Rights Disclaimer: Splatoon is owned by Nintendo, not by me. Original characters are created by me, however, use the Splatoon franchise as a basis. Claiming this piece of fiction as your own is still prohibited, even with the original property belonging to Nintendo. Use pieces of this fiction under fair use, or distribute the link to the writing itself.
Spoiler Disclaimer: There have been years to play, watch, and/or read Splatoon 2: Octo Expansion in plenty of different ways. While I personally doubt anybody on these sites isn't at least aware of the narrative beats to the Octo Expansion, it should still be said. If, for any reason, you want to experience the game for the first time, in any capacity, then go do so before reading this story. Understanding the key events to the Octo Expansion, and both Hero Mode single-player campaigns that came before it, is crucial to comprehending the scope of this narrative. On another note, it is typically important to understand these key events for any Octo Expansion oriented fan-fiction, even if they don't include this (admittedly redundant) disclaimer.
Content Disclaimer: To prevent spoilers, if you find yourself capable of handling strong material, ignore this message. This disclaimer is only if you are curious/subject to any of the following topics. If you are sensitive to any sort of harsh/profane language, mentions of nudity and/or any form of implied nudity, LGBTQIA+ discourse, adult themes, any form of inflicted violence, and/or moral juxtapositions, avoid this story. It is entirely possible that the rating will change to M for the sake of greater creative liberty (though, I'll let you all know before that change is made).
Respectfully, thrown onto you know who.
Prologue
Hey, I'm Cherri.
I'm not drastically important to the story I'll be telling, outside of the fact that I'll be telling it.
People always ask why I did what I did. Just, take them into my home. What should've been a little flick of kindness, ended up developing into staples of my life. The place where I exist, watch TV, dress, nerd out, whatever. Every time I hear someone ask me that question, I wonder if they know the feeling of living with people who care about those things.
Maybe it's unfair. Maybe it's just not a valid comparison. Having two pairs of eyes, and commonly three, so enthralled at the idea that what you like is either so ahead, or so behind from what they had. It's what they love, it's what I love; learning. Passionate, heartfelt learning.
To the people who ask me why I took them in, I ask them a question back.
"Did I do something wrong?"
And I tend to ask myself afterwards, has one ever been enough?
This packed narrative centers around my roommate, Darby Marcel. She became my other roommate over three years ago, when the whole collective fiasco ended. Since then, we've been sharing new-found experiences in this house I've inherited. Some of the things we do are normal for an Inkling like me, things like playing Turf Wars, or that relaxing train ride to the Square. Other things we do I couldn't have ever imagined, like the tangents relating to their culture. However, I don't want to spoil anything; well, besides that the people lived to tell me the story.
Maybe it's not entirely ethical to approach story-telling from this perspective, since I'll never forget those descriptive nights, where we dove straight into the setting with no restrictions. Unfiltered story-telling is absolutely joyous from their perspectives; however, that took two weeks of non-stop all-nighters talking, and the daytime simply functioning. I got through it, and truly, I'm grateful. But I'm not writing that much.
If you are curious, before we begin, Darby has been a fine roommate. More importantly, however, she's been an even better friend. They said looking at the stars was their rite of passage in life, and foolishly, I said we're only getting started. But now, in hindsight, I feel bad; I wanted her to experience that sense of awe again, but she'll probably never experience a spectacle of that scale over. I have to learn that's okay. Not everything is shareable.
But stories are shareable. So take this re-telling of her story as a gift, from me, to them. Not simply Darby, even though this is her story, but also to Keri. This is a woman who I've had the privilege to see grow beyond her past, and all of the trials in-between the two. So see this as my gift, my memory, passed onto them. This is my way of saying "I love you", and for once, hopefully share their story beyond me.
And make their life that much easier.
Isolated Resonance
Chapter 1: Leniency.
It all started when she woke up, seemingly nowhere.
Submerged in the underground, her surroundings foggy, vision smeary, in the midst of grey. Concrete surrounded her existence. Nothing moved to wave, nothing brought her closer, there were no signs of life.
She was damaged, but not beyond function. Waking up, her first thought was to try and recall how this even happened… what brought her here? But, the previous memories simply ended after being called back, somewhere...
