Chapter 4

Dallas felt like the world's biggest disappointment even more so than usual. Which was an achievement, since he always felt like the world's biggest disappointment.

"AAAAGH! Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!" He shouted, banging and kicking on the wall. He hadn't charged his phone and it had died in the middle of the night, not only making him miss his alarm but also every single message from the morning until he woke up. And because he'd been staying up all night doing repairs and reading up on strategy, he'd slept well into the afternoon.

'Remember 2 practice w/ the others 2day. I'd join in, but I gotta farm eggs 4 rent.'

'Practice. Join?'

'Dallas, I followed your advice! It worked! I know you didn't see it today but it'll be very good tomorrow!'

Not if he let his phone die and slept through their match like an idiot. Or maybe that wouldn't be such a bad thing given how bad of a shot he was.

He tried for a deep breath and to go pack some things for later, only to trip over loose parts and tumble to the floor. After that, he just laid on the ground for a while, feeling sorry for himself.

"Sums me up, doesn't it." He moped, not even bothering to look up at what he'd tripped over. It could have been anything, his room was practically a workshop given all the books, weapons and spare parts lying around. And like everything else in his life, it was a mess that he couldn't clean up or stay on top of.

At least he'd gotten that Flingza Roller fixed for Rome. If only he could have delivered it in a timely fashion. He hadn't even responded to anyone's texts yet, and the guilt was hanging over him, trying to think of what he could say to make it up to everyone.

It took a few more minutes of moping, but he finally dragged himself off the floor and picked up his phone to write a hasty, lengthy explanation and apology, only to discover he'd also missed a text from the bowling alley reminding him that he had an afternoon shift to take as well, giving him even less time to deliver the repaired weapon to his friend.

That finally lit some motivation in him, as he stepped around the various parts and manuals on the floor to grab the red and silvery weapon that Rome primaried, now fully functional and way too tall even in its folded form.

Rollers were such odd weapons to Dallas. If he'd written a rulebook, he'd have to deliberate long and hard about whether or not a weapon that large should be legal, they were certainly cumbersome to carry around. Especially that huge Dynamo Roller he was glad no one on his team played.

Oh well, at least the people who used them were usually funny. Or in Rome's case, very good with them. He wished he was either of those with his weapons.

On that note, he grabbed his brightly coloured Rapid Blaster Pro as well and got ready to leave, only to realize he still wasn't dressed to go out, something which got another exasperated groan out of him.

"C'mon Dallas, get yourself together." He pep talked himself, scrambling for some clothes.

His friends used to ask why he was always wearing the same shirt every day. The answer was simple: He owned multiple copies of the same Octobowler shirt and its complimentary fingerless glove. The perk of working in a bowling alley.

He scrambled for the escalator, nearly knocking a lobster in the head with Rome's roller as he did, getting on the oversized moving staircase that would lead him right into the plaza in front of the Battle Tower.

It was good to get out of the metro system. As convenient as it was for travelling across the city, Adelaide he was not. Trains gave him motion sickness, and that didn't help his nerves when there was always the risk of people recognizing him for the wrong reason.

Which was also why he dreaded ever having to come to the plaza, because if the rest of Splatsville only had a risk, this place bumped that probability up to a certainty. He tried his best not to pay attention to the onlookers and the hushed words behind his back, darting right through the automatic doors of the Tower's front entrance, hit with a wave of air conditioning as he entered the lobby.

To his left was the test range where Inklings and Octolings could practice while waiting to be called to their matches, complete with targets, ledges and everything else that could be used to test weapons on. To his right was a set of occupied benches mounted to the walls, along with the Crab-N-Go counter that served all sorts of snacks for those grabbing a bite around the matches.

Adjacent to counter was the locker room area, which he made a direct path to, nearly running into an Inkling just exiting through the sliding glass doors.

"Watch it!" They called in annoyance, to which Dallas immediately stopped and apologized before taking off again. The locker room was expansive, rows and rows of lockers all customized to their user's preferences. Multiple colours, sizes and decorations dotted the scene, making a complete mishmash that somehow made it harder for individual lockers to stand out among the thousands of storage compartments.

Fortunately, Dallas had spent a lot of time in this room, and knew the locations his friends' lockers by heart. Rome was in Row 13, Unit 12, a medium-sized grey locker that was mostly barren and untouched, save for a small poster of the Off The Hook duo playing a live show with that upcoming rock band, Damp Socks.

