"Some break." Ray says, sitting in a beanbag beside Octavios prison–a snowglobe, that…somehow contained him. He didn't think too hard on it. "...Oh, we have to head back to Inkopolis, we can't keep guard." He says mockingly, then sighing deeply. They said they'd visit in a week two months ago. "Can you believe this shit?" He asks, looking at Octavio now, the DJ sitting in his prison, arms crossed.

"That isn't cool, for sure." Octavio replies. "Cold-hearted fishes."

"Exactly." He shakes his head, opening a cooler and grabbing a beer, cracking it open. Technically it was Cuttlefish's, and technically, he didn't give a shit. He takes a deep swig of it. "...Why'd you do it, man?" He asks Octavio after several minutes of silence. "You didn't win the first time around–if it wasn't me, Agent 3'd have come back and done it to you again."

"Well, I wasn't thinking the straightest." Octavio admits. "When Callie, that fresh squid came to try and see if she could help–"

"...So she really did come on her own?"

"I took advantage of that and remixed her brain. Huge mistake." Octavio uncrosses his tentacles.

"...I see." Ray takes another swig. "...I think we're gonna have a lot to talk about."

"Hey–better than being stuck in here alone." Octavio laughs that signature laugh of his, and Ray shakes his head, grinning

Time wore on. On his 19th birthday, Sheldon came by to give him a gift–the Hero shot he'd used, modified more to Ray's tastes–and for keeps. Not just something he'd use out on a mission. He happily took it, catching up with Sheldon before he headed off. Ray didn't mind as much now–him and Octavio talked constantly, about anything and everything. Music, especially, was a common talking point between the two. One day, however, the mirth would fade away. Agent 3 finally had returned. He was initially excited to see them, but after some cordial introductions, she also introduced another agent–a tall Octoling, who awkwardly tried to talk to Ray. They didn't get along, at all. After this, they all left, and Ray's frustration grew to his breaking point. They didn't even message him any more.

"...Replaced." He says, scowling one day, after sending a message and not getting a reply. "They replaced me. And you know what?" He stands. "I'm tired of this." He looks at Octavio. "You're my only friend–and they're keeping you as a prisoner."

"What's your plan?" Octavio asks, swimming to the front of his snowglobe. "Heading out?"

"Yeah. I think I am. But first?" He picks up his hero shot. "Watch your head." He smashes it open with the stock of his Hero Shot, freeing him.

Octavio, back at full size, doesn't look like he knows what to say. He simply nods at Ray "...We'll be in touch." He says, superjumping off to cod knows where.

Ray looks to the sky and lets out a sigh of relief–and leaves. Abandoning his post entirely. He heads back up to the surface, trying to head back to his apartment. He tries the handle, and promptly has an unfamiliar inkling open the door, looking confused through the little bit they've opened it, chain in place.

"Hey, what the hell? You're in my apartment!" Ray says, raising his voice

"Sir, we just moved in here a few months ago after the previous tenant disappeared." The inkling replies. "Please leave."

Ray's face screws up in frustration, and he does just that. They said they were going to help him be taken care of! He didn't have a home to go back to, for real?! He tries his phone, wanting to call any of his old friends. None of them answered. His heart dropped, and he punched a wall, screaming in frustration.

"I'm a hero, damn it!" He yells, punching it more. "Are you serious?! This is what I get?!"

The phone Marie gave him rings and he pulls it out. "Ray, where are you?! Where's Octa–"

"I don't want to ever hear from you ever again, you cold-hearted backstabbing piece of trash!" He yells into the receiver. "I hate you! You ruined what little I had!"

"Ray! Wha–"

He hangs up, and angrily stuffs the phone back into his pocket. He didn't want to hear it. He had nothing. Nothing at all. So…he had to start over. And it wouldn't be here.

The train was under maintenance, but there were still other ways to travel. He remembered hearing about a new city–Splatsville it was called. That was where he'd go.

Taking the rest of his savings, he bought an old junker of a car, and made it over the bridge, heading through the desert. The radio squealed almost as loud as the engine. He didn't have anything but a bag from his locker–some old gear, and his jacket. He whistles along to some music barely coming through, before…

Takataktaktaka…boom!

There's a bang from the engine, steam rising from it as the car crawls to a stop. He stares at it, eye twitching. Of course it broke. He grabs his duffel bag, and paper map, pulling it out to check where he roughly would be.

"Great."He says aloud. "Just super." He was still some miles out. With an annoyed sigh, he abandons his car, and continues on foot.

The trip took a day of solid walking. He took breaks every so often to sip his canteen, or get a snack, but otherwise it was just him, and miles of sand. That night, he barely slept, too busy staring at the stars–he couldn't see them as well in Inkopolis due to the light pollution…but out here? They were gorgeous. He sighs contently, heading out at dawn, and making it into the city proper. It was big–dense, and chaotic. He loved it. But what he didn't love, was his empty pockets. He needed a job, and a place to stay, out of the sun. So, with hesitance, he worked at the local GrizzCo branch, stealing power eggs from them.

It was dirty work, but nothing he wasn't used to, and after a while of living on the streets and saving where he could, he was able to afford a dinky little house on the edge of town. Sadly, that put the pressure on him to work even harder, and start stealing when he needed to, always on the lookout for easy marks. Oftentimes, it was tourists–people coming in from the main road a lot like he had, that had no clue where they were and what to expect. He'd stroll in, amp up the charm, talk them over, and pick their pockets clean, before simply leaving them to wander in the city. It didn't feel great–but it felt better than going hungry, so it was an easy choice for him. One day, while camping out on the edge of town, he spots a distant campsite–two people, setting up to sleep. He grins, and starts making his way over to them–this would be easy. If they fell asleep, he wouldn't even have to talk to them.

As he got closer, he waited on the side of the hill they were camping on. There was some movement, some idle chatter, and the two went into separate tents, bags carelessly left out in the open. He counts the minutes, waiting to be absolutely sure they're asleep, before slinking up and snatching the bags. They were surprisingly heavy–which meant more valuable goods, typically. He walked off, foot slipping a bit on a rock buried in the sand, but keeps going, convinced he was far enough away for the noise to not wake them. He starts rummaging through the gear, chuckling. Octoling armour, a set of boots–one dualie?

"What kind of weirdo only carries one dualie?" He doesn't get much warning, before he feels a guns barrel press into the back of his head.

"Drop the bags." A voice says. "And hands up."