Being called somewhere, getting direct orders, right before…
"Shit!.."
She crawled for her ear-piece, not far apart from her. It appeared damaged, but still functioning. The driver was barely intact, but she was acutely aware the microphone and transmitter could've survived that type of damage.
Testing the ends of her luck, skill, and endurance, she put on the ear-piece, layed down on her back, and reported home.
"Octa-. Delta-Zero, on behalf of unit Alpha-One transmitting via emergency broadcast. Referring to codename as D-0, enabling logs for archival process." She remarked, weakly.
Thankfully, her ink tank was still intact, laying to the left of the ear-piece. Loosely checking its status, she continued her report.
"I've awoken somewhere designated to be foreign. I survived, but there are no signs of my crew. Tank and armor status reportedly operational, but my weapon is missing.
"I'm leaving comms open."
Turning around slowly, D-0 recognized only a few elements of her drab, grey surroundings. There were mostly-destroyed items for convenience, things like boom-boxes, graffiti, and some vending-machine bottles. Out of the necessity for survival, she'd taken three bottles laying on the floor by the neck.
"This is that place she used to preach about, isn't it?" D-0 groans, struggling to raise herself on her bruised legs and deteriorating vision.
Walking towards the station, and putting on her ink tank, she spoke briefly, indirectly aimed for anybody on the other line.
"Charge Log, A-1. Darby Marcel. The rumors were true. Our future is unfolding in-front of me…"
Darby had her vision muddied by the circumstances of her awakening. Pushing her whole body forward to walk, she was desperate to find a safer place to rest. Approaching the broken fare control, she kept trying to think of what brought her here.
The call was simple; "Get your crew, and get out".While that might sound scary at first, Darby assured me that this was actually normal. If it be to show-off for Octarian youth, or to manage riots, the army wasn't always just that. Instead, Octarian leaders thought it would be more appropriate for the army to also act as a police force. Units could be in conflicts as large as the New Squidbeak Splatoon, or as minor as bad neighborhood actors.
"Who's voice was on the radio…" Darby growled.
She started to lose her balance, just passing fare control. Instinctively, she used her left palm to rest a sizable chunk of her falling weight, and regained balance. Momentary glimpses of attention are, typically, all you need by yourself. Others tip the scales.
Looking back, things got scarier. It was a direct order, whose voice she didn't recognize. Typically, her crew would talk on that long-wave frequency, but that wasn't any voice from her general vicinity either. This must've been a distant call.
Approaching the halt of the station, Darby's face faded into aggression. "They were off-site!" she spit out, agitated.
She tried to think deeper, past the strange direct order. But, outside of running to the designated site, there wasn't anything in particular. Her memory simply continues where we start; seemingly nowhere.
Out of energy, she limped towards a pillar, gave her legs a break, and began reporting.
"Charge Log, A-1… Darby Marcel. I've passed the gate, and the subway track is visible. I'm injured, but still functional. Requesting technical support via emergency broadcast. Time-frame, three minutes."
Exhausted, Darby left out a sigh. She knew nobody would respond in three minutes, it was a complete shot in the dark. She took this time to sit-down, drop the ear-piece on the floor, and modify her transmitter.
Reading the small projection screen, her first instinct was to read the signal history. Looking at what frequencies interacted at what time, she tried to get an idea of who could've given a direct order. The transmission history, even with a quick glance, appeared irrelevant; it looked like a different list entirely. Digging deeper into the service menu, she found something important. The RTC was malfunctioning, and was therefore ignored by the transmitter itself.
She understood the implications, which went both ways. The lack of a functioning RTC cripples the ability to mark time accurately, and instead focuses on datasets from other transmissions and logs to keep some level of semblance to reality. However, considering the internals of the transmitter, the next-to-broken driver, and her own physical state, she swiftly decided to move towards other options.
Three minutes were over. Silence. Who would've guessed.
