
"An item?"
"Together. Partners. Boyfriend."
"Ah… I did not think to clarify, but I assume so?" Eight admits bashfully. "I was a bit excited, and Three was emotional, so we did not discuss it much."
"Emotional?" Auntie Marina asks.
"I almost made him cry."
Both of them stare at her.
"In a good way."
Auntie Pearls releases a breath while Auntie Marina giggles.
"Inklings make nice colors when they panic." Eight adds.
"Agreed." Auntie Marina says instantly. Auntie Pearl rolls her eyes. "It's so cute."
"Alright, calm down you two. We're not here just for you to terrorize." Auntie Pearl says dryly as she taps on her phone, probably sending a text to Callie.
"Terrorize is the wrong word." Auntie Marina hums. Her tentacles dip down to gently kiss Auntie Pearl's mantle with her suckers. "We prefer to snuggle aggressively."
"You fucking octolings and your hugging fetish." Auntie Pearl mutters, sending her text and pocketing her phone again. She tugs her head away to dislodge Auntie Marina's suckers, a bit of color on her cheeks. "Now are we going inside or are we gossiping at the front door all day?"
Auntie Pearl doesn't actually wait for an answer and hurriedly moves off into her home. Auntie Marina smiles as she and Eight follow behind. "Get used to that. Inklings are rather restrained when it comes to affection, especially romantic affection, especially around any sort of company. Or maybe we've chosen the shy ones."
Eight nods. Considering how nervous he was in private after their kiss, she had no intent of doing anything with Three in public. Nothing big anyways.
"But in private, have fun."
Oh that's not a problem at all. "I intend to."
This fic is a mess. I introduced so many elements and plot threads that I either didn't follow up on or didn't explain as much as I wanted to, the characterization is weird, and the pacing is wack. I blame this being my first fic in the fandom. This is what happens when you vomit all your ideas out at once. Hopefully any future fics I write for Splatoon will be a bit less chaotic.
My original idea for this fic, before it ballooned out of control, was for it to be about Eight. The central concept was that Eight was this cheerful, sweet girl who tended to say some very questionable things completely out of the blue. A sinnamon roll, if you will. I don't know how that devolved into 'thirsty octoling tries to find the right time to make out with inkling with severe emotional issues' with a bunch of random worldbuilding thrown into it, but hey, that's what I ended up writing.
This is also the tenth Splatoon one-shot I wrote (counting all the versions of this one-shot and the other concepts that came before it) but the only one I've actually posted.