He came to a halt in front of it, nearly falling over in the process, and only then realized how his near non-stop running had left him pretty winded.

"Crumbling Crustaceans, I gotta stop running so much." He wheezed, pulling out his phone to check Rome's earlier message, the Roller he was meant to deliver falling off his back in the process.

He yelped, fearing he'd have to repair it all over again, but the sturdy weapon was very much still intact.

'8. 28. 48. 98.' The message read, telling the locker code that needed to be run through the lock dial. 'I'll pick it up later.'

Dallas swiveled the dial as the message had described, then tried the handle. The door popped open, and he left the Flingza in the mostly empty locker. The only other contents were a spare pair of Suede Basic Shoes, some stickers, and a photo of he and Adelaide waiting in line for the Wahoo World ferris wheel, looking stoic while his friend stuck her tongue out and winked at the camera.

Dallas couldn't help but stare at that photo while depositing his delivery. Hard to believe they had only known each other for six months, that was about six years less than the time he himself had known her. Not that they had always been close friends, but she'd always stuck her neck out for him after seeing how he got laughed at by others.

He shut the locker door, then squatted down above the floor, closing his eyes and pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose. Adelaide had a good set of hearts, he wished he could be even half the friend she deserved. Someone who didn't wimp out in confrontations, didn't bore people to death with explanations and actually knew how to hold a shooter weapon without their hands shaking violently would be a good start.

Sure, he could fix her weapons and teach her how to throw a bowling ball without leaving a dent in the floor, but did that match up to someone who told off his bullies, bought him snacks, reassured him every time his insecurities flared up, and saw only positives in him? Heck, she was willing to throw hands -or at least bite hands- if he looked like he was on the verge of crying, and he couldn't even stick around long enough to thank her.

Not for the first time, he wished life had given him more than just technical know-how, or at least hadn't wrapped up his sole skill with a foul family reputation like some kind of sick joke. Some physical strength or emotional fortitude would have been welcome. He'd settle for just a clear place in life, be it in battle or outside of it.

He opened his eyes again. How much time had passed while he'd been in the locker room? Adelaide and Rome said they'd be around, had he missed them again because he'd gotten lost in his own thoughts?

A growing sense of panic brought him to his feet, and he scrambled for the exit. Missing them once was bad enough, there would not be a repeat.

The good news was he found them quickly. The bad news was both he and Adelaide now had bandages.

As he had turned the corner by the main entrance, he'd smacked right into his friend at full speed, sending them both tumbling to the ground. Everything hurt after that, from his head that made direct contact with the Octoling, to his hands and knees that ended up scuffing the concrete pavement.

Everything still stung even after trudging over to the top step of the main staircase, but he tried his best to ignore it, as well as the snickers and pitiful looks from passerbys, who of course recognized him as the son of the illegal weapons modifier.

'Thanks dad.' He rued bitterly. Never did a day go by without that happening at least once, in a society where turf battles were such a cultural mainstay.

He looked up for a moment, worried Adelaide would also be bitter about getting knocked off her feet, but she seemed in remarkably good spirits, telling Rome she was fine even as he applied a bandage to a welt on her forehead.

Then again, this was the same Octoling who bit into live electrical cables and chewed on her own hands when nothing else was available. He struggled to recall a single instance where she actually expressed being in physical pain, if she even felt any to begin with.

She was just built different, as Geneva would say.

He wished he was built different. Or at least knew how to fall differently. The frame of his Rapid Blaster Bro has broken in two in the fall, which either needed a lengthy repair or to be swapped out for a different weapon. Neither of which he was happy with, because he'd either go into tomorrow's game with less sleep or with a weapon he had no practice with.

'Couldn't even wait for tomorrow to screw up.' He scolded himself. 'Go me.'

He put his bandaged hands to his bruised noggin, hoping against logic that the hit had somehow miraculously improved his aim or something. All the reading and practice didn't seem to. And if he was on the field with a weapon he wasn't trained with and couldn't aim, his team might as well be playing 3 versus 4.

He worried about being a letdown. Adelaide would be sad, and Geneva would get frustrated, and he didn't know which one would be worse to face. They both believed in him, but the latter was the one who'd argued for why he should use that particular Blaster. Which was incredible in of itself, given her hatred for the weapon class.