Digging through the settings menu gave her a sense of futility, that these series of devices simply aren't designed to work miracles. The next option was another shot in the dark, but it would provide meaningful information nonetheless. A sweeping ping…
Broadcasts, known by the stealthy as sweeping pings, are a simple concept. You, the client, send out a ping to any, and if there are multiple, every device on a connected network. Yet, the question remains, what if you aren't connected to any networks? Broadcasts can also search for any available network points-of-contact, including shorter-wave based technology. The main issue with broadcasts is that they aren't useful for staying quiet; if you can see them, they can (most likely) see you. The other issue is, typically, more trivial. Broadcasts aren't fast, as they "sweep" in an arrhythmic pattern, to avoid detection.
So, with that knowledge, it should come as no surprise the transmitter complained about a non-functioning RTC when attempting the action. Without any semblance if the sense of time is real, there would be no way to synchronize pings, making for an array of, presumably, vulnerable access points. This also severely hurts stealth, so typically, this doesn't occur unless in a vast, lush environment.
Though, Darby did have a little bit of a trick, known formally as Overdrive.
Originally, Overdrive was a function known for taking lots of power from devices used by the army. Overdrive creates a Broadcast signal as fast as the unit can send it, meaning any device on the network will be flooded with requests. This also means typical points-of-contact will shut themselves down, to protect themselves from a brute-force attack. This protective mechanism is fitting at base, but not pleasant during a mission.
While this function-turned-feature can break Darby's ear-piece within hours, it will make the RTC requirement invalid. Why would you need to synchronize the individual pings, if the device is attempting to ping as fast as it can?
With nothing else to lose but proof, and herself, Darby sent the Overdrive Broadcast signal. She expected to wait around ten minutes for the signal to reach further and further out. Part of her even expected the ear-piece to give up before anything could be found.
Neither happened. It took seconds.
"...Huh."
Suspicious, she tried to investigate the device targeted by the overdrive. Yet, before she could analyze the location, the ping went offline. Without being able to identify if the ping was traversing (which would make the difference between a loose product and something else), Darby went looking into the details about the device. According to the ear-piece, it was designated as a point-of-contact. This explained the loss of signal.
Nonetheless, there was one bit of information that makes a very important distinction between devices; the physical address.
"NA-8O-JA. That's a new one…"
Darby quickly tried to reason about the implications of taking a device offline, but her primary thought was that she was now known. Exhausted, and reaching her emotional limit, she called for help.
"Charge Log, A-1, attempting to report once again, same signal. No, I'm not pretty. No, I'm not well.
"An unknown device was pinged via Overdrive, which has provided me with more information on the locale. I have no reason to believe this isn't that place, rumored dozens upon dozens of times. This is your future, and if you don't get out here, my end.
"I've come to the conclusion that this area is deserted, and so are comms. Without any recollection of what brought me here, without any accurate semblance of time, without wincing at myself, I can conclude that I've entered a stalemate. There's no voice on the other side, so I speak for my own self, my own life. Once a bed, and now a pillar, I still lean on fixtures.
"I did my job", she says sleepy. "Now do your best…
"Darby Marcel, off to rest."
While still audibly hurt, that was as clear as Darby had spoken since waking up. Finding immense comfort where she laid herself down, Darby fell asleep.
Darby told me that her dreams felt like explosions, going into her explanations of what I now know as flashbacks. Her life in the army is an important part of this narrative, and since she spent so much time explaining what she dreamed of, I'll spend time telling you too.
But first, context. Who is Darby Marcel?
She's a 23-year old Octoling, born and raised in what we know as "the underground". While specific details about her youth stand with herself, she told me that her inspirations ended up making the army look like an oasis. Rather fortunately, they agreed; Darby quickly became recognized for her ability to think effectively and quickly, alongside her impeccable application of training. As early as sixteen, she was pushed into the ranks, and acted no-different from an expert.
In spite of this, Darby's personality gradually ended up irritating others. Everybody knew she was capable, but didn't want to deal with her being right, even if that was so. Call it prejudice, call it egotism, it could've been truly anything; but Darby was a fighter, not a loyalist. Protecting her friends was more important than the task at hand, and that made all the difference in her career.