'No, I can fix this.' He thought to himself, examining the crack in the frame. If he was correct, he could just bolt on the Pro's additional components to a standard Rapid Blaster and work with that instead. 'I think.'

Cod almighty, he wish he'd stop overthinking the worst case scenarios. Think less but think smarter was what Rome and Geneva often told him. If only it was as easy as that.

"Dallas, you okay?"

That got him out of his head. Adelaide had a way of getting through to him, especially since she was looking right at him, hunched over with her hands on her slightly bent knees.

"Yeah, it's no big deal." He shook his head, which only started giving him a headache and made him stop. "Sorry about that, again."

Adelaide giggled, which got him to relax a little.

"Why are you apologizing to me?" She asked. "If anything, you should've apologized to Sasha."

Dallas briefly recalled another Octoling alongside Adelaide before he ran into the latter. Dark blue tentacles, aviator sunglasses, the body language of someone who obliviously carried themselves with infinitely more confidence than he had. Wasn't she also something like S+45 in rank? How were she and Adelaide turfing buddies given their skill disparity? How was any single person that good anyway?

"I almost ran into her, didn't I?" He looked down at his shoes in shame.

"By all known laws of physics, you should have hit her." Rome stated.

"But you got me instead!" Adelaide beamed, far too happy for someone who'd been run into at maximum speed.

Dallas tried to remember anything before his vision went white from the collision, but he couldn't recall Sasha doing anything to avoid him. Maybe an instinctive sidestep? Changing into her octopus self? Simply vanishing or teleporting out of the way? The answer was probably best left unexplained.

"I should apologize to her at least." He looked around, only to find the plaza was bereft of anyone who looked like her.

"She jumped back in ranked queue." Rome also stated.

"She's on a hot streak right now!" Adelaide added, pumping her fists. "She's pushing for S+50, she and her friend carried me and Rome to an easy victory."

'S+50, holy mackerel.' Dallas thought in disbelief, left stunned, impressed and even more scared. Now that was someone built differently.

"Is she...also entering the tournament?"

Adelaide shrugged. "Probably! Good way to boost that rank further."

He almost let out a very meek and intimidated whimper.

"Well, let's hope we don't face her team tomorrow..."

Dallas found it very difficult to sleep that night.

All the lights were off, his stuff was packed, he had a fully charged phone battery and at least seven different alarms a minute apart from one another. Even his headache had subsided and his blaster's repair had been far easier than he had initially feared, it had only taken a ten-minute frame swap to be fully functional.

But he still couldn't sleep. Waking up late had thrown off his sleep cycle, and his anxious nerves were keeping him wired despite his brain begging itself to self.

"Someone help me." He muttered, faintly luminescent limbs spread atop his bed, staring aimlessly at the ceiling.

All he could think about was all the potential bad plays he could make tomorrow, be it missing an easy shot by a country mile, or getting out flanked by an opponent and splatted, not outplayed once but repeatedly throughout the match. And there was the ever-lingering fear of being laughed at by the opponent or berated by his own team, or at least by one of them.

It didn't help that he'd only find out who the opposing team would be in the morning, as per the tournament rules. The organizers claimed the randomness and variety would force teams to think on their feet and trust the weapons they'd lock in beforehand, but Dallas had a suspicion that the organizers were either agents of chaos, or just completely winging it.

He hated all the uncertainty, but this was the Anarchy Youth Tournament. He'd combed through the rules and regulations repeatedly, he knew what he was getting himself into. And he knew if it was only up to him, he'd have rather spend the weekend bowling.

But his friends wanted him in on the action. Everyone had their own reason for it, everyone played differently, everyone had a different frame of mind going into it all. There was barely any cohesion, outside of them being the only ones they could find for the team.

"What chance do a bunch of misfits like us have?" He asked lamely, not even bothering to challenge his own quitter talk. "Maybe we'll have the floor wiped with us and we'll never have to partake in this tournament ever again."

And on that cheerful note, he turned over on his bed, shut his eyes, and continued moping until eventually his brain got tired of whining and finally let him sleep. And somehow, it spared him of any bad dreams too.

A/N: And with that, I have posted all of the chapters I wrote prior to publishing. Currently writing Chapter 5, so from here on out the chapter postings are going to be more spaced out. Hopefully not by too much, but if it takes a while, now you know.

Also w/r/t luminescence, I believe most inklings have limited bioluminescence, so I just added that in quickly. That's all for now, see you for Chapter 5.