It wouldn't even be a year before Darby accepted the opportunity to become an Elite Octoling, being sent out to pick up the scraps from the up-coming century-celebration conflict. Her application of stealth became amongst the best the army had ever seen, with clean, honest communications throughout. Outside of her brisk nature, there was truly nothing to complain about. Due to her unusual hair-style appearance, especially for her rank, she was nicknamed "Maroon Ponytail". Although deep-rooted in jealousy, simply getting a nickname shows you her work was unforgivingly decisive.
That's when she did a job alone, of course.
With others, it became a different story. Darby was considered to be extraordinarily demanding from her crew, and even simple acts of teamwork end up falling down to a strict structure. She wanted to be the true heir of professionalism, using her hasty nature to communicate within a blink. Unsurprisingly, this behavior also created aggravation overtime. However, Darby was doing nothing more than her job. Everyone else was doing less.
So, with the reputation Darby had built up for fast thinking, she was placed into programs positioned for effective power-users. With the level of proficiency she had demonstrated, this was in no way unexpected. This was uncharted territory for her, and it's how she'd meet someone new.
*knock knock knock*
"Helloo? My name is Luna Grey! I've got something here for you!"
On the verge of turning eighteen, Darby was sleeping in her dorm-room when those three knocks hit her door.
Frustrated, and quietly, she groaned a simple, seemingly meaningless question.
"...are you a boy, or a girl?"
"Huh? Girl! I'm a girl!"
With that in mind, she got only half-dressed, and half-answered the door, leaving her bed in disarray. Mid-way through the slow opening, however, Darby realized that Luna had quite the amount of equipment next to her, and presumably, needed to get into the room.
"Oh, shit. You need help with that?"
"Nope! I… need you, to-"
Luna's talking slowed down, as her eyes scanned around the room, and around Darby.
"What? This wasn't planned, Ms. Grey." Darby said, raspy.
"It wasn't!?" Luna exclaimed, passionately.
"No, it wasn't. Look, I'll be back in a moment, so humble yourself. And if you need help carrying that, tell me."
With that, Darby went off to her closet, and Luna pushed beige boxes above the door-step and onto the rugged floor. As Darby got properly dressed, she started to truly consider if this was her forever place. Not that she had ulterior motives, there are plenty of clear, honest reasons to join the army that are strictly personal. Yet, Darby had one clear goal since she was a child, and in many regards, her hostility comes from a place of compassion.
After letting out a large exhale, Luna asked, "Ms. Marcel, do you know what time it is?"
Forcefully pushing her clothes into her drawer, Darby noticed Luna could use the support. Burying her clothing excursion, she went over to help Luna move the surplus of surprisingly heavy boxes towards her desk.
"Hey! Don't hurt yourself!" warned Luna.
Ignoring the comment, Darby went over her door and picked up one of the remaining boxes, and carried it over to her room.
"No, I don't know the current time." Darby grunted, struggling to lift the weight. "Please, Ms. Grey. Enlighten me-
"Ow!"
One of the boxes landed on Darbys left foot. Unsurprisingly, she wasn't meant to carry weight like that just with her hands.
"Are you alright!?" Luna questioned, seemingly concerned.
"Yes, I'm fine, it'll only be a moment." Already tired, and injured, Darby went to sit on her cacophony of covers. "Is that everything?"
"For today, yes. But hopefully not for the future!" Smiling, Luna seemed happy-as-ever to bring the equipment.
"So… what's the time?"
"Oh! It's zero-two-hundred hours, Ms. Marcel!"
Darby looked Luna in the eyes, her purple flare invoking a strong personality. It's two in the morning, and yet, she's still so lively.
As Darby took the time to mentally wake up, Luna broke the small silence by asking a question.
"Ms. Marcel, I know it's strange to ask, but may I see your hands?"
Temporarily confused, Darby shuffled on her cushion of comfort.
"Oh, alright. Don't know what you expect, but sure."
With a healthy level of indifference, Darby stood up from her bedside, and put out her hand. With her palm facing up, Luna seemed appalled.
(April 4th, 2023. - Story has been updated to add a larger description of content warnings before reading, and to include the possibility of shifting to a M rating. Don't want others to feel as if they weren't warned about any topics appearing in this narrative, as I do not want to hurt someone with my own direction.)
